Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a Tower.

A very old, hulking, pitch-black tower, ringed by a high thicket of wickedly sharp thorns. The kind of tower that you would expect to be inhabited by at least one ghost, but this one was disappointingly ordinary. The only things haunting it were the wild ravens that roosted in the area, which could be seen nesting under the wooden eaves and perched high on the peaked tile roof at all hours of the day.

To the locals this place was known as the Rookery. This was doubly fitting, as it was where Crow the Sorcerer made his home.

The Rookery stood on the very edge of the Waking Wood. Deep within the Wood, a scant few miles away from the tower, ran the ancient, high stone Wall that made up the border between Apollyon and Empyrion. In short, the tower was about as Northwards as you could get while being properly on the wrong side of things. Definitely not Southwards enough to be proper by sorcerer society standards, but also not quite Northwards enough to raise too many eyebrows. Avoiding raised eyebrows was key to living in Apollyon. It wouldn't do to give the impression of disloyalty, or worse, treason, and have the sorcerer Council breathing down his neck.

If Crow’s tower was of a more elegant design than you would expect for a sorcerer of the Dark Arts, well, that was not his fault. He hadn’t built the thing. Legend had it that the tower had once been the home of a certain golden-haired princess, centuries ago, and at age sixteen Crow had simply purchased the unwanted place on the cheap. Money had been tight. He’d done his best to fix it up to a properly sorcerous standard, but there was only so much that a coat of black paint could do.

Currently, Crow was in his chambers, the large room at the topmost floor of the tower. Outsiders would have thought it a surprisingly ordinary looking room, all things considered. No skulls, no flickering green flames, no sinisterly scowling portraits. No bloodstained weapons on the walls. Only a single large, well-furnished circular chamber with a roof that bent to a sharp peak. Thick crimson carpets covered the polished wood floors; a single elaborately carved chair stood before the large stone fireplace; a small table beside it held a solitary card game. A small oak armoire, a narrow bookcase stuffed with books. One side of the room was dominated by an enormous canopied bed draped in black silk.

Crow sat slumped over the mahogany desk that took up an entire six-foot section of the curved stone wall. The desk had been pristine when it belonged to his father, but after twenty-two years in his possession it was pitted and scarred with an entire landscape of small scorch marks. He could have repaired it with a simple spell, of course, but he rarely bothered. He thought it gave the desk a certain intimidating ambiance that was all his own. And his ambiance could use as much help as it could get.

Much like the room, there was nothing remarkable or, to his chagrin, particularly sorcerous about his appearance. Tall, but only enough so to be gangly versus intimidating, and too skinny and angular to ever be truly menacing. He had the tawny yellow-gold eyes that marked all sorcerers at birth and made them so easy to spot, set under thick dark brows that were currently knitted together into a scowl. Thankfully he had not inherited his mother’s curly, flaming red hair, but had instead settled into a kind of straight-ish, dark russet compromise that hung nearly to his shoulders. Still, red hair of any kind was not a very properly sorcerous colour, as Father had always taken pains to remind him. On more than one occasion he had said flat out that red hair looked stupid on a sorcerer, that no man with red hair could possibly be taken seriously.

At only thirty-eight Crow had not yet even developed any distinguished grey streaks, so fully red it was. He had, at least, ended up with a bit of Father’s hawklike nose, which lent him a decent sneer when he needed it. He considered it his best feature.

He tried to compensate for the rest with good clothes, and strongly favoured black. Black had a certain gravitas to it, in his opinion. You couldn’t help but take someone seriously if they were dressed all in black.

At the moment he was not thinking about his clothes. He was nervously eyeing an unopened letter sitting on the silver post tray, massaging with one long finger at the headache brewing above his left brow. The letter had been delivered by raven just that morning, and bore the Council’s seal: dull black wax, stamped with the design of leaping flames pierced through with a dagger. Melodramatic bastards. It was rare that such missives contained good news. He had a decent idea of what this one was about.

He squeezed his eyes shut, then cracked one eye open and squinted at it again. 

The letter just sat there. Waiting.

He sighed. Might as well get it over with. He leaned forward and scooped up the letter, licked his thumb and pressed it to the wax seal – it dissolved in a puff of smoke and the envelope sprang open. He removed the single piece of heavy parchment, braced himself and began to read:

Sorcerer Crow-

It has come to our attention that a certain scheme of yours, your much-talked about kidnapping, has not gone according to plan.

We are very eager to hear your detailed explanation. You are summoned to appear tomorrow morning before the Council at eleven o’ clock, to provide a full accounting of yourself.

Do not be late.

Signed,

-Lord Belz, Council Head

Crow groaned and dragged a hand down his face, and pulled the nearby decanter of dark red wine across the desk. He poured a measure into a silver goblet and downed it in a single toss, then poured another.

Shit. The Princess Adelina job. What a spectacular cock-up that had been. 

It was supposed to be the score to end all scores, he reflected wretchedly, something to drastically increase his finances and solidify his standing as a force to be reckoned with in Apollyon society. The one time when he tried to impress, a desperate attempt to finally, finally get the Council to leave him alone for good.

It had all started so well. He had successfully travelled incognito above the Wall to one of the least important kingdoms of Empyrion, and kidnapped the lovely dark-haired lesser princess from her tower without incident. He’d transported her back to his own tower and put her in one of the spare rooms for safekeeping until her ransom could be secured. Everything had gone astoundingly smoothly. His fortunes were looking up.

Then it had all gone wrong. Spectacularly, horribly wrong. Unbeknownst to Crow, the girl was on very bad terms with her parents, and his ransom note had been returned with a small note of their own, simply stating, “You may keep her.” His increasingly frantic return letters had gone unanswered. Meanwhile, the girl had just sat there in her (very comfortably appointed) room, wailing and crying and begging for mercy at all hours of the day and night while he lay in his own bed a floor above her, glaring at the canopy ceiling and feeling extremely put upon. He’d finally stomped down the stairs and hollered at her door that he had no intention of incinerating her, or poisoning her, or turning her into a toad (not that he even could), so could she please just eat the damned dinner and stop all that bloody racket?

He’d finally managed to fob her off onto one of the would-be Heroes that sometimes came gallivanting onto his property, and not a moment too soon. He had never been so glad to see someone trying to kill him in his life. But the damage was already done: no money was forthcoming, and his grand, much-puffed-and-bragged-about plans were in tatters. He supposed it had been too much to hope for that the Council wouldn’t want to talk about this; he’d been half-waiting for the axe to fall, and now here it was at last.

He seized a fistful of his hair and yanked in agitation, a boyhood habit he had never been able to break. This was what he got for being ambitious! Now he would have to make the trip down to the capital city where all the other sorcerers lived, Pandemonium, and he hated it there. It was set in the most unpleasant swamplands one could imagine, for reasons he could never understand. He had nothing but bad memories of the place.  

Frankly, he hated most places in Apollyon, the stinking bogland and fallow hard earth, and the further South you went the worse it got. Awful weather, loads of mosquitoes, no decent food to speak of. It was the type of place that no one in their right mind would want to live. Except that all the other sorcerers did want to live there, or at least insisted they did, loudly, and had made it a point of stubborn pride to eke out a living in the most inhospitable places imaginable. Barking mad, the lot of them.

A distant clanking noise outside the window distracted him, and he groaned. Speaking of barking mad…

In any other building a clanking sound would not have been so remarkable, but his quarters were at the top floor of the tower – seven stories off the ground.

He sighed, heaved himself resignedly to his feet, and went to the window. Here we go.

Most windows in the enormous circular room were narrow and slitted, paned with heavy glass and delicate metal latticework, but this one arched taller and broader than a man. It had a great wooden windowsill and elaborately-carved shutters that opened to face North. A person could stand here and look out across the entire Wood, if they liked. Crow wasn’t interested in the view right now; he leaned out and peered straight downward, scowling.

Sure enough, about thirty feet below, an armored figure was determinedly climbing up the stone wall, grasping at the vines with gauntleted hands. He was making surprisingly good time.

Crow grabbed a rock from the basketful he kept for just such occasions and chucked it down at him with all his strength. It bounced off the helmet with a clang, to no visible effect. “Sod off, you stupid bloody bastard!” he hollered.

The man looked up. The helmet’s visor was raised, revealing shining blond hair, piercing blue eyes, cleft chin, jawline like a cinder block. Typical.

“Prepare to meet thy doom, villain!” he boomed, in a resonant baritone. With a grunt he seized a fresh handful of creeper vines and hauled himself up another couple of feet.

“Gahhh.” Crow rolled his eyes with a groan and ducked back inside.

The damned girl had been gone for months, but that hadn't stopped over a dozen clueless Empyrion Heroes from continuing to trek down past the Wall and trying to rescue her from him anyway. Living so far Northwards had always put him squarely in the path of a certain number of glory seekers, just one of the occupational hazards of being a sorcerer living in the middle of nowhere, but ever since Adelina the issue had spiraled truly out of control. Now instead of a few times per year he was fielding multiple intrusions a month. He wasn’t sure why people were still so certain that a lady was being held captive here. But then the high and mighty idiots of the Northlands never needed an excuse to assume the worst about sorcerers. The two sides had been sniping away at each other for three hundred years, and that wasn’t likely to change any time soon.

And when the virtuous Knights and Princes and plucky farm boys of Empyrion finally ran out of hags to chase down or wolves to fight nearby, every over-muscled, hidebound idiot with delusions of grandeur or something to prove eventually wandered down past the Wall, through the Wood to Apollyon. Far too many of them made their way to his tower.

He had tried to discourage them over the years- oh, how he had tried. He'd put up signs, painted the entire tower black from cobblestones to roof tiles, and had a special plaque done up with the words “The Rookery: Keep Out” emblazoned on it in sufficiently menacing lettering. In a fit of desperation he’d even planted the high wall of sharp black thorns all around the tower grounds, and used a drop of magic to make it glow a sinister green at night.

None of it had ever made the slightest difference. Nothing he ever did or said would convince them that he wasn’t worth the trouble to kill, or that he wasn’t planning to burst through their precious Wall and burn their cities to dust. Not that it wasn’t tempting, sometimes, but he couldn’t have even if he wanted to. No, those dimwitted chunks of muscle and overconfidence only seemed to be made even more determined by all the obstacles. The harder the journey, they apparently reasoned, the more certain and spectacular the prize at the end of it. Casual adventurers were put off by the hedge, but the truly vainglorious ones ignored the signs, hacked their way valiantly through the thorny growth, waved off the occasional territorial attacking raven, and, finally, climbed the tower. They didn’t even try the stairs, which was doubly baffling because there was a door round back. No, the idiots climbed the damned thing in various unoriginal ways while he shouted down at them until he was hoarse, ignoring his threats and warnings and pleas and flung missiles, until he was forced to blast them off the side of the tower.

If he didn’t, those large, angry piles of muscle would eventually burst in on him at the most inopportune times, determined to heroically kill themselves an evil sorcerer and bag themself some treasure (or a wife, though that part had always seemed a little presumptuous to him, frankly). When that happened, he had no choice but to incinerate them into small, angry piles of ash. Like all sorcerers, he was very good with fire.

The final straw had been the time when he stepped serenely out of the bath and straight into the path of a wild-eyed, sword swinging, screaming Knight who had made his stealthy way into his bedroom. Crow had been forced to defend himself dripping wet and stark naked while barely avoiding getting his head chopped off.

After that he’d started greasing the last twenty feet of the tower walls below his window. The problem had diminished significantly after that.

He didn’t even bother trying to reason with them anymore. Anyone with any sense quit long before they got to this point, meaning only the most pigheaded of them made it this far. It was like talking to a boulder. An enormous, axe-wielding boulder.

He had learned from long, painful experience that there was no use reasoning with a Hero in the final leg of his Journey.

Crow poured himself another, larger goblet of wine, then slumped into the high-backed gold chair by the fireplace with a groan. The chair had also once been his father’s, and in his typical dramatic style more resembled a throne than a chair.

There was another clank, and the sound of more hollering and bluster outside.

He dragged a hand down his face again. People were bloody exhausting. He put his feet up on the little matching tufted bench, sipped at his wine, and amused himself by flicking different coloured balls of fire into the grate while he waited for the inevitable.

True to form, a couple minutes later he heard the telltale long, fading shriek as gauntleted hands met greased stone, followed by a clatter of plate armour far below. He winced and shook his head resignedly. He did try to warn them. That was three this month alone. Maybe there was something in the air.

“Hastur!” he hollered loudly, nose buried in his goblet.

“Yessir,” croaked the answer only a second later. Crow flinched, but managed to only turn his head calmly to look at the open doorway.

Hastur, his manservant. Sort of. The stooped, decrepit old man had served his family for two and a half generations, and was kin to one of the Council families, so they were more or less stuck with each other. He couldn’t fire him any more than he could fire an uncle. A frightening, unpleasant old uncle who almost definitely spied on him for the Council. Even at a distance, those nosy busybodies kept one watchful eye on him to make sure he wasn’t stepping too far out of line.  It was the only thing besides loyalty to his father that had kept Hastur around, he was sure. It certainly wasn’t from any particular affection for him. Mostly they avoided each other like a plague.

Nowadays Hastur more closely resembled a reanimated corpse than anything else, but then he had looked like that for as long as Crow could remember. Deathly pale, with sunken cheeks and baleful black eyes, skin blotched with liver spots and a thatch of pale hair that looked like straw glued to his scalp. He had the uncanny ability to be just around the corner at the most inopportune times, and was without a doubt the most terrifying thing in the tower.

Crow mused that he could probably eliminate his Hero problem by simply propping Hastur up on a post near the property boundary, if only he would agree.

A pity.

“Go on down and collect the armour and such from our visitor.” He waved a hand vaguely towards the window. “You know what to do.”

“Right away,” Hastur said with relish, revealing crumbling teeth as he smiled. Crow managed not to cringe. Just.

The creepy old bat. Hastur always took far too much pleasure in dispatching the remains of the various fallen Heroes and Knights, while Crow hated to even look at them. An embarrassing trait in the son of a necromancer, but there it was. He disliked killing, if he was honest with himself. He knew better than to admit that to Hastur though, who took after his father (and therefore the Council) in all things. Both parties were eternally disappointed that the apple had fallen so far from the tree.

He reached the bottom of his wine goblet, and refilled it.

At least every adventurer death added to his (at this point pretty impressive) official Northlander body tally, he brooded glumly, which was the only reason the Council left him alone as much as they did. His reputation with them was already weak, and after this recent debacle it would be in shreds. He groaned. To the Council, appearance and reputation were absolutely everything, and they would not be amused. They were rarely amused by anything, as a matter of principle, but this in particular was going to go down like a lead boat. He groaned again, imagining the many ways they would doubtless express their disappointment.

“Sir?”

Crow jumped again. Curse that man. He turned with slow dignity to look. “Yes?”

Hastur stepped into the room, moving as silently as the corpse he resembled, and held out his hand. “He was carrying this.”

On his open palm lay a wrist cuff, worked silver with inlaid green stones. Pretty, and very old, but otherwise nothing special- except for the faint aura of ancient magic he could feel emanating from it.

“Hmmm.” Crow picked it up and examined it with great interest. He prodded at it with his magical senses, feeling the hum around it. Definitely an Artifact. Powers to be determined.  “Good, very good. Well done, Hastur.”

The tower had one stairwell, a tightly spiraling thing that ran directly up the center of the building like an apple core. A small landing and heavy brass-bound oak door provided entrance to each floor.  As a result, every floor below the top was not a single large open space, but more of a circular hall.

Crow trotted down the staircase, down steps worn smooth with the years, to the fourth floor, to the room where he kept his Artifact collection.

He found an empty display nook and set the bracelet in place, turning it carefully to show it off to its best advantage. He could examine it at his leisure later, see if it was worth keeping.

Every item in this room was an Artifact, one of those precious sorcerous items imbued with long-lost magics. Three hundred years ago, during the Great War, the Empyrion kings had burned the sorcerer’s enormous Hall of Knowledge to the ground. Centuries worth of spellwork and study, books and scrolls, poof. Lost to history like chaff in the wind.

As a result, the sorcerers of today were reduced to a pale shadow of their ancient counterparts, though woe betide anyone who tried to tell them that. It was embarrassing, really. Reduced to several dozen or so cantrips, mostly practical, the commonplace spells that every sorcerer man, woman and child had already known anyway. But all the specialty artisan work, all of their most powerful (and interesting) spellwork and artificery skills, all that legendary power was now the stuff of stories, forgotten arts. Artifacts were all they had left of those arts, and any that had managed to survive the centuries were as coveted as they were rare. They were usually passed down as family heirlooms, by rich Northlanders too, the hypocritical bastards. They’d kill a sorcerer on sight, sure, but were perfectly happy to hoard their things.

And a disproportionate number of those heirlooms made their way down to Crow. Knights certainly didn’t need them anymore once burned to a crisp. It was turning out to be one of his more lucrative ventures, actually. Once a month Hastur made the trip down to Pandemonium to sell all the windfall armour and magical items at the Dark Market. But the truly interesting, useful, or just plain weird things Crow kept for his own amusement.

He took great pride in the collection, which was a hodge-podge of inherited and found items, but if he was completely honest with himself he was a little frightened of half the things in here. Particularly because he wasn’t entirely sure what all of it was. Sure, there was the standard magical jewelry, talismans that glowed whenever danger was near. That sort of thing. Very popular with Heroes, those. Some of them were glowing now, in fact- but then they were always glowing. It made him nervous, so Crow chose to believe they were picking up on his own dangerous presence. But some items...well, he honestly had no idea what some of it was supposed to do. For example, there was a suit of armor that had once been Father's that seemed entirely normal except for the fact that he sometimes caught the plumed helmet turning to follow (watch?) him out of the corner of his eye; there was a tattered leather book of bad poetry that emitted a low, contented hum at all hours of the day or night; there was a clock that kept perfect time but refused to run any way but backwards. Things like that. Perhaps most ominous of all, there was a perfectly innocuous looking, polished wooden breadbox (found buried in an ancient pre-War ruin) that had simply let out an ear-splitting shriek loud enough to crack glass the first and only time he had dared to open it. Crow eyed it warily as he skirted around its little display alcove.

The ancient sorcerers had possessed a very strange sense of humour. 

Crow turned and left the room, stopping as usual to look at the enormous painting on the stairwell wall.  

It showed a portrait of a slender man of middle age. Lank black hair combed back from a high forehead with a widow’s peak. Menacing gaze, yellow eyes, intimidating scowl. Classic hooked nose. Impressively winged eyebrows.

“Afternoon, Father.” He toasted the picture with an ironic lift of his wine goblet.

His father. Vladimir the Vile. The only necromancer sorcerer born in three hundred years, the first necromancer since the War. Head of the sorcerer Council, celebrity in his own right, and a die-hard patriot of The Cause.

And die hard he had, going out in a blaze of glory in a skirmish with Empyrion armies twenty-two years ago. Every few decades or so the sorcerers got it into their thick heads to try their hand at another coup, to take back what was “rightfully theirs”. They always lost, of course. Sorcerers, it turned out, were very bad at coups. It was part of why the population was so small. But that didn’t stop all the other sorcerers from hailing Vladimir as a hero and martyr, something Crow had no desire at all to emulate him in.

It would have made his life much easier if he had emulated Father just a little when he was alive. The red hair itself wouldn’t have been so bad, or the lack of physical resemblance; for the Great Necromancer Heir everyone would have been happy to overlook just about anything. But no, it was far worse than that: as Crow grew older it had slowly become apparent that he had not, in fact, inherited his father’s powers of necromancy.

The Council had kept testing him for years starting in childhood, over and over again with increasing desperation, as if the damned powers would simply manifest overnight. Or as if he only needed to try harder. Sorcerer magic was eight parts willpower, that was what Father had always said, so get on with it. But as the years went by everyone had finally been forced to accept the bitter truth: he was merely a sorcerer like any other, and not a very powerful one at that.

It had made for a very slow, painful fall from grace.

Under the shame and embarrassment, Crow was always secretly relieved. Why, he wondered, would he ever want to summon the dead? The living were aggravating enough.

Father, of course, had been as disgusted as everyone else, and made no secret of the fact.

“As my son, I expect better from you,” he had always said, glaring that frightening glare. “We” - here he would thump his chest and fix Crow with that piercing stare – “we sorcerers are the natural rulers of both these lands, not those holier-than-thou Northern mundanes. It is our birthright, our grand Destiny. Just as it is your Destiny to follow in my footsteps, to help us work towards our glorious victory and return to power.”

“But,” Crow had protested in confusion as a child, “It’s been three hundred years since we lost the War. Why aren’t we ruling yet? When does Destiny start to help?”

Questions like that had not gone over well. No questions involving ‘why’ ever went over well. Unfortunately, he’d been a very inquisitive child, and that had made life even harder than it needed to be.

The entire experience had soured him on the whole patriotism thing.

Then of course, Father had gone and got himself killed. It had all gone downhill from there. Their ancestral mansion was repossessed due to unpaid back taxes, leaving Crow orphaned and homeless at the age of sixteen, and suddenly lacking the protective clout of a famous father. He’d managed to scrape together enough funds from his inheritance to purchase the Rookery, washed his hands of the entire sorcerer society, and that was that.

Now he simply wanted to be left alone, but it seemed fate just couldn’t damn well leave him be.

But who knew. He thought dubiously of the letter. Maybe with a little luck, he could talk his way out of this and turn things around.

Not that luck was exactly his strong point.

Chapter Text

The morning sky was sullen grey, a perfect match for Crow’s mood, and streaks of even darker clouds in the far distance threatened rain for later. He glared up at those clouds and tugged his nicest black cloak a bit tighter around himself. Brilliant. And him wearing his suede boots, too. If only his glare could terrify the weather the way it did everyone else.

A soft splat to his right made him whip his head around, to see that a raven dropping had just landed on his shoulder. That wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, sharing his tower grounds with loads of birds, but today he had to stop, and draw in a slow breath through his long nose before using a cleaning spell to remove the mark.

Brilliant. The world is literally shitting on me today.

He growled the magical password (“edro”), and the tall hedge of thorns around his tower parted like a prickly, rustling curtain to let him stomp through.

Rrrrrrip. The edge of his cloak caught on a protruding black thorn, tearing a long run in the fabric. He barely resisted the urge to jump up and down like a child, and quickly repaired the damage with a hissed mending spell.

Not off to an auspicious start.

Despite the dreary weather he wore his dark-tinted glasses, as always, a special design that included panes of glass on the sides as well as front to fully hide his eyes. They weren’t a disguise around here, not when he was the only one who wore such things in all of Apollyon, but at least this way he didn’t have to endure townspeople’s constant horrified twitching when they met his yellow eyes. And, he’d found that when he did lose his temper, slowly removing the glasses had the kind of dramatic effect that really got things done.

It was a good twenty miles or so Southwards to Pandemonium, where all Council business was held.  Before subjecting himself to the long, bouncy carriage ride, he decided, he would stop at the local tavern to grab a drink. It was still early for alcohol, but when it came to the Council a bit of liquid fortification could only help.

He trudged his reluctant way through the dirt streets of the closest town, half a mile from his tower, ignoring the askance looks and the way crowds retreated uneasily from him like the tide. The way people scurried nervously out of his way and mothers clutched at their children as he passed. The bolder ones glared outright, but he shrugged that off, too. It was second nature by now. Around here his red hair marked him as clearly as his yellow eyes did; there weren’t enough redheads out there for him to not be easily recognised. He stood out like a lit flare in a dark room. And once recognised, a sorcerer was never forgotten.

A sorcerer’s innate powers manifested at birth but came into full bloom when adolescence struck, which was essentially being handed a big ball of seething chaos right when least equipped to handle it. Struck was a very apt term for it, really. While most people just had to deal with greasy hair and spots and awkward physical malfunctions, budding sorcerers had to suddenly deal with their power flaring wildly out of control at inconvenient times. Sorcerer magic was essentially raw organic energy: instinctive, unpredictable, and tied to emotions… and like any energy the damned stuff wanted out.

Training and discipline taught them to channel that energy into various different paths, like spells. Unfortunately, it most naturally enjoyed the path of least resistance: heat. More specifically, fire. It was the one skill no sorcerer had to learn- only to learn to control.

This did not exactly endear them to local mundane populace.

As Crow approached the rough-hewn double doors of the tavern, black cloak flapping, the two weaselly little peddlers that always lurked nearby flinched back from him. He ignored them. Everyone always flinched, every single time, no matter how often he came here and no matter what he did. They’d flinch if he broke wind or blew his nose too loudly. One of them also made the sign against evil and spat on the ground as he passed; Crow hissed and set fire to his fruit cart out of pure spite. Give the bastard something to flinch about.

Hackles up, he ignored the panicked shouts and swept past the flaming cart into the tavern.

At age sixteen, recently orphaned and just moved in, Crow had personally been responsible for accidentally burning down the local pub when he lost his temper. Twenty-two years later and it was still a large, blackened, empty space on the edge of town. It just sat there, serving as a constant grim reminder of how dangerous and unpredictable sorcerers were. Between things like that and the unnatural yellow eyes, sorcerers were viewed with a fear and distrust that bordered on superstition, and that was just south of the Wall. The Northlanders were worse.

He made straight for the back and slid into his seat at his customary table - the one that was always kept vacant just in case he stopped by. Like a wasp in the room, it was easier for people to keep a wide berth when they knew where he might be. It didn’t bother him. If they wanted to keep away, so much the better, and all the easier to avoid their muttering and rude stares.

That’s what he would have insisted if anyone asked, but no one ever did.

He rapped his knuckles on the wood table, and the barkeep slunk reluctantly over. “Yessir?” A greasy fellow, with lank brown hair and hooded eyes.

“Ale. Dark.” Crow slid a copper across the table towards him without turning his head. He didn’t feel like seeing the quickly averted gaze and uncomfortable shuffling that always followed when he looked at people, not today. He was already regretting coming.

The man took the coin with a sour grunt and shuffled away far quicker than he had come, probably sensing his bad mood.

It almost seemed to irk people more, that he always paid for his drinks instead of simply demanding them for free. Almost as if they were angry that he didn’t give them further reason to hate him. The general method among sorcerers was to take whatever they wanted, as their due tribute from all mundanes, but Crow personally held that it was a bad idea to antagonise the people preparing your food. No need to give them further incentive to poison him.

He knew that the folks in this remote little town (and every other town) would be happy to gather their pitchforks and run him out of the area, or simply run him through, if not for the fact that the Council would come and raze the entire place to ashes if they found out. The Council’s personal distaste for Crow was entirely beside the point – they couldn’t allow uppity mundanes to get ideas. Made bad business for all of them. So, whether he wanted it or not, he had their protection, and everyone knew it. It only made their occasional little attempts on his life sneakier.

And sure, he could’ve put a stop to even that, no problem. He could make a few fiery examples, or tell the Council about it. But then he’d just have to start over with a whole new village. Or worse, the Council would catch wind and decide they needed to drag Crow right back down to live in Pandemonium after all, since he so clearly couldn’t take care of himself. Ugh.

Crow had long since decided that he had a special talent for cramming himself into the worst possible in-between of every situation. Not enough of a sorcerer for the other sorcerers, but far too much of one for everyone else. Frightening enough for townsfolk to hate him, yet familiar enough where they felt comfortable giving offense.

He sipped his drink, once it arrived, without enthusiasm. Ugh. He pulled a face. The ale had been better at the old pub, he reflected irritably. The pub he had burned down. That just figured. He glanced at the silver ring on his left forefinger, but the inset stone was still crystal clear, with no hint of green. Not poisoned, then; just bad quality. Hooray.

He caught one of the other patrons staring at him, wide-eyed, like a frightened rabbit. Crow bared his teeth at him, and the man scurried away as quickly as he could.

Occasionally he was briefly tempted to give in to pressure and move down to Pandemonium, where the common people were so cowed (and used to sorcerers) that they would never dare be disrespectful. But even if he truly wanted to, and he didn’t, the others would never let him live it down. Oh, they would love that, wouldn’t they? Come crawling back with his tail between his legs. No. Besides, living there would mean he had to live near all the other sorcerers, under the direct displeased eye of the Council. He would be constantly involved.

The very thought made him shudder into his mediocre ale. At the end of the day he much preferred the open disgust and fear of the mundanes to the constant disappointment he felt steeped in whenever he mingled in sorcerer society.

The crazy bastards were all just so damned…enthusiastic, about everything! About being sorcerers, about their inevitable return to power, about strutting around and ruling their little Southern kingdom.

But that was sorcerers for you, and that was how it had been ever since the Great War. Ever since a large group of sorcerers had first got it into their thick heads that they, as the ones with innate magic and therefore the superior beings, should be ruling the kingdoms themselves.

Apparently shortsightedness was also an innate trait of sorcerers, because they had failed to consider that their magic was very finite, and kings had armies. It didn’t matter that you could kill ten men at a time when kingdoms had entire battalions to throw at you. The Great War was a very optimistic term for it, really; it had been more of The Great Rout (not that the sorcerers would ever admit it), and every surviving sorcerer family had been permanently evicted from the Northern half of the continent as traitors. The Wall was built to keep them out. Since then everyone had settled into a very comfortable hereditary enmity. The sorcerers ruled everything south of the Wood, and the kings with their shining white palaces and codes of honour claimed the much nicer Northern lands. Life churned on. Naturally, each side still took every possible opportunity to plot and snipe at each other.

Crow preferred to stay out of it, when he could. They were all equally tiresome.

Living so far away in his tower put him in the way of all those idiotic Knights and would-be Heroes, but that was nothing compared to the horror of being in the way of politics.

“This cannot stand!” Lord Belz declared with a slam of her palm on the table that echoed off the stone walls. “How could you let things get so out of hand?”

That was the Council for you. Loads of theatrics.

Crow stood facing a long table curved in the shape of a semicircle, glasses tucked safely away in a pocket of his cloak. It would never do to be caught wearing them in this particular city. Certainly none of the other sorcerers ever covered their eyes. Trying to blend in with the mundanes? Like some common hedgewitch, they would have sneered. They loved sneering at everything about hedgewitches, albeit privately, since you could never tell when you might be in the presence of one.

Privately, Crow envied the hedgewitches –  no yellow eyes for them, so they were anonymous unless they advertised it. And very few did. Secretive creatures, hedgewitches. Very sensible of them, in his opinion, but then even among sorcerers he had always been an oddity.

The Dark Council was holding session where they always did, in the cavernous stone building in the center of Pandemonium. It was an ugly building like all the rest, blunt and square and utilitarian; its only distinguishing factor being that it was a really big ugly building. And looming at one end of the room, just to complete the ambiance: a large statue of polished dark obsidian. It featured the tableau of a robed sorcerer standing over a kneeling king with a hand clamped around his throat. The king’s crown was askew, and he was attempting, unsuccessfully, to break the sorcerer’s grip.

Crow had to fight not to roll his eyes every time he saw it. Rolling his eyes would have been an especially bad idea, given where he was.

At the curved table in front of him sat three other sorcerers. They probably thought sitting at such a huge, marble-topped table made them seem grand and intimidating, but with so much empty space stretching to each side they just looked like a few dried peas rattling around in an empty bowl. All were staring closely at him. All of the oldest bloodlines, all good friends and fawning admirers of his father back in the day. All bitterly dissatisfied with Vladimir’s only son, but that was nothing new. They had never forgiven Crow for his abject failure to become his father.

The conversation was going about as well as Crow had expected.

To the right was Dagon, or, as they all styled themselves: Lord Dagon. The sorcerer families all clung to their original titles of nobility, despite not having bent the knee to a crown in three hundred years.

Dagon was rail-thin and deathly pallid, like something that lived under a rock. He looked annoyed, or like he smelled something foul, but then he always looked like that. He was the type who was constantly peering down his long nose as if he expected you to do something wrong at any moment, so he might as well be prepared.

On the far left was Lord Ligur, yellow eyes striking against his dark brown skin as he regarded him skeptically. He drummed the fingers of one hand on the table while his other hand stroked the large (currently orange) chameleon draped over his shoulder. That thing went everywhere with him, and seemed as skeptical of Crow as its master. Ligur was kin-by-marriage to Hastur, and Crow was sure that he received regular reports.

And last but certainly not least: in the middle of the trio, standing with hands braced on the tabletop, was Lord Belz, Head of the Council. The only woman of the group, though fortune save anyone who dared to call her by the title of Lady. She had always gone by “Lord”, stating that any title good enough for the rest of them was good enough for her.

Privately, Crow suspected that the reason she was the Head was that the others were terrified of her. He could hardly blame them; she was easily the most intimidating of the lot: soot-black hair worn cut to the jaw at a severe angle, grim yellow eyes set in a pale face pockmarked by the livid scars of some childhood skin ailment, and magically strong enough to flatten anyone who irked her. Lord Belz was very easily irked.

Appearing before this trio always made him feel like a bug pinned to a card.

“There were unforeseen circumstances,” Crow said glumly.

Lord Dagon pounded a fist on the table. “Unforeseen circumstances?” he shouted. “Sorcerers are not deterred by unforeseen circumstances! When this city sank into the swamp, did that stop us? No! We built it again, and when that sank too, we built it a third time. We sit in the mighty success of our perseverance. And like this city, we too will rise tougher, stronger, and more dangerous than before!”

Lord Belz incinerated a fly buzzing about her head with an irate flick of her fingers and rapped sharply on the table to regain his attention. She wore breeches, long-sleeved shirt and leather waistcoat in head-to-toe black, tailored tight to her narrow body in the severe fashion of Pandemonium. Her blood-crimson sash of office draped from shoulder to hip. “What, exactly, have you done to repair the reputation of this Council in particular, or sorcerers in general, after this…” she glanced down at the paper in front of her, and her lip curled into a sneer “…debacle?”

“Um.”

“You need to keep up appearances,” she added, interrupting before he could say anything more. “If the rabble gets it into their heads that they can push you around, it causes trouble for the rest of us. Your actions reflect on us all.”

“Hngh,” said Crow. As if he didn’t know all that already.

Scritch scritch. In one corner a yellow-eyed young man stood with quill and parchment at a small desk, dutifully taking down every little detail of the encounter. One of Lord Ligur’s many Heirs, Crow wasn’t sure which one. They all looked alike, acted alike, and were all equally eager to please. This one’s thick black hair was styled into two points like a bull’s horns, one of the supposedly fashion-forward Pandemonium styles. Crow thought it just made him look like a prat.

Scratch scritch, went the quill.

What the hell could he be writing about? Crow wondered distractedly. There wasn’t nearly enough happening to warrant such constant note-taking. Probably he was marking down every single inadequacy about Crow in excruciating detail, that was his guess. Documenting it all for posterity so future generations could know just how much of a disappointment he was.

A sharp, dry cough from the end of the table drew his eyes back to Lord Ligur. He always coughed before speaking, to ensure that he had everyone’s attention.

“Speaking of your actions,” Lord Ligur said in his deep voice, folding his hands and leaning forward, “you still have not, by our latest reports, even fathered a single Heir.”

Crow had to deliberately unclench his fists at his sides. This again. He’d been expecting it, but that didn’t make it any more fun.

Sorcery ran in bloodlines, but unreliably. All it took was one parent to carry the sorcerer blood, technically, but it would often take a handful of tries. One could always be counted on to crop up by the eighth child, so all sorcerers were expected to be as…er…prolific as possible, to increase their population. Or at least put in an effort as often as possible. It was their duty, for the good of The Cause, and most sorcerers applied themselves enthusiastically to that duty. By now half the common people in Pandemonium were some sort of ungifted sorcerer descendant, discarded attempts along the way to producing an Heir.

As in all other things Crow himself had been something of an anomaly, since he had been his father’s first and only child, and a sorcerer on the first go! There had been such high hopes for him. Initially.

“Oh, uh, yeah. I’ll get right on that,” he said unconvincingly.

Three pairs of yellow eyes regarded him with suspicion. The scribe’s damned quill went scritch-a-scratch in the silence. 

Ugh. The embarrassing truth was that despite their decades of prodding he simply had no interest, and would have had no idea how to go about it even if he did. Men and women alike shrank away from him like he was a particularly venomous serpent. Not exactly conducive to romance. He knew he would have had better luck here in the capital, but frankly the idea of finding some lady he didn’t even know, a stranger, and being naked in front of her, never mind touching her, was… alarming. He’d always assumed the appeal would manifest for him eventually, but the years just kept ticking on with no sudden revelation. He figured he might be able to work himself up to it, if it came to that, but the prospect mostly just filled him with dread. The thought of sleeping with multiple women in succession was unfathomable.

But the very last thing he wanted to do was try and explain any of that to these desiccated old prunes.

Lord Belz was staring at him hardest of all. She reached under her chair and produced an enormous leather-bound tome over two feet tall.

Crow gave an internal groan.

Belz heaved the book into the air and down onto the marble table with a loud whump that made everyone in the room jump in their seats, dust flying everywhere and sending the other two Councilors at the table into coughing fits. She ignored them all with cool disdain and flipped through the book until she found what she was looking for. Without taking her eyes from Crow, she stabbed a bony finger at a place on the yellowed page and recited, apparently from memory, “’Every sorcerer is duty-bound to produce at least one sorcerer Heir, to ensure the future of our kind, and prepare for our inevitable glorious return to power.’”

“Mm,” Crow agreed, nodding. He knew the Tenets as well as anyone; his father had lived and breathed them. Some of his earliest memories were of that infernal text being quoted at him whenever he fell short. So…very often. “Right. Glorious. Yeah.”

“This is important, Crow.”

“I know, I know.”

“Your father’s necromantic gift may have eluded you, but there is still a chance that it will manifest in one of your progeny. It is essential that we continue your bloodline. With a properly powerful necromancer on our side again, our victory will be a foregone conclusion!”

“Right, of course,” he said. “Foregone. For sure.” It didn’t bloody well help much last time, though, did it?  “I’ll keep trying.”

Lord Belz glared at him a bit longer, but when he failed to offer any argument she simply huffed, and slammed the book closed again in another cloud of dust and loud coughing.

“Needless to say,” she drawled, shoving the book roughly aside, “an improvement in performance is needed. On multiple fronts.”

“We have tolerated your many…eccentricities, as a courtesy to your late father,” added Lord Dagon peevishly. “We have shown you exceptional leeway. We did not even object when you elected to live so far away from the rest of our kind.”

Crow bit his tongue. They had objected, actually. Strenuously. The Council were experts at putting their noses in where they had no business, but then they made all sorcerers’ business their own. They just hadn’t stooped to force in this particular area, since he’d been of inheriting age by sorcerer reckoning, and his father’s name still commanded some respect. That respect had been worn paper thin over the years.

“You were very young, after all, with plenty of time to make a good showing of yourself outside the fold. But forty is no longer young.”

Thirty-eight, Crow thought irritably. And I guess that makes you lot ancient. The scribe had begun frantically scribbling away, the sound like a mouse gnawing at his brain, and it made him want to incinerate both him and his stupid quill. 

He unclenched his teeth, smoothed his face and adopted an ingratiating tone. “Lord Belz, I have been the architect of many, many Northlander deaths over the years. More, I would argue, than any other sorcerer.” They’d been the architect of their own deaths, more accurately, but that was splitting hairs. “My tower has served as a reminder of our great power, and has been incredibly successful in luring them to their doom. All according to plan.”

“That’s as may be,” Lord Ligur said, chiming in, “but they have all come to you. Killing them could possibly be misinterpreted as merely self-defense.” He spat it like it was a dirty word. “Especially paired with your lack of heirs, your continued refusal to participate in the rest of sorcerer society, and your most recent misstep with the girl. It does not set a good example for the younger generation.”

“Such flagrant disregard for duty and reputation could easily be seen as…disloyal,” Lord Belz said slowly. There was a heavy weight of menace in the last word.

Shit. Crow began to sweat. Disloyal was one thing that sorcerers must not be, above all else. There hadn’t been a named traitor in several lifetimes, but that was because it was so harshly stamped out at a young age. He’d heard the stories. Sorcerers were immune to direct sorcerer fire, since they all shared the same innate power, but there were still plenty of other innovative ways to hurt someone. He had no desire to learn about any of those ways.

“We require a demonstration. Something to balance out your erstwhile good deed,” sneered Lord Dagon. “Show the filthy Northlander kings that sorcerers are not to be trifled with.”

Crow knew he was supposed to hate Northlanders, especially the nobility. He supposed he kind of did, at the end of the day, but in a distant, vague way, the way you hate a hurricane that may or may not make landfall. He didn’t even particularly hate the idiots who charged into his tower, though he felt no compunctions about killing them. Mostly he just wanted them to go away. Anything more than that was just too exhausting to maintain. It was difficult enough dealing with the latent disdain of everyone around him. 

But there was no getting out of it. Crow let out a huge sigh, and stood a bit straighter. “Very well. What did you have in mind?”

“That is your problem. This Council is not responsible for fixing your inadequacies. Use your imagination.”

“Impress us,” rumbled Lord Ligur. “We would like to see some craftmanship.”  

Lord Belz leaned forward, palms flat on the table, and fixed Crow with her dull yellow glare. 

“Simply put, get up there and make some trouble!”

Crow stomped out of the building into the crowded cobblestone streets of Pandemonium, skirting around a muck pile and narrowly avoiding being run over by a horse-drawn cart.

“We are not responsible for fixing your inadequacies,” he mimicked in falsetto to a one-eyed rat gnawing on some rubbish in the gutter. “Stand up straight. Don’t lick the walls. You would think I was a half-wit. I don’t see them risking their elevated arses to go do anything special. They don’t expect anything from any of the other idiots around here. Why do they always have to single me out? Is it my fault that Father was an overachiever?”

The rat ignored him.

“Gahh.” He leaned back and took a few quick deep breaths of swampy air with hands on hips, trying to get his temper under control. Calm. Cool and calm. He could feel his magic seething hot and close to the surface, just begging to cause some havoc, and the last thing he needed was for his clothes to start smoking. He’d ruined more than one shirt that way when he was younger. It had been years since he’d lost control that badly, but the Council had a special knack for getting under his skin. He lit a small blue flame in his hand, just to burn off some energy, and watched it flicker over his fingers for a moment.

“Absolute wankers,” he muttered, and crushed the flame in his fist.

Passersby had begun to shoot him curious looks at this point. He ignored them. He kicked halfheartedly at the rat, but missed and only managed to splatter his nice boots with stinking muck. The rat didn’t even flinch. People flinched, but not rats. Didn’t that just figure.

Ugh, how he hated this city, he thought as he used a cleaning cantrip to remove the mud. Humid and cramped, and the narrow, crooked streets stank of tar and sweat. The fog had finally burned off, but the sky above still contrived to look dreary, which fit very well with the dull and sooty buildings all around him. The people shuffling by were all furtive, shifty-eyed looking folk, but thankfully none of them were sorcerers.

There was no way, he decided in a fit of temper, that he was riding that damned carriage twice in one day. He reached into his shirt and yanked out the smooth, round, polished disc of blood-red stone that he always wore on a leather cord around his neck. His homing amulet- an Artifact good for exactly one use per sunrise. Most sorcerer families had one left from the Old Days. It was one of two identical pieces that could be linked back to any location by placing its twin piece in that place, and then used to travel instantaneously (albeit one way). This one was scratched and chipped like all the rest that had managed to survive this long, but the spell on it was still strong. Its corresponding disc was buried right in front of the door to his tower. An escape hatch.

He spoke the word, and a dull red glow sprang up in a broad circle around his feet. The low-slung buildings, murky sky and swamp-stink of Pandemonium vanished, blurred, grey and black colours running together like ink left in the rain. He breathed a sigh of relief. Before he could draw two slow breaths, the world re-settled and snapped back into focus on the rich green and brown wooded scenery of the Rookery.

The sky was clear and blue. He could see emerald treetops above the thorny wall around him. The ravens were kicking up a racket about something or other, the harsh cawing familiar and comforting. Crow rested his forehead against the warm stones of his tower and sucked in slow, deep breaths of fresh air laced with pine and earth, feeling his tension slowly evaporate.

Home. Home again.

In a way, the trip had been very productive. Every time he started to second guess his self-imposed exile, all it took was a nice trip to the capital to remind him why he had done it in the first place.

Chapter Text

So the Council needed some kind of example, did they? Fine. He’d show them. You didn’t see them ever risking their necks by going up North, but fine. He’d be damned if he was doing more than the bare minimum this time, though. That was a lesson firmly learned.

Crow quickly packed a broad-brimmed, droopy hat (to conceal his hair and face) and some apples into a worn leather satchel. There was no sense putting it off, and it was still early enough in the day to get this over with.

He left a note for Hastur about where he’d gone, so that the Council would hear of it, then exited the tower and headed East, through the Wood towards the distant snowy peaks of the mountain range that bordered both lands.

There was one main gate in the center of the Wall that everyone knew about, used to facilitate occasional trade and travel between the common folks of both lands. Those gates were heavily guarded on the Empyrion side, flanked by an entire barracks of Northlander soldiers from all five kingdoms, just waiting for the incredibly predictable eventual attack. The Wall was ancient, but the gates were relatively new, because they got blasted down every few decades. Those gates were not an option, not unless he wanted to have to fight his way through and alert the entire Northlands to his presence, and probably die along the way. Martyrdom was not in his plan. 

What everyone else didn’t know was that to the far East there was another gate. Crow had never mentioned this gate to the Council. As far as he could tell, everyone else in the entire world had forgotten it ever existed, and it was easy to see why. This far out, there was little else to be found but trees and the occasional old pre-Great War ruin. The gate itself was small, in the middle of nowhere, and surrounded by such overgrown rocky forest that was impossible for carriages or wagons to pass. He’d stumbled upon it purely by accident.  It wasn’t even a proper gate, really, just a single thick wooden door with rusty hinges that could be pushed open if you really put your shoulder into it.

And the Council definitely didn’t need to know that he’d already been using this gate regularly, for years, to sneak up North. Not to cause trouble, but for fun. He would put on his glasses and go to dimly lit taverns in the border cities, mingle with the local clientele, enjoying the thrill of being just another face in the crowd. Comfortably ensconced in his veneer of human camaraderie. The food and entertainment were much better in the Empyrion cities (honestly, everything was better in the Empyrion cities), and he especially enjoyed the plays. As long as he kept a low profile and his eyes covered he was always safe enough. Sorcerers were so unheard of in the Northlands that as long as he didn’t act like what they thought a sorcerer should act like (that is, moustache-twirling, uncontrollably burning everything in sight, and cursing the livestock), well. No one even questioned his dark glasses- up there he was just another wealthy man. Eccentric, sure, but for all points and purposes, normal. Or at the very least, abnormal in a way that didn’t get you thrown out of a pub.

And any risk was far outweighed by the refreshing relief of being completely unrecognised.

But today was no pleasure trip, he had to remind himself. Business first. He didn’t have a plan, yet, but that was fine. All of his best plans began just like this. He was used to winging it, and he had no doubts that something would occur to him once he got up there. There was a nice rarely-used windmill a few miles North of the Wall that produced textiles for one of the kingdom palaces… maybe burning it down would be flashy enough to satisfy the Council. He could make up a good story about screaming peasants and civilian casualties. Ehh. It was a start, at least.

The Eastern gate wasn’t all that far away, but he was in an impatient mood, so he decided to be profligate and use magic.

Sorcerers couldn’t fly, turn themselves into a raven or blood-sucking bat, or transport themselves via magic at will, no matter what ordinary people might rumour amongst themselves. But he did have a few tricks up his sleeve.

The quickening cantrip allowed him to run as fast as a well-bred horse could gallop at full tilt, each step counting for at least five regular ones. That kind of benefit didn’t come free, though: the spell burned magic and therefore energy at a truly alarming rate, and sorcerers had a very finite amount. Like most spells, this one could only be used for short bursts, a couple miles at best, unless he wanted to stagger into his destination and pass out cold. (In one memorable incident years ago, he had got spectacularly drunk at a distillery some five miles away, then attempted to run home flat out. He’d regained consciousness a full day later in a completely unknown part of the Wood, flat on his face in a stinking bog, somewhere halfway between here and there. Eaten alive by mosquitoes and feeling like a thousand angry blacksmiths were hammering on the inside of his skull. Not one of his best mornings).

There were other, smaller drawbacks too: you had to keep your mouth shut to avoid bugs; it wore out shoes exceptionally fast; his hair was always a disaster by the end; and his billowing cloak dragged at the air and left him half-strangled. He could have removed the cloak, of course, but then he would lose the effect of it flaring out dramatically behind him like a pair of enormous black wings. He cut quite the striking figure. People always gasped and screamed when he ran by like that. Sometimes it was worth a bit of discomfort to create the right impression.

But above all of course, it was bloody good fun. All the drawbacks in the world would have been a small price to pay for the wild exhilaration of effortless speed, the freedom of feeling like he could leave anything and everything far behind. It was the next best thing to being able to fly, and far better than those uncomfortable, ornery, and highly unreliable transports known as horses. Hard on the buttocks, horses, and carriage rides were tedious. No, far better to simply rely on his own magic and his own two feet, as always.

And it made quick work of trips that were, say, only a couple miles Northward.

He used it now, dimly noting the forest scenery whoosh past in his peripheral vision but keeping his gaze ahead. He had to be careful. The spell only made him fast, not insubstantial, and if he didn’t pay attention he could still run himself straight into a tree or wall and be mashed flat. That would be a truly undignified way to die; after all the time he’d spent trying to stay alive he wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction. He kept parallel to the Wood for most of the journey so he wouldn’t have to constantly dodge trees, and deliberately kept his maniacal grin tucked away - the one time he had indulged in that he had immediately swallowed a dragonfly.

Maybe after this, he mused as he ran, he would have time to pop up to one of the larger Empyrion cities and see if any plays were on for tonight. A nice comedy would be preferable. The gloomy ones too often featured sorcerers as the titular villains, and he just wasn’t in the mood. Something cheering was definitely in order to salvage the day.  

It was only a matter of minutes before he saw the rocky structures approaching that meant he was close. Soon he’d have to walk- the last bit of terrain was too closely packed with trees and rocks to safely run it. He waited until he zoomed right past the first enormous boulder that marked the beginning of the cluster, then cut the spell loose.

He screeched to a stop in a billowing cloud of pale dust, arms outstretched, boots sliding sideways along the loose scree and gravel for a good several yards before finally coming to a full halt. “Haa!” He couldn’t help letting out a single whoop of exhilaration. He shook the dust off his clothes (black was terrible for showing dirt) and smoothed his wind-tousled hair back; a simple mending cantrip removed the scuffs from the toes of his boots. The cleaning cantrip left his spattered glasses like polished obsidian again. Cursory examination showed that he was more or less in order, so he straightened and set off at a determined pace, towards the great white marble Wall that stood between him and Empyrion.

There it was, up ahead: a flash of white through the trees.

Crow frowned as he came closer. Not the stone Wall, actually, but…a white horse? He stopped dead and stared in dismay. A guard? All the way out here? Nah, surely not. His luck could not be that rotten today. In all the years he’d been coming here, more than a decade, not once had there been so much as a single watchman.

He crept slowly, carefully forwards to get a better look, and warily peeked out from behind a large boulder.

It was a huge horse- the biggest damned animal he had ever seen in his life. The beast had to be more than nineteen hands, and looked sturdy enough to run through a brick wall. Some kind of mixed breed he’d never seen before. It could only be a Northlander. No one round here in Apollyon had a horse like that, a shaggy white monster of a horse whose finely-tooled tack sported gold accents.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. Crow dragged a hand down his face and hissed silently in frustration. Today just gets better and better. The Knight who rode that thing was going to be a nightmare. He could picture him already: nearly seven feet tall, face like a bard’s tale, muscles like a pile of boulders, and an intellect to match. Bloodthirsty and slavering for the chance to whack his head off his shoulders, just like every idiot that came barging up to his tower.

There was the bastard now! A figure only a few paces away from the horse, leaning against the Wall by the door with sword held lax in his hand. He was faced slightly away from him, but even from here Crow could see that his blindingly polished silver breastplate and pauldrons were as fine as any he’d ever seen, ornamented with gold filigree and white gems. His brocade doublet, cloth-of-gold cloak and pure white silk shirt were made from the highest quality fabrics money could buy; his boots were custom-tooled brown leather. A rich bastard, then. And blond, of course.

Not head-to-toe armour, so not a full Knight after all. Another pretty, vacuous Hero then. Some noble, or firstborn son, or sickeningly wealthy merchant type with delusions of grandeur galumphing through their cavernous head. Perfect. Worse than horseflies, Heroes, convinced that Destiny had marked them for greatness.

Was it too much to ask, Crow railed inside his head, for a single thing to go right today?

At least it was only one, he consoled himself. Just one. He could handle one Hero, did it all the time. Maybe he could scare him off, and then he wouldn’t even have to kill him.

Yeah. Miracles happened.

Might as well get this over with.

He stepped out from around the boulder and strode purposefully towards the Wall, drawing himself up to his full height, arranging his face into a severe and sinister cast. There wasn’t any wind, but he conjured a bit of breeze to make sure that his cloak whipped and flared out dramatically behind him, trying to look as imposing as he possibly could. A good first impression, or at least a bit of shock and awe, could go a long way towards streamlining these encounters. As he walked he also summoned a handful of green-tinged flames (he found green the most intimidating), letting them dance threateningly over his fingers. He’d practiced in the mirror and thought it completed the image nicely.

At the crunch of his boot on gravel the slumped figure scrambled upright and whirled around, sword coming up into guard position. “You there! Halt!” he cried out.

Crow slowed to a stop, and his gaze flickered bemusedly over him.

The man was…not tall. Or remotely intimidating. He stood a couple inches shorter than him, even with the thick boots. Wide eyes shone resolutely grey-blue, the precise shade of his doublet, under a tumble of feathery white-blond curls cut a bit too short to be fashionable. And... his stubbornly-set jaw was rather less chiseled than Crow was used to seeing. No conveniently placed scars, no gritty dents or smudges on that immaculate armour. Heroes usually had cheekbones that could cut glass, but this one’s were rounded, and slightly rosy to boot.

Cherubic was the word that came immediately to mind, and Crow nearly snorted out loud.

He looked to be roughly Crow's own age, and was staring determinedly, if anxiously at him from behind that enormous broadsword.

There was a long, tense silence as Crow and the armoured man sized each other up.

The Hero spoke first. “Now see here, villain, I don’t want to have to kill you, so just turn about and head right back where you came from.” His voice was precise and educated, nearly fussy, and while self-assured was lacking in the usual bravado.

Crow blinked, taken aback, and the flames in his hand faltered. “You don’t want to kill me?”

“Well…no, not particularly.” The confidence wavered for an instant, then solidified. “Which is not to say that I won’t! Rest assured I will if you cause trouble!”

“Huh.” Crow really didn’t know what to make of that. He’d been prepared for the usual immediate bluster, and screaming, and graphic gory descriptions of his imminent demise. Most Heroes’ dearest ambition was to kill a sorcerer. This polite little threat was something entirely new and left him wrong-footed. “Uh…well…”

The old scar on the back of his left hand had begun to itch, the way it often did when he used magic, but he couldn’t scratch it without looking stupid. He pulled himself together.

“You are standing between me and my destination,” he intoned in his deepest voice, drawing himself up to his full height and staring him down. “So it is you who will have to step aside, foolish one, or meet your death.” He made a little shooing gesture with one hand. “Run along.”

The Hero raised his chain, haughtily. He had an upturned nose that only amplified the effect. “Out of the question. You are not getting through this Wall.”

Crow blew out an exasperated breath through his lips, making a rude noise. It had been worth a try.

Fine, pretty lad. We’ll see about that.

The man was clearly in well over his head. A little fire should frighten him off and send him scurrying away.

Crow resignedly summoned more flames, and they leapt up into a tall, crackling green column in his hand.

The Hero’s blue eyes went wide as saucers, and he breathed something that sounded faintly like, “Good Lord.”

With a dramatic sweep of his arm Crow sent the fire spiraling (slowly) toward him, with plenty of time for him to run-

- only for the blond Hero to parry the magic with his sword. The green fire vanished, and the blade promptly burst into flames.

It was hard to say who was more surprised. They both stared at the burning sword, Crow in annoyance and the Hero in almost comical relief, then:

“Ha! Take that, foul fiend!” he shouted in a slightly higher-pitched voice. In a calmer tone, he continued, “Honestly, don’t even think about it. This sword is enchanted to absorb all other magic. Anything you throw at me will just fizzle right out.” The flames had already faded, leaving the blade smoking.

Crow could have banged his head on one of the nearby boulders. Of course. Of course he had an Artifact, and a bloody powerful one at that. Why wouldn’t he? The universe, it seemed, was intent on kicking him today. Damned magic trinkets. Damned hypocritical Northlanders.

“Are you sure this is wise?” he asked slowly, trying for intimidation. “Taking on a master of the Dark Arts?”

The Hero pressed his lips together and glared. With his hair sticking up like that it was rather like being glared at by a well-armed fluffy owl, and about as menacing. “Well, I don’t see what choice I have in the matter, if you refuse to leave!”

Curse it. He tried again, using a spell of unraveling this time, thinking to make his armor unbuckle itself and tangle him up, but apparently that sword worked on invisible magics as well. He gave up on subtle and threw more fire, burst after burst, but the Hero easily blocked that too, again and again, with growing confidence. Finally, his temper truly pricked, Crow set his jaw and threw flames high, then while the man was busy parrying that he sent a fresh burst at his feet. Maybe a bit of hotfoot would make him think twice.

The low blow (ha) hit; the Hero yelped as one of his polished boots caught fire. Crow gloated for all of two seconds before the other man yanked one of the small daggers from his  belt and flung it in a panic.

Crow ducked, but the dagger flew wide and pinged off the huge boulder a good two feet away from him. Halfhearted throw, or just a bad shot?  He decided not to take chances.

He skirted around the boulder and crouched behind it, panting. Unfortunately this put him in direct sunlight. Brilliant choice. It was a very hot spring day, right on the cusp of summer, and all the solid black was not doing him any favours. His cloak was currently bunched up under his left ear and pouring itchy sweat down his neck. “Shit,” he muttered, and swiped moisture off his forehead with one long sleeve. “Nothing is ever simple.” He was cranky, and tired from throwing so much fire, and beyond tired of people’s meddling. “Look, all I need is to get past!” he yelled, giving up on intimidating.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt! Well, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to- ah! -change your wicked plans!” Muffled exclamations and stomping as the Hero put out his flaming boots.

“Gahhh,” Crow muttered, and scratched furiously at his itching hand. This was not going well, even by his admittedly low standards.

In all the leaping about his dark glasses had slid down to the tip of his sweaty nose; he shoved them impatiently back into place and re-evaluated his options. They weren’t promising. The main gate was no good – too many guards, too much foot traffic. The Wall was far too high and smooth to climb.

He grit his teeth and hissed softly. Unbelievable. And embarrassing, to be so completely thwarted by this- this- pampered looking little dandy of a guard! Thank fortune there was no one around to see this.

“So who the hell are you, anyway?” he called out. Mostly just stalling for time while he tried to figure out what to do.

“I am Prince Azra, fiend.”

“Oh, balls.” Crow groaned aloud. He hardly ever encountered Princes. Princes were even worse than Knights and Heroes, taught from birth that they were the most important thing in the entire world. Plus rich enough to keep believing it indefinitely. That at least explained the prancy armour and enchanted sword. “Am I supposed to know who that is? Are you the crown Prince of somewhere?”

“Well…no. Third in line,” the Prince replied stiffly. “I am brother to King Gabriel of the High Fells.”

“Fantastic.” The largest of the five kingdoms, and the grandest. Crow rarely ventured that far North, but had seen the shining white marble-and-glass palace a few times from a distance. Large as a city, set on a high cliff overlooking the sea, topped with gold turrets and proudly flapping blue pennants that stretched to the clouds.

“Hang on, Azra. If you’re a Prince, then where’s your crown?” he taunted. The damned things were usually welded to their heads, because fortune forbid anyone mistake them for anything but royalty. “Lost it, have you?”

“My- oh. That’s none of your concern, villain. And it’s ‘Your Royal Highness’, to you.” 

“Whatever you say, Your Holiness.”

An exasperated sigh.

Crow grinned. Needling at Empyrion nobility always cheered him right up. “So. What the hell is Your Holiness even doing all the way out here, anyway? The Fells are miles and miles off.” At the Northernmost point of the land, actually, the furthest away of all five kingdoms.

“I,” the Prince declared loftily, “am doing my duty. Our King would never be so remiss as to leave any part of the Wall unguarded.”

“Ha, that’s a load of bollocks. This place is always unguarded, been coming here for years.”

Awkward silence.

After a few more moments with no answer, he prodded again. “Don’t you have some...I don’t know, adventuring to do, or jousting to win, or something else more pressing for a Prince? Shouldn’t you be off harassing the commonwealth right now?”

“I- No- Me harassing? You’re the- the scalawag who’s running around causing who-knows-what manner of trouble!”

Scalawag. That’s a new one. “Seems to me that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it? Could just as easily say you’re the one causing trouble for me,” he pointed out.

“We are not having this conversation. You just tried to kill me, you dastardly creature!”

Crow scoffed. “Ah, hardly. I just threw a little fire at you. No need to take it so personally.”

Incoherent sputtering sounds followed.

Crow snickered to himself; Princes were always easy to bait, and this one was far more entertaining than most.

“Be reasonable,” he said. Asking for reason from a Prince was like asking for water from a stone, but he knew it would irritate him. “I was just being proactive. As you may recall, you threatened to kill me first,” he pointed out.

A pause. “I… I suppose… that’s true. But when Evil threatens, Virtue cannot stand idly by, nor hesitate in its duty.”

Crow frowned. That last phrase sounded vaguely familiar, almost like... “Hang on. Are you quoting a play?”

“Er…” Silence.

“Because that sounded an awful lot like it was from The Ten Honest Turncoats. A shite play, if memory serves me right. If you’re going to insult me you could at least pick something from a good play.”

“Well…” More silence. More foot shuffling.

Huh. This Prince was reacting all wrong. Usually it only took a few good jabs at that noble ego to provoke them into blindly charging, like a shiny rabid bull. But this one was staying put. Could he have really meant it, about preferring not to fight? How…completely unprecedented.

Time to switch tactics. “Look,” Crow said. “If we’re going to be at an impasse, why don’t we sit down and figure something out, hm?” He dug into his leather satchel. “May I tempt you to an apple?” he called, holding one up and wiggling it for him to see. It shone dark red and glossy in the sun.

“I – I beg your pardon?”

“An apple. You know, round, crunchy-”

“I know what an apple is, and no, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” He took a huge bite of the apple and crouched there chewing as loudly and obnoxiously as he could. It was good, sweet and crisp. “Just thought you might be hungry. That armour looks pretty hot and uncomfortable.”

There was a long pause.

“Miserably so,” came the quiet admission.

Crow nearly choked on his apple in surprise. He peeked around the side of his boulder, curious. The Prince was standing there, sweaty, shoulders slumped, holding the sword point-down in the dirt, and for an unguarded moment he did indeed look miserable.

Crow stuffed down an unwelcome stab of sympathy. “You sure you don’t want one?”

A scoff, and the precise voice regained its hauteur. “Absolutely not. Poisoned, no doubt.”

“Pfft. Why would I be stupid enough to carry around a poisoned apple? I’d be more likely to accidentally eat it myself.” He took another bite and leaned his back against the boulder.

His thighs were beginning to shake from crouching here like this, and he could feel his pale skin starting to crisp in the sun. Sweat had run all down his back, leaving him unpleasantly damp. Yechhh. “Look, I’ll make a bargain with you. I’m going to come around to the other side of this stupid rock now before I melt. If you promise not to try and stab me with that sword or throw any more knives, I promise not to try and incinerate you. Do we have a deal?”

An even longer silence, and then, “…Very well. But don’t try anything.”

Crow stood and walked slowly around the boulder, and slumped down in the shade with a groan of relief. “Unghh.”

The Prince just stood there with his sword clutched in both hands, eyeing him warily. He looked distinctly worse for wear too – blond hair disheveled, boots soot-blackened, face red as a tomato and sheened with sweat. He was swaying slightly.

Crow waved a weary hand at him, beyond caring about appearances. “For fuck’s sake, have a seat. You look like you’re about to fall over anyway.”

The Prince hesitated a second longer, then shuffled sideways and gingerly lowered himself, arse first, to perch on a nearby rock, back ramrod straight with sword at ready.

There was a long, awkward silence while they both just sat there facing each other, poised like fencers waiting for the first lunge.

After a beat, when neither one of them made any sudden moves or attempted treachery, a lot of the tension seemed to bleed out of the air. There was a perceptible softening of the Prince’s posture, and Crow felt himself relax as well.

“Well. Isn’t this civil,” he said into the silence. He took another bite of his apple and chewed for a minute, knee jiggling, trying to think of something useful to say. Polite chatter was not his strength. “Here, have an apple. I promise it isn’t poisoned. I don’t just run around poisoning people. If I need to kill someone I use fire. Instant. Much cleaner.”

He tossed an apple to him underhand and the Prince caught it automatically.  He laid his sword across his knees and stared at the fruit, looking bewildered and slightly suspicious.

“Way I see it,” Crow mumbled through his mouthful, “we both have a probl’m. I can’t back down, and you can’t back down either. Right?”

“…Yes,” replied the Prince reluctantly. “I suppose that is…broadly the case…”

“So. Instead of whacking away at each other in this heat, why don’t we work something out that doesn’t involve one of us dying?”

The Prince looked at him with an odd kind of uncertainty. “Yes, I…would prefer that.”

Crow frowned. “You would?”

“Well yes, of course I would! What do you take me for?”

“An Empyrion noble,” Crow said dryly. “What do you take me for?”

“A ruffian, of course,” the Prince declared with renewed confidence. Clearly this was steady ground. “A- a sorcerer miscreant, a lawless scoundrel who is up to some skullduggery, looking to cause trouble and mayhem up in the kingdoms.”

“Wow. All that, huh?” Crow thought about it with pursed lips for a moment, trying not to be amused. “Ehhh well, I guess that’s sort of fair, this time,” he admitted, and took another bite of apple. “But for what little it’s worth, I usually only go up there to have a drink. I don’t just run around killing people unless they try to kill me first, thanks.”

“Oh.” Prince Azra blinked and looked taken aback, like a man encountering an entirely new idea. His brow creased as he peered at him in confusion. “You don’t?”

“Would you rather I did? Do you run around hacking people with that sword on a lark?” Crow demanded in exasperation. Why do I even bother? He was just so tired of people looking at him like a monster. Or not enough of one.

“No! And no, of course I don’t.”  

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it with you Empyrion lot.”

The Prince drew himself up, affronted. “Well, pardon me, but it’s hardly a given for sorcerers either, from what I hear,” he retorted stiffly.

They glared at each other for a moment, then both awkwardly dropped their gazes.

“Fair enough,” Crow muttered. He sighed and wearily rubbed sweat from the back of his neck. This was just the weirdest damned day. “Anyway. I don’t either.” His irritation had evaporated, and now he just felt tired. Old and tired.

“Well, that’s… good to hear.” The wary formality had drained out of Prince Azra too, and he looked slightly sheepish. He looked down at the sword across his lap, and carefully set it on the ground at his feet. After a moment’s thought he took a tentative bite of his apple. His ring-adorned fingers were clean, with well-trimmed and tended nails. Scholar’s hands, not a warrior’s. Interesting.

For a long while the only sound was munching as they they both just sat there, eating their apples.

Crow briefly removed his glasses and pinched between his aching eyes. It was time to try something drastic: honesty. “Ugh. Look, it’s like this. I’m in the bad books with my Council, and they’ve ordered that I do a bit of ‘skullduggery’, as it were. This time I’ve got to actually do something, or it’s my neck on the line, understand? I thought I’d just burn down something empty, make a big show of it and go home. No one gets killed,” he said in exasperation.

The Prince let out a frustrated sigh. “Well, don’t think I’m not sympathetic, but I’m in just as tight a corner!” He produced a lace-edged silk handkerchief from who-knows-where and mopped at his sweaty brow. “My- well, if you must know, the Crown has charged me to guard this gate with my life. If anything like that happens on my watch then there’ll be a world of trouble. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Crow groaned and slumped against his rock. “Ah, come off it. You’re royalty, you can do no wrong.”

The Prince huffed, still blotting at his neck with that stupid handkerchief. “Oh yes, royalty. Youngest of four, and therefore disposable. I’ve got three older brothers including the king, all much more accomplished than I. They’re the ones who can do no wrong.” He frowned and brushed a bit of dust off his sleeve with an irate flick of jeweled fingers. “They also have the combined intelligence of a brick, but that’s hardly an impediment to leadership, is it. Er.” He stopped, looking alarmed, and shot a guilty look at him. “Oh dear, I mean...”

Crow let out a bark of laughter. He couldn’t help it; it caught him completely off guard. He’d never heard a noble make a joke before, especially one that so perfectly echoed his own thoughts about the Council.

The Prince flushed. “Oh dear. I really shouldn’t say things like that.”

“I promise I won’t tell them,” Crow assured him, chuckling.

The Prince smiled back, just an uncertain curve of his mouth. He had deep creases bracketing his eyes that Crow hadn’t noticed before, a network of laugh lines that raced outward from the corners and made even the hesitant smile brighten his entire face.

Crow felt his own spirits lift in spite of himself. That was…quite the smile.

Focus. “Anyway, there’s got to be a way that we both get what we need,” he said.  

Silence fell again as they both brooded over the problem.

Crow scratched at his chin. “What if….you gave me something of yours? Something I could show to my Council, and use to say that I killed a Prince? Then I wouldn’t need to go up there at all.”

Prince Azra opened his mouth, looking scandalized, but then his expression changed slowly to thoughtful. He pursed his lips. “Surely they’d check?” He made it a question.  

“Euhhh.” Crow waved a dismissive hand. “My lot has better things to do, they’re happy enough to believe me as long as I make it convincing. But it would have to be something pretty convincing.”

Azra nodded slowly. “You know… I may have just the thing.” He brightened, and his voice became excited. “Yes, I’m sure of it! In return, would I have your solemn word that you won’t cause any mayhem above the Wall? Well,” he amended, “at least while I’m on guard duty?”

Crow snorted, and laid a hand dramatically over his heart. “If you’ll trust it. Yes. You have my solemn word.”

 Azra peered keenly at him for a moment, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. He finally gave a firm nod. “In that case.” He stood and returned the sword to its scabbard. It took him a couple tries. “I suppose we have an agreement.”

“Yeah.” Crow stood too. He accidentally stood on the edge of his cloak and nearly fell over, but righted himself at the last minute. “I suppose we do.”

“Well then, er- I’m sorry, I realised I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh. Uh. It’s Crow.”

“Crow. As in…the bird?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Prince Azra of the High Fells smiled, met his eyes squarely and stuck out a hand. “Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

Crow twitched, and barely suppressed his immediate instinct to set the hand on fire. People did not shake his hand. Ever. Generally an abrupt move towards him like that was an attempt to kill him, but the prince’s rounded face was wide open and utterly guileless in a way that seemed impossible to feign. There was something oddly arresting about those little creases at the corners of his blue eyes, now that he thought about it; they made it seem like he was still smiling even when his face was relaxed.

Crow hesitated, then slowly reached out and took the proffered hand. Prince Azra’s hand was solid, steady, and soft despite the odd sword callus. As cool fingers wrapped around his own, Crow felt a tiny curl of warmth at the back of his mind. Azra’s grip was firm, but not crushing. Not trying to prove anything. He shook once, and released him without incident. No one was set on fire. No one tried to stab the other.

How about that.

“So.” Crow cleared his throat, flexing his fingers at his side. “Um. What did you have in mind, then? A signet ring or something?”

“Better.” Prince Azra went straight to his titan of a horse – actually turned his back on him, without a second of hesitation! – and began unbuckling the many fastenings on the leather saddle bags, which were embossed with the same crest that was on his armour. He barely came up to the animal’s shoulder.

The horse shuffled its enormous hooves, eyeing Crow nervously, clearly not liking the look of him. No surprise there. Horses never liked him either. 

“There there, Serafina,” the Prince murmured, tutting fondly.

Crow cocked his head, distracted. “Serafina,” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

A quick glance confirmed it. “Your horse is a mare.”

“Yes. Is that a problem?” he asked, a trifle stiffly.

Touchy subject, hm? “No. Just the first time I’ve seen one of you lot with anything but a prancy stallion.” Crow leaned casually against a nearby rock and crossed his arms, frowning as he looked him over. What a strange cluster of puzzles this man was. Was he playing some sort of deeper game, or was he actually as eccentric as he appeared to be? He certainly didn’t act like a noble.

“Stallions.” Prince Azra sniffed dismissively, still rummaging through one of the full bags. Whatever was in there looked heavy. “I would prefer to not be thrown off and break my neck, thank you kindly. High strung, unpredictable things. But Serafina here…” he patted the horse’s tree trunk of a neck, with obvious pride. “Steady as a rock.”

“Huh. I notice you don’t wear any spurs, either.” All nobles wore the wickedly sharp iron spikes that hurt to even look at. He’d seen the scarred sides of their stallions, the barely-healed or constantly bleeding scabs. This horse didn’t have a scratch.

“Oh, those brutish things. You don’t need them if the animal is properly trained.” The Prince smoothed a hand affectionately along the mare’s side, then exclaimed, “Aha!” as he finally found what he was looking for.

From the saddle bag he withdrew a gold crown heavily studded with sapphires. Actually, no- half of a crown. It had been chopped in two, probably with that enchanted sword of his. He turned and held it out to him without ceremony. “How about this? Surely a royal crown isn’t simple to come by?”

“Yeeeessss…” Crow drew out the word as he took it, frowning. “That would work. I could probably melt it a bit, or something, to make it look like a fight. What happened to it?”

“Oh, well...” A shifty sideways glance, and Prince Azra began making meaningless adjustments to the horse’s tack. “Nothing.”

“It didn’t cut itself in half,” Crow pointed out.

 Prince Azra mumbled something unintelligible.

“What’s that?”

“Someone needed the gold more than I did,” he mumbled again.  

“Needed the gold…?”

“Oh, alright, I gave it to a peasant, if you must know,” the Prince burst out.

Crow stared at him. “You what?” he asked at last.

Prince Azra’s cheeks flushed pink, and he fidgeted some more. “Well, I had to,” he said defensively. “The man’s cart horse broke its leg on the road. It was his entire living, he clearly couldn’t afford another one, and I couldn’t very well let his family starve, the poor things...”

Crow held up a hand, cutting off the flood of words. “Wait, let me make sure I understand this correctly. You’re saying you… chopped up your royal crown and gave it away to a random peasant just because he needed money? Just like that?” he asked in disbelief. Was the man mad, or sunstruck from standing around in that stupid armour?

“Well, I didn’t have any pocket money on me. So I don’t know what else I could have done.”

Crow blinked, growing more confused by the minute. “Won’t the crown be missed?”

“Probably,” Prince Azra said, rubbing his hands distractedly together. “Probably.” He shook his head as though dispersing an unwelcome thought. “But it’s too late for that. Now better to trade it to you and dispose of it altogether. I never liked that crown, anyhow.” Avoiding his eyes, he turned and began re-buckling up the saddle bags.

He’s kind.

The thought popped into Crow’s head, startling. Suddenly all the other little peculiarities clicked together into a whole that made a kind of bizarre sense, and he stared at him. Not mad, but kind. A Prince kind enough to give his crown away to someone who needed money. Kind, and oddly gentle, and sensible enough to want to avoid a fight. Who cared if peasants starved, and thought it was nice to meet him…

It was as astonishing as if gravity had reversed its pull.

Crow just kept staring at him, bewildered. It was like encountering a strange, exotic type of animal in the wild that he had never known existed. A strangely friendly, fluffy-haired animal.

“Crow.” Azra had paused with one hand on his horse, and a shadow flitted over his face. “Is this gate truly always unguarded? You’re certain?”

“Yeah.” He wondered why it mattered. “But there’s no need to worry your royal self about it. No one else in Apollyon even knows this gate exists.”

Rather than look reassured, Prince Azra nodded heavily, as if it was what he had expected to hear. “I see. Thank you.” He sighed, then glanced up at the swiftly darkening sky. “Oh dear. You may want to seek shelter soon. Those clouds look like rain.”

As if his words had been a spell, there was a sudden crackle of thunder and electricity in the air. The distant clouds Crow had seen that morning were finally making good on their promises. Late spring storms often swept through the Eastern side of Apollyon without warning, and from the gathering turbulence it looked like it was going to be a big one.

Crow stood there for a moment longer before realising he was just holding the crown with both hands and staring like an idiot. He straightened and nodded. “Right, yeah. Uh. Best be getting on, then. Got a Council to lie to. Rain to outrun, and all that.” A wind had whipped up, flapping his cloak about wildly without any help from him.

“I suppose so.” Prince Azra put out his hand again. “Well. I must say, it’s been surprisingly...”

“Civil?” Crow offered.

Azra smiled in full now as he laughed, a warm, honest laugh that was like the sun breaking through the churning clouds. Something inside Crow’s stomach lurched, like missing a step on the stairs, and he found himself returning the smile before he even realised what he was doing.

“I was going to say ‘nice,’ actually,” Azra said.

“Yeah.” Crow chuckled incredulously. “Nice. Right.”

“I’m sorry I threatened to kill you. I thought you were going to kill me.”

Crow blinked again, slowly, then gathered his wits.

“Oh. Uh. It’s fine, understandable.”

He’d taken a whack upside the head once, from an overly ambitious Empyrion Hero armed with nothing but a club who had leapt out of the stable at him while he was doing a bit of outdoor gardening. Crow had staggered around in circles for a good five minutes after incinerating him, stunned and disoriented. Looking at Azra now, it felt rather like that. 

“Er…bye, then.” Crow shook his hand.

Profoundly rattled, he turned and strode purposefully back in the direction of the Rookery before it could begin raining syrup, or the sky could turn green, or any other bizarre twist of nature could occur.

Just before he vanished back into the trees, he paused, and looked back at the armoured figure.  

The enormous mare butted affectionately at the Prince’s shoulder, knocking him back a step, and a foolish smile spread across his face. He reached up to rub the tuft of white hair falling down over the horse’s forehead, and offered it the remainder of his apple. He leaned in, stroking its velvety nose as it crunched away, and seemed to be speaking quietly. 

Strange man. Damned strange.

Your feet should probably be moving now.

Crow stood there watching for another stretch of time as the wind yanked at his clothing, then shook himself and continued off into the darkening Wood. A flicker of lightning roiled the heavens above. Rain began to fall around him, soaking his hair through and pattering the forest floor. He barely felt it.

To his own surprise, he found that he was still smiling.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Crow slept late the next day, per his usual, and woke gritty-eyed and fuddled from dreams of flaming swords and blue eyes. Which was not usual, at all. He sent a raven off to the Council with a message about his “conquest”, then resolved to forget the entire thing until further notice. He’d have to endure the trip to Pandemonium soon enough, so might as well give himself a break until then.

 He needed to clear his head, and his favourite place to do that was at the Eden ruins.

Deep in the Wood far to the East, only a couple miles from his gate, was a clearing with what had once been a small palace, or maybe a large manor of some kind. Old; very old, clearly pre-War. The kind of quiet, forgotten place where time seems to hold its breath. It was nestled among a particularly thick grove of ancient trees, and benefitted from the same overgrown terrain that kept wanderers away from the Eastern gate.

Crow had no idea what the actual name of the place was, or if it ever had a proper name at all. The first time he ever stumbled upon it, fifteen years ago, he’d found a piece of shattered stone with those four letters carved upon it: EDEN, just a scrap of some larger word.

Crow skidded out of his quickening spell before the trees could grow too thick, startling a flock of blackbirds into flight and setting a red squirrel angrily scolding at the intrusion. Humming cheerfully, he brushed himself off and walked the last few hundred yards into the familiar clearing. His booted feet made no noise on the thick green grass.

This place had once been grand, long ago. You could still catch a glimpse of the building’s past glory in the colour of the fine white marble, the carven pillars that lay here and there, and sections of paneled stone walls that still remained. But time and encroaching nature (and possibly even the War) had eaten away at it until all that was left was a crumbling ruin.

He privately thought it was even more beautiful like this, in a wild and rather lonely sort of way. Here and there an elegant archway had survived even when the walls had not, like some fairy door to nowhere, all held together with patches of lichen and creeping vines. Tall clusters of foxglove and lavender and bright nameless pink wildflowers dotted the area. Sunlight broke through the leafy canopy above to paint the jagged edges of the marble in gold. New, younger saplings had also sprung up all around, a miniature wood within the Wood.

In all these years of coming here he had never once been disturbed, and that was enough to make it his favourite spot in all the world. His own secret home away from home where he could fully unclench.

He also liked the flowers. And the many tumbled and broken pillars made for great places to sit and enjoy a meal, or take a nap.

Or drink. Today was a drinking day. Crow hefted his bag over his shoulder and licked his lips in anticipation. Yeah, this was just what he needed after the chaos of yesterday: a nice, uncomplicated day without interruptions or distractions, or Hastur lurking about, or…complications. A day to relax and get completely sloshed in peace.

He flopped down in one of his favourite spots, a shady nook against a big corner of vine-covered wall that seemed to still be standing out of pure stubbornness. A touch and a word set the vine blooming with tiny white star-shaped flowers. Much better. He sighed and stretched out on his back, put his feet up, squirmed around to get comfortable, and began to open the wine bottle with single-minded determination.

And then he heard it. A noise.

Not a big noise, but this one made him pop upright like a gopher and freeze in place, because it wasn’t familiar at all. After fifteen years he knew every tiny sound this place made, from creaking foliage to small animals rustling through, and that one was out of place. It sounded almost like… metal jingling. And it was very close. Had someone followed him?

He left the bottle where it was and got to his feet as silently as he could. He crouched there with hands splayed flat on the ground, ears stretched wide and listening. There – the jingling sound again. It was coming from his right, just on the other side of his piece of shattered wall, in the direction of the largest and most open part of the ruins. He readied his magic and peeked over the edge of the stone. 

There was a horse standing grazing at the overgrown grass. A huge white shaggy horse, with gold-touched leather bridle that jingled as the animal yanked up a mouthful of pink wildflowers.…

That’s completely impossible. It can’t be… Crow stepped soft-footed around the corner, and as his field of vision widened he stopped. Before him was the strangest, most wildly unexpected sight he had ever seen.

Prince Azra from the Eastern gate was sitting there cross-legged on a chunk of broken marble, in the middle of what had originally been a courtyard of some kind. He had a book in his hand, and he was reading.

He wore a sky-blue brocade doublet, buttoned carefully to the throat despite the heat of the day, with a white silk chemise peeking out the ends of the sleeves. A pair of tiny, gold-rimmed glasses were perched on his upturned nose. Bright streamers of sunshine poured through the trees to pool upon him where he sat, casting him in a sparkling, ethereal glow.

His Artifact sword lay discarded in front of him on the ground, and he had what looked like the remnants of a lunch laid out on a napkin beside him. He was contentedly chewing away as he daintily turned a page with the very tip of thumb and forefinger, humming to himself, and he looked completely, utterly happy.

The horse saw Crow first. Its ears pricked forward, and its enormous head swung towards him with a snort.

Engrossed in his book, the prince didn’t notice a thing, even when he took a couple of steps directly towards him.

Crow folded his arms. “Ahem.”

Prince Azra leapt up with a gasp as if the seat had stung his arse, sending the book flying. He grabbed for his sword in a panic, then looked up and froze. His mouth fell open.

“Crow?” he asked, sounding as stunned as Crow felt. He straightened, holding the sword but keeping the sharp point down at his side. The glasses had fallen off his nose and were swinging wildly from a fine gold chain around his neck.

“Yeah, me. What are you doing here?” Crow demanded. Beneath the shock, a warmth was rising in the pit of his stomach.

He remembered my name, a small part of himself whispered in delight.

Oh, shut it, another part scoffed.

When the prince just stood there, sword in hand and looking at him, Crow raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to stab me with that thing?”

“Oh. No, of course not.” Prince Azra looked down, like he had forgotten he was holding it. He gave his blond head a little shake and returned the sword to its scabbard, then smiled and clasped his hands together nervously behind his back. “I beg your pardon. You gave me quite a fright! For a moment there I thought you were- ah…well…” He flushed and shut his mouth.

“A sorcerer?” Crow guessed with a smirk.

Azra flushed harder. “Well, yes. A different sorcerer, I should say. One that, you know…” 

“Yeah, I know,” Crow said dryly. “You’re in luck. It’s only me.”

Without his armor, Prince Azra was even less intimidating than at first meeting. In fact, now Crow could see that his physique was not exactly, er, what you would call “heroic” at all. More like a...scholar. Or baker. Comfortable, that was the word. No sharp angles on him. His comfortably plump figure was softly rounded in every place that could be, nothing like the other nobles he had seen.

Not frail, though, Crow noted: those shoulders were broad with the natural strength of a man that spent some time in armour, or hauling around his fair share of heavy riding equipment. He was probably quite strong, now that he thought about it.

Though why he was thinking about any of this was beyond him.

“Well, fancy running into you here, of all places,” Azra said brightly, for all the world as if they had met in some city taproom and not the absolute middle of nowhere. “What brings you to this part of the woods?”

Those little eye crinkles were getting a workout. Why the hell did Azra look so pleased to see him? It was throwing Crow off balance. He hated feeling off balance.

“I’ve been coming here for years; I only live a couple miles that way.” He jerked his head back towards the way he’d come. “What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be miles away, up guarding that gate. ‘Guarding it with your life’, if I remember right.”

“Ah. Yes. That.” Azra shuffled his booted feet uncomfortably. “Well, after what you said in our last conversation I concluded that… you were right, and there really isn’t a need for a guard at that gate.” There was a note of defeat in his voice. “It’s fairly clear that it’s not used, and that I wasn’t making a lick of difference there. It's the last day of my assignment, so…I thought there’d be no harm in exploring the woods a bit instead. Two days of standing about in that armor was quite enough.”

“And you just….happened upon this place?” Oh, serendipity, you’re a funny bastard.

“Why, yes, about an hour ago. It seemed a lovely place to sit and have lunch. What a pleasant coincidence.”

 Crow cocked his head at him, certain that he was being made fun of. But the artless expression didn’t waver. Huh. He actually meant it.  

“Oh!” Suddenly remembering, the prince hastily bent and scooped up his fallen book from the grass, and examined it closely. He made a noise of dismay like a mouse being trod on. “Oh no, oh blast it, I bent a corner!” he exclaimed. “Oh- All these years I’ve kept it absolutely pristine, and now this.” His face crumpled in distress, and he held the book as if it were a wounded animal instead of paper and leather. “One of the nicest books in my collection, too.”

Crow held out his hand with a sigh. “Give it here.”

Prince Azra looked at him in alarm and clutched the book to his chest. “Why?”

“Oh for- I’m not going to eat the thing, just let me see it.”

The prince reluctantly handed it over, and Crow squinted at the title. ‘Fables of the Cerulean Sea.’  Huh. There was a tiny crease in the red leather, at the very bottom corner of the cover. It was barely noticeable. “That’s what you’re so upset about? You can’t even tell.”

“But I’ll always know that it’s damaged, now,” Azra said mournfully, with the kind of dramatic, resigned sorrow usually reserved for announcing one’s imminent death.  

“Hmm.” Crow managed not to laugh, but he couldn’t repress all of his smile. A twiddle of fingers and a muttered charm of mending, and the creased area flattened out again. The finger twiddling wasn’t necessary, but a bit of flair never hurt anything. He held the now crease-free book back out to him. “There you go, good as new.”

The prince shot him a startled look, then took the book and stared at it.  His expression slowly changed from disbelief to amazed joy, as if Crow had saved his firstborn rather than smoothed a bit of crimped leather. “Oh, my- how remarkable.” He looked up and beamed at him. “Thank you!”

Crow’s breath caught. That smile was exactly as bright as it had been in his memory, and as startling, all the more so for being directed at him. No one had ever in his life smiled like that at him. It created that funny jolting in his chest again, as if some internal organ had made a sudden two-step sideways. Could organs move? He hadn’t thought they could, but recently they seemed to have become shockingly mobile. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms, and gave a nonchalant jerk of one shoulder. “It was nothing.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t! How wonderful, to be able to fix things like that.” Prince Azra beamed and smoothed a hand over the book’s leather-and-gold cover, stroking it like a cat. He had pleasantly strong-looking hands, even if he did wear too much jewelry. “What an incredible relief. I’d best put this away before anything else happens to it.” He looked up and clicked his tongue.

“What-” A second later there was a hot moist whuff directly on the back of Crow’s neck as the enormous white mare blew out a breath.

Nonchalance evaporated. He nearly achieved flight as he jumped and flailed, only to have his feet tangle beneath him and send him sprawling. He hit the mossy ground hard on his back with a painful clack of teeth and an “ooof” as all the breath was knocked clean out of him.

“Oh- oh dear, I’m so terribly sorry!” Azra hurried over, aghast. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you noticed her behind you.”

“Hnnnngh,” Crow groaned, and stared dazedly up at him. Looming above him like that with the sun behind him, the prince was dazzling-bright and larger than life. For an instant Crow was assaulted by a flash of vivid memory, of all the times he’d been on his back just like this with a fiery-eyed, armoured Knight swinging his sword down towards him. Just before he blasted them to ash.

The vision faded, and it was not an armoured figure at all, but just Azra in his ridiculous blue doublet, bending over him with wide eyes that showed nothing but genuine concern. Fluffy blond curls caught the light and made a blazing halo around his head. He offered a ringed hand down to him. “Are you alright?”

Cheeks flaming, more embarrassed than he would have thought possible, Crow took his hand. Azra pulled him to his feet with a single effortless tug - there was some real muscle in those soft looking arms.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled. “I just startle easily.” He brushed himself off and tried to act as if nothing had happened.

“I’m ever so sorry. I’m so used to her that I forget sometimes how intimidating she can be.” Azra sighed and tucked the book carefully into his saddle bag, and Crow caught a glimpse of other books crammed in there. Interesting.

Azra gave the horse a fond pat as it ambled off to do whatever horses did. “Thank you for fixing my book.” He hesitated. He wore a gold signet ring on the smallest finger of his right hand, and began twisting it round in what looked like an old fidgety habit. “In return, I don’t suppose…I could interest you in a cup of wine?” He gestured with courtly grace to a bottle sitting next to his marble seat.

Crow looked uncertainly at him. “You want me to stay and have a drink,” he repeated, just to make sure he had heard properly.

“Well…yes.”

“Is that even allowed?”

Azra apparently didn’t notice the sarcasm, and seemed to consider this quite seriously. “Well… most certainly not. But I wouldn’t mind a bit of company all the same.” He glanced nervously about. “And there’s no one else around to see, so I don’t see how it could do any harm.”

“Wow. Such a bold, ringing endorsement.” Crow did let himself grin now. “Don’t mind if I do. As it so happens, I came here to drink anyway.”

“Oh. Well, then.” Azra smiled and made a polite little bow of invitation. “After you.”

Crow ducked around the corner to retrieve his own wine, then plunked himself down on the nearest fallen pillar. 

Azra seated himself on the one across from him, much more gracefully, and began to work open the cork of his bottle, a beribboned thing of deep blue glass. ‘This,” he said with obvious pride, “is a fruit icewine from one of our wineries.”  

“Hm. Is it any good? I’ve never had icewine before.”

“Really? Well, then, let me tempt you to some.” He held out the bottle expectantly. “I’m afraid we’ll have to drink it warm, but it will still be delicious.”   

Crow regarded it thoughtfully. “Seems a shame,” he mused aloud, darting a sidelong glance. “I could do something about that, if you like. Chill the wine, I mean.” It was a risky offer that made his pulse leap, but the prince hadn’t panicked at the mending incant, so…

“You mean…with more magic?” Azra asked, with a hint of childlike awe.  

“Sure. If you don’t mind me meddling with dark forces best left alone.” Crow raised an eyebrow. “And if you promise not to scream, or throw that knife in your boot at me.”

Azra gave him an arch look. “I think I can restrain myself. Provided you don’t get up to any sorcerous shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans are my specialty.” Crow reached over as non-threateningly as he could and gently tapped the blue bottle with one forefinger, just a simple spell to draw out heat. A patina of white frost crept across the dark blue glass, giving off a cloud of pale vapor.

The prince’s eyes went a little wide, but to Crow’s relief he didn’t otherwise react. “Well. That’s- that’s quite the handy trick as well.”  

“Forces of darkness have their benefits.”

Azra poured them each a measure of icewine, then they tapped cups and drank.

The cold pale wine tasted of honey and something fruity, a dessert all in itself. Much, much too sweet for him, urgh, but it felt rude to say so. “Mm. It’s good.” Crow swallowed desperately a few times, and resolved to take smaller sips. “Is that pear I taste?”

“Oh yes,” Azra said. He took a slow sip of his own wine, and his eyes slid shut as he gave an appreciative sigh. “Mm. I love pears. It’s why I chose this one.”

Looking at him, Crow had to suppress another grin. Azra sat there in his brocade finery with his ankles primly crossed and back straight, for all the world like he was drinking in some luxurious parlour rather than sitting on centuries-old marble in the middle of a forest. He took dainty sips, rolling each one on his tongue before swallowing, as if trying to make his cup last as long as possible. Eyes half closed, with a faint smile on his lips, the picture of simple decadence. He radiated a sense of absolute…peace with the world that Crow had never seen from anyone before, something that drew the eyes and made him want to keep looking. And looking. And looking…

Crow tore his eyes away and took another hasty sip.

“So. Uh. If guard duty is useless, I guess you'll be going back home, then?” 

"Ah." Azra cleared his throat. "No. Not exactly. I mean, yes, tomorrow I will, since this first assignment is done. But as for it being useless, well... I thought I would simply... decline to mention it." Azra blushed, and took a dignified sip of wine to try and cover it. "Make a holiday of the situation while it lasts. I imagine if I keep to the Wood during the days I should be safe enough." 

Crow looked doubtfully at him. "A holiday. Sitting around in the forest - the Apollyon forest, for days at a time, is a holiday for you?" It seemed bizarre, for someone used to luxury. "I'd think you'd be itching to get back to your shiny palace full of servants." 

"Well." The prince looked down at his feet, and shifted guiltily. “It's only that...while I’m down here, no one asks me to joust, or fight, or anything like that. No one natters at me. I can have lunch and read my books in peace, and do as I please.” He said this all very softly, as if admitting something shameful. He gave a worried half-smile. “I suppose that sounds terribly selfish of me, doesn’t it?”

“Huh.” Crow chewed that surprising revelation over for a second or two. “No, actually. I understand that more than I'd like. There’s nothing selfish about wanting to be left bloody well alone.” He choked down the final sip of sugary-sweet icewine with an internal sigh of relief, and sloshed some of his unassuming red into the cup. “So. You're going to come all the way down here and play at guard duty, all so you can get more reading time in, is that it?"

Azra looked chagrined. “That- that is about the shape of it, yes.”

“Well, aren’t you the rebel,” said Crow, deadpan.

Azra nodded and fretted at a loose thread on his breeches, the sarcasm again whistling directly over his blond head. “Gabriel would be quite upset. It’s been worrying me.” He looked anxiously at him. “Please, don’t tell anyone.”

Crow snorted. “Your secret is safe with me. Who would I tell? I’m not going to go waltzing into your palace to have a chat with the king, am I?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true...” Azra’s face cleared, and that smile flashed out again, startling. “Thank you, that does make me feel much better.”  

“Glad to help.” Crow glanced away, trying not to let on what a jumble that smile made of his thoughts. He very much liked his smile, he decided. He liked his entire rosy-cheeked, good-natured face, if he was honest with himself. Which was a very odd feeling. All of this was a very odd feeling.

It was just so unexpected, that was all. For his entire life, people’s reactions to him fell into one of three categories: terror, hatred, or condescension. Often some blend of the three. This was simply….weird.  

Lifting the cup back to his lips, he snuck a glance back over – and caught Azra watching him. Not with fear or suspicion, but only clear-eyed curiosity.

“What?”

“It’s only that… you’re not exactly what I would have expected. From what I’ve always been told, and what I’ve read, about sorcerers.”

“From what you’ve read?” Crow laughed, and gave him a sly look. “What’ve you read? Now I need to know.” 

“Well, you know. In all the plays and stories, sorcerers are constantly up to no good. Burning kingdoms to the ground. Poisoning young maidens, or enchanting them to eternal sleep, or kidnapping princesses. That sort of thing.”

“Ehhh,” Crow said, thinking with a guilty start of Princess Adelina. “Well. I guess I'm what you could call an underachiever. But nevermind the stories, then- what do people up there say? ” He had always been curious, but he couldn’t exactly saunter up to the nearest villager and ask. 

“Oh, I- well, I really shouldn’t lower myself to repeating gossip…” Azra shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “It’s probably all nonsense, now I think of it. Most people up there have never even seen a sorcerer before. It’s all just stories and illustrations, and some of them even show sorcerers with fangs, which is clearly untrue. Though I must say the pictures don’t begin to do your eyes justice.”

Eyes. Shit! Adrenaline shot through Crow in a red flash of panic, and he froze in his seat. Azra had been acting so- so bloody normal that he’d completely forgotten he wasn’t wearing his glasses today! He’d expected to be alone. He’d been just sitting here all this time, with his unnatural yellow eyes on full display...

He felt suddenly horribly exposed and embarrassed, like realising he’d gone out without breeches on.

Too late, too late, too late. He forced his fingers to relax their death-grip on the wine cup before he could break it. Don’t be stupid. It isn’t as though it were a secret. He exhaled, dredged up a cocky smirk and stared directly at him. A challenge. “Like ‘em?” he asked sarcastically.

Azra smiled and nodded, all innocent sincerity and not an ounce of fear. “Oh yes, I do! They’re quite a lovely golden colour, like topaz. Topaz are my favourite gems. Well, those and sapphires, I would say.”

Crow felt the smirk slide off his face, planned retorts dying on his tongue. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that. He glanced away, face growing strangely hot. “Well...” Swallowing took a lot more effort than it should have. He took a swig of wine to cover his awkwardness, and cleared his throat. “Might want to reconsider,” he said with forced nonchalance. “They’re the mark of a malignant spirit on us, hadn’t you heard?”

“I had heard that.” Azra hesitated, then gently asked, “Do you think that’s what they are?”

“You’re asking if I think I’m cursed? Depends on the day, I guess.” Crow gulped another mouthful of wine and shrugged. “Hardly matters what I think. Everyone already knows that our souls are corrupted from birth.” He meant it to sound careless, but the bitterness in his own voice surprised him.

An awkward silence descended on the clearing. Crow felt a hot flush of shame creeping up the back of his neck, and he just hoped his face wasn’t turning red too. Why the hell had he said that? He hadn’t mean to take such a sour turn; he hadn’t meant to say so much at all, but Azra had such a…an easy warmth to him, that invited confidence.

Brilliant. Just brilliant. You feel comfortable around him, so you snap his head off? Fantastic logic. Might as well punch him too, just to be thorough. He might not be quite repulsed enough yet.

“Well. That sounds like absolute poppycock to me,” Azra said with asperity.

Crow looked up at him, startled.

Azra’s face had scrunched into an indignant little frown, lips pursed, but he wasn’t frowning at him. He sniffed disapprovingly and crossed his right leg over his left. “Well, I’m sorry, but it does. I don’t see how anyone’s soul could already be corrupted at birth. Such nonsense.”

He sounded so…primly offended by the idea that Crow coughed out a surprised laugh. “Uh, yeah. I don’t either.” After another awkward silence he shook his head, and gave his best wry grin to lighten the mood. “But go on, don’t let me stop you. You were about to tell me what everyone says about sorcerers, up in your kingdoms. Do they still say we strip naked and commune with evil by the light of the full moon?” 

“Not anymore,” Azra said. A guilty smile crept across his face. “I believe…the prevailing rumour is that you can travel anywhere instantly in a puff of smoke?”

“Heh. That would be nice,” Crow commented wistfully.

“…Can’t you?” Azra asked curiously.

“’Fraid not. I can run really fast for a bit, but I can’t simply vanish and appear at will.”

“Oh. That’s a pity, though I suppose it makes sense. Can you control the weather?”

“Ha. We only wish we could.” Crow poured himself some more wine. “Sure, we can move a bit of wind in a pinch; that’s just shifting energy around. But that’s all.”

“Oh.” His disappointment was palpable. “That's a pity. I really enjoyed that part of Flame and Fury, have you seen it? Where the sorcerer commands a storm.”

“Ooh, yeah, that’s a good one. If I could create weather…” Crow trailed off, imagining it. “I’d dump a cyclone right over the Capital,” he said with relish.

Azra chuckled at that. “My, how diabolical.”

“Thanks.”

“Can you read minds?”

“Of course. I’m reading yours right now.” Crow leaned forward and squinted intently at him, and twiddled his fingers.

“Really?” The blue eyes had widened.

An evil grin. “No.”

Azra gave him a look that could curdle milk, and it only made him grin harder.

”What about raising the dead?”

Crow felt his grin falter for just a second. “...No. No, we can’t do that.” 

If Azra noticed his hesitation, he said nothing. “And transforming? Can you transform yourself into a serpent?”

“What?” That was a new one to Crow, and he leaned eagerly forward. “Ooh, tell me more. Can we turn into giant serpents or merely an average sized snake?”

Azra winced apologetically. “Oh dear. Giant serpents, as the rumour goes. I believe the idea is- is that you are  demonic serpents who can turn into men, which always seemed far-fetched to me, and…well, it’s one theory as to where the yellow eyes come from.”

“Ha! ‘Fraid not. The only thing I can transform myself into is a corpse, if I’m not careful enough with certain spells.” He waved an expansive hand, inviting. “Go on then, now I’m curious. What’s the most shocking, horrifying, outrageous thing you’ve ever heard people say about sorcerers? Don’t be shy, I won’t be angry.”

“Well. I suppose it would be that…that you drink the blood of children to gain your powers,” [****plz see author note!] Azra said hesitantly, and then hastened to add, “But of course I never believed that one.”

“Wait, wait. Are you saying,” Crow said slowly, “that you lot don’t ever drink it?”

Azra froze, staring at him with mouth open in a confused mix of horror and disgust.

Until Crow burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that he lost his balance and slid off his marble pillar, clutching his sides, while Azra flushed scarlet in embarrassment.

“Scoundrel,” he said, drawing himself up with wounded dignity. “That was not very nice at all!”

“Scoundrels aren’t supposed to be nice. But it was funny.” Crow pulled himself back up onto his seat, still grinning, trying to get himself under control before the giggles turned to hiccoughs.

“Good Lord.” Azra was staring down at his wine now, bright pink and chagrined. “I suppose I should have known better. It’s only that all the stories…and people make the wildest claims about magic. They call it…well, they call magic users unnatural. Hedgewitches too, but mostly sorcerers.”

Crow nodded, unsurprised. “Probably ‘cause we’re flashier than they are. I don’t know much about hedgewitches, I’ve only ever met one, but I’m not sure how it can get any more natural for us. We don’t need some elaborate ritual; we’re born with the magic. It’s even in the origins of the name: ‘source’, sorcerer. The ancients weren’t very creative.” He took a swig of wine to wet his mouth, warming to his subject. “It can be kind of unpredictable, with a mind of its own. We just have to learn to control it.” He sighed in frustration. “People think we’re just chock full of arcane secrets, but we can’t do nearly as much as everyone thinks we can. Maybe centuries ago, back before the War, but now we’ve just got the bare minimum, which is…” He shrugged, and suddenly realised that this was the absolute last information he should be blabbing out to the Enemy. Shit. What was he doing? If the Council ever got wind of this…

Best change the subject, as quickly as possible.

“Um. So, about those other nobles…” Time for a bit of payback. He leaned intently forward. “I’ve always wondered about you Empyrion nobility. Do you lot inbreed?”

Azra, who had been listening with a fascinated expression on his face, gave an indignant gasp. Unfortunately for him, he had also been halfway through a sip of wine and immediately began to choke.

“I- I beg your pardon??” Azra spluttered, coughing, as soon as he caught his breath. “Do we what?”

“Well, it seems the only plausible explanation for most of the nobles I’ve encountered.”

Azra appeared to swell with indignation, like a bullfrog. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh out loud or be truly offended, all while still coughing, and the result was a series of prissy little hiccups that he unsuccessfully tried to cover with his hand as he tried to speak. “Wha- I never- No, we most- *hic*-certainly do not inbreed, thank you very *hic* much!”

Crow began to laugh again.

Azra glared and threw his wine cup at him, which he dodged. “Oh, you little- This is what I *hic* get for sharing my wine with a scoundrel!”

He sat there and sputtered for another couple seconds watching Crow laugh himself out, his entire body stiff with affronted dignity. He finally deflated and sighed in exasperation. “Though I suppose if you had met Michael, I could rather understand where you got that idea,” he muttered, narrow-eyed.

Crow snorted, their eyes met, and then they were both laughing. Azra covered his mouth with both hands to try and contain his giggles, face still bright red, but this time with guilty laughter. His shoulders shook as he struggled for control.

Not so holier-than-thou after all. How about that.

Crow finally settled back into his seat, wiping tears out of his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed like that. Probably never in his entire life, now that he thought about it.

He picked up the thrown wine cup and offered it back to him.

Smiling and shaking his head, Azra accepted. He glanced up at the sky, which drew attention to the fact that it had grown much darker and cooler. They’d talked long enough for the sun to start going down. How remarkable. And stupid.

The reality of the bizarre situation hit Crow like a slap.

He could practically hear Father shouting in his ear. He could see Lord Belz glaring at him. Every law of Apollyon society demanded that he kill Azra and go home. And here he was casually sitting and joking with him, spilling trade secrets, just as if they were the best of friends. This was treason, more trouble than he had ever heard of.

He looked at the blond Prince, at his smiling, still-red face, and felt lighter than he could ever remember. He knew somehow, instinctively, that Azra wasn’t going to betray him. It didn’t make any sense at all, but it was there…and he realised with a jolt of stubborn certainty that he did not want to give him up. Whatever this was that Azra had about him, this magnetic pull, this…eccentric kindness that made him look at Crow like a person instead of a dangerous animal, he wanted more of it.

Did I really just meet this man yesterday? I feel like I’ve known him for years.

Ah, to hell with the law. He’d never done what he was supposed to, so why start now? Trouble was his specialty, and some things...

Some things were well worth it.

“I’ve got an idea,” he heard himself say. He picked up the blue icewine bottle and refilled Azra’s empty cup. “If we’re both going to be lurking around this forest anyway, what say we meet up here at the same time, and have a drink again? And,” he said on impulse, “I flatter myself that I make a decent chocolate cake. I can bring that next time.” A little bribe couldn’t hurt.

“Oh.” Discomfort flitted across Azra’s face, smile fading, and he shifted in his seat. “I’m…not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Well… you know.” He made a fluttery little hand gesture and sipped at his fresh wine. “Certainly I’d like to, and of course this- chance encounter has been a fun diversion, but at the end of the day, you represent the Opposition. An intentional meeting would be entirely against the rules. If either of our sides found out…my brothers, or your Council…”

“Who’s going to tell them?”

Azra hesitated, biting at his lip.   

“Just think, every moment we’re having a drink is another moment I’m not free to sneak up North and cause trouble, eh? Personally keeping an eye on me, thwarting my dastardly plans, protecting your kingdom like the good soldier you are.”

Azra pursed his lips now and gave him a shrewd sideways look that clearly said, I see what you’re doing, fiend.

“Go on,” Crow wheedled. “You’re already bucking those precious rules to come down here, a little more won’t hurt. Chocolate cake. Scintillating conversation. Thwarting. What more could you possibly want?”

The prince dithered a little bit more, tapping his fingers on his knee. “I suppose…when you put it that way…no one could object. Since you’re the only sorcerer who knows about that gate, I do rather have a duty to see the job done properly...” He spoke softly, like he was trying to convince himself.

“Exactly!”

“Hmm. The only thing is, I’m not certain when I will be coming this way again,” Azra said with a thoughtful frown. “I imagine it will be soon, but it will be at the whim of the king, and I have no way to reach you.”

“Ah. Now that I can help with. Here.” Crow dug into one of his cloak pockets. In his opinion a good cloak could never have too many, and this one had been a custom commission from a master tailor. There were over a dozen clever little pockets sewn all along the inside lining, and from one of the smaller ones he produced two slim black ribbons. “Tie one of those to any messenger bird, and it will fly straight to my tower. Just send me a note when you know your schedule.”

“Any bird? Really?” Azra took the ribbons and peered at them in more awe than seemed warranted. There wasn’t much to see, just a couple lengths of ordinary black silk. “How is that possible?”

Crow made what he hoped was an elegant sorcerous flourish with his fingers, and tried his best to look mysterious. “Dark magic,” he said seriously.

One of the most useful magical skills that had survived the War was the ability to spell objects to act as a sort of anchor, linked to a particular place. It wouldn’t work on humans, but in animals it would create an irresistible urge, drawing them inexorably back to the spot like a piece of stretched rubber. This conveniently allowed sorcerers to send post quickly between places without the hassle of finding a bird from their destination.

“Just be sure to use a bird that knows your palace, so I can send something right back.”

“Very well. Yes, I’d like that. It will be nice to have someone to talk to.” Azra gingerly tucked the two ribbons into a pocket in his breeches, then glanced back up at the sky. “Goodness. I didn’t even realise how late it was. I’d best get a wiggle on if I’m going to make it back to the inn in time for dinner.” He pulled an elaborate gold watch on a long chain from his pocket, and clicked it briefly open to check the time. “I'm staying at the Golden Pony up in Tadfield, lovely place. They said it was roast goose tonight, and I wouldn’t want to miss that.”

Get a wiggle on…? Crow opened his mouth, but thought better of it. “Right. Definitely can’t miss that. I guess I’ll head along as well.”

Azra beamed as he stood, and offered him a hand again to shake. “Until we meet again, then.”

Over the years, Crow had come to recognise particular moments in his life that were turning points. When he found the book of botany. The day he finally realised he had no necromancy talent. The day his father died. The day he had bought his tower and essentially told the sorcerer world to sod off. There was usually a little voice inside, some kind of deeply buried intuition that whispered that this was the beginning of Something Significant.

As Azra smiled and offered him his hand, Crow felt that peculiar lurch again, as if the entire earth had suddenly tilted ever so slightly towards him... and one thought sparked through the far back of his mind. Like flint striking steel, gone almost too quickly to see:

I’m fucked. 

But he only shook Azra’s hand, and slung his bag over his shoulder as he stood with a jaunty grin.  

“Mind how you go. I hear there are wicked folk in this part of the world.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The next day Crow left his glasses at home.

When he arrived Azra was early and waiting at the pavilion again, and surprised him by producing a large basket lunch that he had somehow tied to the back of his horse.

“Cake and wine is all very well, but I decided we could use some proper food to balance it out,” he said, smiling as he eagerly spread a blue cloth across the pavilion’s stone floor, and laid out the basket’s contents. “I do hope you enjoy it.”

There were little hand pies of flaky butter pastry filled with duck and orange-rosemary sauce, and two kinds of expensive fresh fruit, and a soft buttercream cheese with crusty brown bread. He’d also brought an entire selection of plates and silverware for two.

“Wow,” Crow said in surprise. “Where did you get all this?”

“I ordered it from my favourite restaurant in Tadfield,” Azra said, naming the nearest large town above the Wall. Crow watched him fold his napkin with fastidious precision and lay it neatly across his lap. “You’re in for quite a treat. Their pies are truly delicious, and their wine is excellent.”  

“Are you trying to feed me up?” Crow asked suspiciously.  

Azra gave him a look. “Maybe. You’re skinny enough that an extra meal or two can’t hurt.”

“Very funny.”

He let Azra serve them each a plate with some of everything, and for a while the only sound in the ruins was of birdsong and eating as they both tucked in. The pies were indeed tasty, full of roasted vegetables along with the meat, but as with the cake Crow quickly found himself paying more attention to Azra than his own food. Azra ate with a cheerful gusto that somehow managed to be both unrestrained and refined at the same time. He sat very straight and proper, hands carefully poised, and used knife and fork to cut each pie into small bite-sized pieces (completely defeating the purpose of a hand pie, but fine). These he devoured with a single-minded concentration, occasionally patting the corner of his mouth with the white napkin or pausing to sigh in contentment.

It was all very…distracting.

“Crow…I was wondering. I don’t suppose….”

Azra was on his second slice of cake. Crow had given up halfway through his first and lay slumped against his customary marble pillar with legs stretched out and a hand on his extended stomach. He was far too full of food and wine, and sleepy, and perfectly content to just drift and watch through half-closed eyes the way the prince delicately balanced his plate on the fingers of one hand while he took dainty bites with a little silver fork. He had a tiny smear of chocolate on his bottom lip, completely incongruous with his immaculate appearance.

“Hm?” Crow struggled upright and tried to look alert.

Azra had paused with his plate in his lap. “Well… Oh, it’s probably a silly request, but…” His pink tongue darted out to lick his lip, removing the chocolate, and Crow deliberately did not stare. Much. 

“Go on, out with it.”

“Might I perhaps see a bit more magic?” Azra asked all at once, with badly-hidden eagerness. “Only, I’ve always been fascinated by it....” He paused, and the excitement faltered. “Unless that’s- is that a rude thing to ask? Oh dear, now that I think about it, it probably is. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be forward-”

“It’s not rude,” Crow assured him, slightly bemused. “But I’d think you’d see plenty of magic, with all the Artifacts hoarded up at your palace. You’ve got that sword, after all.”

“Oh yes, that thing.” Azra looked over at it where it leaned against the saddle bags, frowning. Unlike his armour, he brought it with him every time for safekeeping. “But until it encounters other magic, it’s just a dull ordinary sword. And none of the Artifacts we have are all that interesting, really. It’s all mostly weaponry or practical items; armour that refuses to rust, that sort of thing. Nothing…elegant, like your chilling the wine.”

“Ah.” Something elegant, hm? He thought for a second, tapping a finger on his knee. “If I use fire, are you going to stab me or faint?”

“Oh for heavens sake.” Azra rolled his eyes with offended dignity. “Of course I won’t.”

Crow took a deep breath and sat up, pulling his splayed limbs in to sit cross-legged. After a moment’s trepidation he held out his right hand, palm up, slightly cupped. With a snap of his fingers a spark ignited and grew into a small flickering flame, hovering about an inch in the air. The snap wasn’t needed, only concentration, but he was of the opinion that you should never make something look too easy when exciting was possible. He shot a nervous glance at Azra to gauge his reaction. 

The prince’s eyes had gone wide, but with wonder, not fear. “So you don’t even need to…to chant a spell, or write something down, or anything at all?”

“Nah.” Encouraged, Crow twiddled his fingers, and the flame grew bigger. “No need, not for this. More complex things need a word or two, but anything with fire…” He shrugged. “It’s in our blood. Literally. It’s our magic in its most raw form.”

“And then you just…burn things with it?”

“Things. Wood. Candles. Upstart princes. Yeah.” He raised a sardonic eyebrow, and Azra narrowed his eyes at him.

“Scoundrel.”

“Fine, then, if elegant is what you’re after…” Unable to resist showing off a little, Crow reached out and pinched the flame between his left thumb and forefinger, holding it aloft. He always found it easier to work the fiddly sort of magic with his dominant hand. He frowned, concentrating hard, and it swelled and twisted into the shape of a fiery yellow rose. It was easily done, just a matter of holding the image clearly in his mind. With a slight effort of will he set it shifting colours: amber and indigo and magenta and bright gold…

 “Oh!” Azra breathed. “How absolutely marvelous!” He stared entranced at the scintillating flower, face awestruck and open as a child’s. He reached out his hand towards it, carefully, stopping an inch away as the heat became too much. “It’s still so hot.”

“Fire usually is.”

“It doesn’t hurt you?”

“No. It just feels warm to me. Sorcerer fire is raw magic, and since the magic is our own…” Crow shrugged, trying not to look too pleased. The sheer delight on Azra’s face was making it difficult, making his heart beat faster. He’d never once imagined anyone looking at him like that.

“Can you make it look like anything?”

He shrugged again. “Anything I can visualise perfectly clearly. Magic relies a lot on imagination and will, and uses up a lot of energy.”

“Well, don’t tire yourself on my account.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” A whisper of thought, and the rose transmuted smoothly into the shape of a slender-stemmed lily, then a dark blue jay, frozen with wings spread as if snatched out of flight. Another thought and the jay became a large dragonfly, then a butterfly, then a raven. He squinted in concentration and made the raven flutter like it was hovering in midair, the way they always did outside his tower.

Spreading his fingers, he finally relaxed with a sigh and let the bird melt into a shimmering puddle of blue flame in his palm. He forgot to watch his sleeve, though, and the effect was ruined as the trailing string on the edge of his cuff abruptly caught fire. He hastily extinguished it and patted out the smoking fabric. So much for showing off. “Ahem. My clothes, on the other hand…not so fireproof.”

Azra laughed, an innocent and delighted sound to match his smile, and applauded like he was at the theatre. “Bravo! That was absolutely lovely.”  

And how was it that Crow could bear a lifetime of insults and barbs with impunity, but being called lovely by this man sank straight through his armour? Just like the comment about his eyes, it left him shaky and fighting a feeling in his throat like he had swallowed a chunk of too-dry bread. He busied himself mending his scorched sleeve while he got his face under control.

“Oh, how I wish I could do that,” Azra commented wistfully.

Crow swallowed hard. “Really, you don’t. The usual reaction I get is screaming. I lit a burnt out lamp in the town square by my tower once, and people cleared out just as if I had taken a sh- um…as if I’d done something far more shocking.”

“That’s just… nonsense.” Azra’s expression slowly scrunched into an indignant scowl, though for once not at him. “Absolute nonsense. There’s no cause for people to treat you that way, when you’ve done nothing to them. It’s not fair at all!”

Crow shrugged, smiling a little at his outrage. It sent an unexpected fresh trickle of warmth through him. “In my experience fair doesn’t factor much into what other people do.”

“Yes. Indeed, I suppose that’s true.” Azra sighed. “Well, thank you for showing me anyway. Your magic is beautiful, absolutely beautiful.”

And that’s when it happened.

Azra met his eyes and smiled, and Crow felt that same lurch again, stronger than ever before.

Beautiful.

Like a thunderbolt from a clear, cloudless sky. As if the little voice in his mind had grown tired of whispering, and finally decided to say “Look here, idiot,” to seize him by the throat and shout until he paid attention.

That was it, what his body and mind had been trying so hard to tell him, what had been sneaking up on him ever since they first met by the Wall. What some residual scrap of self-preservation had been desperately trying to ignore. Azra wasn’t just fascinating, or odd, or any variation thereof; he was beautiful to him, down to the very soles of his neatly-shod feet and marrow of his bones. That was why Crow couldn’t take his eyes off him. More beautiful than any flower he had ever grown or magic he had ever conjured. A beauty that far outshone his soft exterior, though in truth that was beautiful too, in a way that no human had ever been to his eyes before. This wonderfully strange, fussy man with his bright smile and his kind heart, with his love of impractical books, and food, and attachment to his ridiculous horse. All of it.

Beautiful. It seemed so obvious now. It was all he could see.  

It was as if he had fallen asleep on the shore, only to wake and find himself already swept far out to sea, with nothing but water all around him.

“Thanks,” he choked out. 

Oh. No.

Crow went home to the Rookery a couple hours later in a state of something like shock. He marched straight up to his bedroom without bothering to grab supper from the kitchen. He’d left the window open, so he had to (carefully) shoo out a couple of ravens perched arrogantly on the back of his carved chair (and got pecked for his trouble). He slammed the window shut and stood there with hands braced on the shutters.

“He’s just a prince,” he muttered desperately, gripping at the wood to steady himself. “Another useless Northlander royal.” It didn’t sound very convincing, even to him.

A royal with summer in his smile, and a kind heart, and intriguingly soft-looking hands…

Crow growled and shoved away, whirled and stomped back down the two flights of stairs to his garden. Nonononono. Don’t do this to yourself. Having Azra as a friend is already complicated enough when there aren’t complications. More complications. The master of all complications. The king Bad Idea of all the stupid Bad Ideas you’ve ever had. The Council’s been on your arse to take interest in someone all your life, and this is what you come up with?

He yanked the door to the fifth floor landing open with another growl and spark of magic. He walked in, closed the door, grabbed the watering can and began determinedly watering at random the first flowers he saw: the very surprised pink and red camellias, even though he had just watered them yesterday.

“He’s your born enemy,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “He probably likes women. You don’t even like men, either; you don’t like anyone. And even if you did like men, you would not want some- some pampered, fussy little Northlander prince who wears ridiculous clothing, and eats far too much sugar, and thinks that Ten Honest Turncoats is a good play, and wails over a crease in a book, and…and…”

And thinks my magic is marvelous. And that my eyes are lovely.

Crow squeezed the watering can hard enough to make it creak, as if he could strangle the feelings out of it. As if that would somehow save him.

All the people he’d ever seen paraded before him left him cold, uninterested. Bored, in every sense of the word. All his life he’d been baffled by other people's enthusiasm in courting; it had always felt like there was some massive joke that the entire world was in on except him. He’d long resigned himself to being simply cut off from whatever particular magic it was that drove the other sorcerers mad and inspired such passionate ballads and plays. Not one person he had ever looked at had captured his gaze.

But now… allowing himself to think of Azra’s brilliant smile and the way his hands moved when he spoke, the way his eyes crinkled and voice grew soft when he spoke of his horse or read aloud, or looked at him as he performed his magic….the way that ridiculous velvet doublet stretched across his soft chest and shoulders... Crow felt his entire body flush hot again, the way it had been doing all day and yesterday. Not simple physical desire, but cleaner, sharper. More.  

Thud, thud, thud, boomed his heart.

He was forced to consider the idea that just maybe, all this time, he had simply been looking at the wrong people.

As if acknowledging the situation had magically given it permission, his dreams that night were… enthusiastic.

Crow woke the next morning with a raging erection and a sense of impending doom.

He groaned and shuffled bow-legged to his silver wash basin, splashed his face with cold water from the pipes that pumped up from the well far down below, desperately trying to quench whatever new fire this was that had lit under his skin. It didn’t really help.

Shit. This can’t be happening to me. Am I going completely mad? I thought I was beyond things like this after all this time.

I am so, so stupid.

But then, stupid was his style, wasn’t it? It was just his luck for his stupid, stupid heart to sit on its indifferent arse for all these years, then immediately fall all over itself for his first ever sort-of friend, and the most hopelessly unsuitable person he had ever met. A person who would never, ever, reciprocate the feelings, even if it were wise. And it was most definitely not wise.

He would simply have to live with it until it faded. He was set to go meet Azra again in only a matter of hours. And in truth he didn’t want to miss that meeting, didn’t want to miss a single moment of feeling like a person and not a gargoyle wearing human skin.

Surely this madness would fade, as time went on. There was no way that feeling like this could be sustainable. It was bound to burn itself out like a candle. Temporary, for sure. Yeah. All heat cools, given time.

He just had to wait it out.

That afternoon Crow trudged into the clearing early, armed with a bottle of wine, leftover cake, a set jaw, and a grim determination to keep a clear head… which began to disintegrate the moment Azra arrived.

He arrived riding his horse, for one, and looked every inch the noble doing so. He looked kind of funny, to be honest, perched very tall and proper atop that huge animal in his fancy impractical satins with the reins held carefully still before him, but beyond that there was something… effortless and graceful about the way he moved that spoke to years in the saddle. It made it hard to stop looking.

Second, Azra dismounted and greeted him with a cheery little “Helloooo,” that wrestled a smile out of him, unwilling all the way. Curse it, it was simply impossible to remain grim when Azra was around.

Crow deliberately did not watch as Azra happily demolished his portion of the lunch he’d again brought (baked trout with lemon sauce today). He definitely did not enjoy watching as Azra ate two servings of the custard tarts that he’d “picked up from the most remarkable little bakery!” with overwhelming yet delicate gusto. He kept his eyes firmly on his own food with the determined focus of an archer sighting the target, as they chatted about inane things like how nice the almost-summer weather was.

He couldn’t avoid looking at him, though, when Azra set down his empty plate, blotted his lips with a linen napkin, and leaned deliberately towards him.

“Now. Today I brought something to show you, as thanks for sharing your magic with me yesterday.”

“Oh?” he replied warily.

“Yes, something that I thought would be fun. Just a harmless little hobby of mine.” Despite his dismissive tone, his eyes sparkled with hopeful anticipation. “That is, if you don’t mind my showing you?”

This didn’t bode well at all for remaining indifferent, but there was no way he could refuse an obvious request like that. “Well, go on. I’m dying of curiosity.”

Azra grinned, actually grinned. He stood and led him over across the grassy clearing to a section of thick marble wall that had broken off at waist level, leaving a long, flat space like a counter.

“This should serve nicely.”

From his pocket he produced a deck of gold-backed playing cards, and set them down atop the makeshift “table” between them.

“You want to play a card game?” Crow asked, slightly confused.

“No no, these are for later; you’ll see. Just stand there for a moment.” Once Crow had taken his place on the other side of the marble, Azra turned slightly away and patted at his chest pocket, looking for something. He made a furtive little motion and faced Crow again.

“Alright. Now, as you can see, my hands are quite empty.” He held them both up and wiggled the fingers to demonstrate. “But wait…what’s this?” With exaggerated showmanship he reached out towards Crow’s head and made a plucking motion, and a gold coin appeared between his fingers. “Aha!” He waved it, beaming as if he had done something especially clever, and just stood there waiting for a reaction.

Crow blinked, completely taken aback. “Uh. What?” He wasn’t sure what he had expected to happen, but that wasn’t it. “What exactly… what was that?”  

Azra grinned at his expression. “Well, I pulled it from behind your ear, of course.”

“You definitely did not.”

“I did! See?” He reached out his other empty hand, and appeared to pull another coin from thin air, with a flourish. “Oh ho! Like magic!”

Crow stared at him, speechless. Was he completely mad after all? “That’s…that’s…”

“Good, isn’t it? I learned it from a professional illusionist, a few years ago.” Azra drew himself up, absurdly proud.

“A professional…illusionist?  Wait, wait, hold on. Are you telling me that… there are Northlanders who walk around pretending to be magic users?”

Azra looked slightly annoyed now. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a party trick, for entertainment! No one thinks it’s real. It’s quite the modern thing. There are other tricks too, illusions done with playing cards, sleight of hand.”

“That’s...” Crow really didn’t know what to say. As terrified of magic users as Northlanders were, they then hired people to play at magic? “And… this is a hobby of yours?”

A modest nod. “I used to practice for hours in the mirror. I can make the coin disappear, too, look.” Undaunted by his skepticism, Azra proceeded to dramatically brandish the coin, eyes alight with enthusiasm, then made a complicated sort of gesture with both hands – and dropped the coin. It ricocheted off the marble pillar with a golden ping and vanished into the grass.

“Oh- blast,” Azra muttered, and started rooting around on the forest floor. “I nearly had it.”

“Well, it’s certainly gone,” Crow commented. His initial disbelief had faded, and now he was just trying not to laugh. He bit his tongue, using the discomfort to keep the frown fixed to his face. The entire thing was just so… unbelievably stupid. And endearingly ridiculous.

“Oh, hush. I’m just a bit out of practice.”

“Mm hm.” A glint of gold caught his eye, half buried in a cluster of wildflowers; he bent down and picked it up. “Here you go.”

“Ah! Thank you.” Azra’s soft fingers briefly brushed against his as he took the coin, just the lightest touch that nevertheless sent a thrill through him. “It’s been a hobby of mine for years now. I’m getting quite good with playing cards, too.”

Crow was about to make a comment about how “quite good” might be a relative term in this case, but something in the way Azra said it made him pause. Something almost shy. He peered at him, and caught a nervous, uncertain edge to the eager expression. He suddenly couldn’t bring himself to tease him again.

“It looks like fun,” was all he said.

Azra’s face cleared, and his smile was unmistakably relieved now. “Oh, it is! It’s the most wonderful fun. It’s nothing so marvelous as yours, of course,” he said with a wistful sigh.

“I’m glad you liked it.” Crow frowned harder, and then, almost against his will, asked, “How exactly does it work with playing cards?”  

Azra opened the deck of cards, shuffled it, and spread them out in an arc across the piece of stone, face down. “Now mind you, it has been a while, so I’ll start with a simple trick.” He rubbed his hands briskly together and gestured to the spread of cards. “Pick one and remember what it is, but don’t show it to me.”

“Er…alright.” Crow selected a card from the end of the pile and peeked at it. The two of spires.

“Now put it back into the deck, anywhere you like.” Azra covered his eyes with a hand and turned his head deliberately away. And it wasn’t charming at all. It wasn’t.

“Okay…” Crow stuck the card back in at random, biting the inside of his cheek to ground himself. “When exactly does the magic begin, here?” 

“Patience.” Azra swept all the cards into a pile with a flourish and shuffled the deck again. “Are you ready to be amazed?” he asked seriously.

“I have no idea.” Crow folded his arms across his chest and watched apprehensively as Azra carefully split the deck in half, bottom to top.

“So, as you saw, I could not possibly know what card it was, or where you put it. And yet-!” The prince’s eyes widened, and with a dramatic twist of his wrist he whipped a card off the top of the stack. “Is this the card you chose?” he asked triumphantly, holding it up.

It was not. Crow raised his eyebrows and blinked a few times, incredulous, but the card remained the seven of chalices. “Uh…” Is this some kind of joke? He looked up at him.

Azra beamed expectantly back, bright-eyed and excited, the picture of absolute confidence. “Well?”

“…Yeah,” Crow heard himself say. An enormous laugh was swelling in his belly, nearly too big to hold back, and he finally let a tiny piece of it spread over his face. “That’s it. Amazing!”

Azra’s smile widened, if that was even possible. “Really?” 

Incredible. Crow could only stare at him, enchanted. It was as though Azra had swallowed the sun, and walked around shining it on everyone he met.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he replied truthfully.

Azra’s ears turned pink, and he began fiddling with the stack of cards in his hands. “Well. Thank you. I don’t have the opportunity to practice for others very often. Or ever, really. So this has been a treat.”

Crow had never used the word ‘adorable’ before in his life. Generally he didn’t think it was a word that should exist, at all. But in that moment he really couldn’t think of another word that better suited Azra.

Resolve evaporated with an undignified poof. He could practically feel the cruel jaws of fate clamping shut around him.

I am in so much trouble. I am absolutely, utterly fucked.

“Well, in that case…” He beckoned with one hand, inviting, and was sure to keep his expression solemn. “Go on, then. Show me again.”

Chapter Text

It didn’t fade over time. It got worse.

They had lunch the next day, too, to Crow’s delight, and the day after that. And the day after that. They didn’t specifically agree to do so; Crow simply happened to show up at Eden at the same time as before, and if Azra happened to be there waiting again, with a basket lunch for the both of them each time, well. They weren’t about to let it go to waste, were they?

Crow began taking extra pains to avoid Hastur. He did anyway, as a rule, but now it had suddenly become vital. The spying old bat was sure to get suspicious about this sudden new desire to bake, or shop, to leave the tower every day at roughly the same time heading in the same direction. So every afternoon, though it made him cringe with its lack of dignity, Crow tiptoed quietly past Hastur’s ground-floor chamber, clutching wine bottles or whatever new dessert he had been able to scrounge from the local bakeries, trying not to trip on his cloak and avoid the one old floorboard that creaked like a trumpet. Sneaking out of his own home like a guilty child trying to avoid his parents after coming home late. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than the alternative. 

Every day Crow walked into the increasingly sunny, idyllic Eden, and felt his entire being lift as he came through the trees to see Azra sitting in the pavilion again, or reading on a fallen pillar, or once even picking bunches of yellow wildflowers. Every time Azra would look up, see him, and smile.

“What else do you do down there all day in that tower of yours? When you aren’t sneaking up into Empyrion, that is.” Azra was spreading soft cheese onto his second piece of toast with a little ivory-handled knife.

“Oh, the usual sorcerer activities. Dancing with dark spirits and brewing potions, necromancy, that sort of thing,” Crow said airily.  

Azra gave him a wide-eyed look that lasted only a second before narrowing into a by-now-familiar expression. “Very funny.”

“I thought so.” Crow gave a lazy grin. “Eh. Nothing special, I just keep busy. Feed the ravens. Read. Cook. Nap.” He shrugged. “Some gardening. Same as most people, I expect.”

“Oh yes, you did mention gardening. What kind of plants do you have? The ones who are such excellent conversationalists.”

Two dozen different kinds of flowers, Crow thought automatically. Delphiniums that are just coming into bloom, and tulips that I’m trying to match to a particular storm-blue but they aren’t cooperating...

But it was deeply-ingrained habit to never talk about that garden, so he shoved the thought away. 

“Herbs, mostly,” he said instead. “I grow a lot of ingredients to sell, that sort of thing. I keep some, to make basic medicines. Faster and cheaper than going to an apothecary.” And less risky, too. He couldn’t trust that an apothecary wouldn’t try to poison him if he did buy something. Beyond that, inflicting his presence on local businesses was simply exhausting. Many of them spent any visit visibly trembling while Crow just stood there holding his groceries and grinding his teeth. 

“Oh, I see. It sounds so nice, having a place all your own,” Azra commented wistfully. 

“You’ve got your palace, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s not mine, really. I just live there.” Azra sighed and shoved the last bite of cheesy toast into his mouth. Still happily chewing, he used a napkin on his hands and spent a few moments meticulously brushing errant crumbs off his clothing. He wore a doublet of twilight blue velvet today, almost purple, touched with bits of silver threadwork like stars against the night sky. The colour set his grey-blue eyes off perfectly. The fabric looked very soft and touchable, especially where it stretched across his broad chest…

Crow looked deliberately away and swallowed, trying to ignore the warm tingle that crept over his skin. It did that almost constantly, lately.

Azra finally arranged his clothes to his satisfaction, and picked up the familiar leather book of folktales.

It had become ritual by now. After each meal the blond prince would pull out his book, hold it hopefully in his lap and ask if Crow would like to hear another one. And of course, Crow would like to hear another one. Watching Azra get excited at the dramatic parts and somber at the serious ones was better than any play.

“So. What’s it to be today?” Crow asked, stretching out into a more comfortable lounging position.

“Let me see.” Azra placed those little gold-rimmed glasses atop his nose, wiggling them into place. He carefully removed a blue cloth bookmark from the book and opened it to the saved page. “Going in order, the next story is- oh. Well. In this one the villain is a sorcerer, so we can skip it.”

“No, no, go on, I’m sure lots of them are like that. What are my brethren up to now?”

Azra flushed, embarrassed. “It’s about a sorcerer who coerces women to give up their firstborn children, in exchange for spinning straw into gold.”

Crow laughed. “In exchange for- what? That doesn’t even make sense. Why straw, of all things?”

“I…haven’t the faintest idea. That’s just how the story goes.”

“It’s just an awfully specific talent to have,” Crow mused. “Can you even put straw on a spinning wheel?”

Azra scrunched up his face in thought. “You know, I don’t think you can.”  

“Hm. It would make more sense to say he transmutes it, not that we can even do that.”

“I know it’s ridiculous, we don’t have to-”

“No, we definitely have to. I’m intrigued.”

“If you’re certain you don’t mind…”

“Nah, go on.” Crow waved a casual hand. “I’ve thicker skin than that. My usual criteria for taking offense is if someone tries to stab me. So if you can restrain yourself…”

“Very well.” Azra smiled with a roll of his eyes, then paused and looked down. “Oh dear, would you look at that.” He held out his foot, displaying a large scuff that marred the polished leather toe of his favourite riding boot. “I tripped earlier and caught it on a rock, and I suppose this must have happened then. That will never come out.” He let out a gusty sigh and flicked blue eyes sorrowfully up at him.

Crow rolled his own eyes, and hid an indulgent smile as he pointed at the boot. “Kivitash.” Just a minor spell of mending and repair, the same one he used almost daily on his own clothes. The scuff vanished, leaving the boot glossy as ever.

“Oh!” Azra beamed, turning his foot this way and that to admire it. “Thank you.” As if he hadn’t known he would fix it.

“Mmhm.” Crow took a nonchalant sip of his wine, as if they hadn’t had the exact same kind of exchange several times already. All Azra had to do was bemoan the latest damage to his clothes, or his book, and he found himself reaching over to repair whatever it was, yanked like a puppet on invisible strings. And curse it all, Azra was always so delighted, with his damned pretty clothes and rosy cheeks, and hair so fine and pale that it would probably feel like feather down under his fingers…

He wanted to run his hands through it.

Hours were spent just chatting, shockingly effortless conversation about whatever crossed their minds. Azra told him about pieces of his life in the palace, about the semi-daily training bouts he’d had to endure since he was a boy. In a desperate bid to be remotely interesting, Crow found himself telling Azra about his favourite pieces in his Artifact collection, and then finally about the Knights who attacked his tower, regaled him with some of the more absurd and cherry-picked stories. There were plenty to choose from. He carefully omitted the parts where he got stabbed, or where almost all of his attackers ended up dead, making it sound as if they hurled only insults instead of knives or arrows, and that he simply chased them off with no harm done. No point in dragging that bit of ugliness into their pleasant time. Azra was always very gratifyingly entertained, and indignant on his behalf.

It was something completely new, he found, to be able to sit with glasses off and eyes open for the world to see, talking with this remarkable person who looked at him and did not want to run him through with a pitchfork. With Azra, Crow found he could be… himself, he suspected, though he hadn’t even known what ‘himself’ was around another person. Amazingly, Azra didn’t seem to find him strange at all; or at least, no more than he himself was. Maybe the secret was mutual strangeness.

It was a gust of fresh air in a world where he had forgotten he was holding his breath.

Every day, more pieces of this strange puzzle of a prince filled in.

The small library that Azra hauled around with him wherever he went was just a tiny part of his enormous collection. He loved the physical books, with their embossed covers and gold-leafed page edges, as much as he loved the stories inside. The more whimsical or fantastical the stories, the better. His love for fictional fighting and danger seemed to match his distaste for the real thing.

Azra would fuss over the cleanliness of the silverware, polishing each piece with his napkin until it shone.

He loved plays, especially the sappy tragic ones.

He was often tart, but never cruel. 

He loved his enormous, improbable horse.

He always seemed to be sitting in sunlight. Or maybe sunlight always found him.

And his favourite colour was yellow...yellow like daffodils, and topaz, and unnatural sorcerer eyes…

Every day of that week, Crow returned to his tower not so much walking but floating, as light and carefree as if he hovered an inch above the ground. He tried telling himself that it was simply the fine, steadily warming weather that had him in such good spirits, that it was the natural side effect of being full of good food and wine. But he knew the truth. He was full of Azra, full of the sound of his voice and the warmth of his friendly smile. The way the sunlight cast shadows across his face and the way he made even the quiet moments more exciting than any thrill seeking activity he had ever tried.

In short, every day he left Eden just a bit more idiotically besotted than he had been the day before.

Every day, he found himself grappling with more new thoughts, like, “I wonder how those hands would feel on my chest,” and “His lips look so soft” and “I wonder how easily that doublet would come off if I just pulled at the top lacing…”

And then, of course, without asking permission from his arguably more intelligent self, the wondering segued directly into imagining. Very vivid imaging. Pressing his lips against Azra’s, picturing how it would feel to wrap him in his arms, to hold that warmth close to him and absorb it into himself. Azra’s hands tangled in his hair. Those soft, precise hands touching his bare skin, seeing what his skin felt like under all those layers and layers of rich clothing. Peeling them off one by one, unwrapping Azra slowly like a midwinter gift...

Crow could feel what was happening to him, but was powerless to stop it or even object. He was caught like a leaf in a whirlwind, helplessly spinning. Was this was what it felt like to go mad? Shit, was this how other people felt all the time?

Sitting there in the clearing with Azra and imagining how it would feel to have those blue-grey eyes look at him the way they looked at food, and ugh, the embarrassment of realising that he was jealous of a piece of cake. Oh, and a horse, don’t forget that. Watching Azra affectionately pat his enormous white mare, stroking its nose, feeding it bits of food from their lunch; Crow found himself wishing he knew what it felt like to be cared for like that. Realising that a damned horse knew more of affection in a day than he had known his entire life.

It was embarrassing, humiliating. And exhilarating and wonderful. And completely hopeless.

Exactly how hopeless it was became apparent on the fifth day.

“Why is Gabriel suddenly so keen to send you down here for guard duty, anyway?” Crow asked.

He held a gold coin between thumb and forefinger, squinting at his blurry reflection in it with one eye shut.

It was especially hot today. They had moved to a less open section of the ruins, where a curved piece of wall provided better shade from the sun’s angle, and were enjoying a lazy afternoon. Crow lay flat on his back on what had originally been a large dais of some kind, fanning himself by pulling lightly at the neckline of his black shirt. The white marble was cool under his warm skin, raising goosebumps where it touched. Earlier he’d noticed Azra sweating, and in a burst of inspiration he’d used a bit of magic to yank heat out of the stone, just like he used to chill the wine. To make things more comfortable for both of them, of course. Azra sat on the low steps a few feet away, leaning against the cold marble and quietly reading one of his books. He wore that little contented smile that always made Crow want to just lie there and watch him.

Which he’d been doing, sneakily, for the past hour. His current spot was, coincidentally, perfectly poised for it.

He flipped the coin into the air again, watching it flash and spin in the sun.

After lunch he’d asked Azra if his three brothers looked anything like him, and in reply the prince had pulled out a handful of High Fells currency for him to look at. There were only three kinds of coins, of course: copper, silver, and gold, so Azra had no coin in his own image. A travesty, in Crow’s opinion.

The three elder royals of the Fells looked nothing like Azra, as far as he could tell. Too bad for them. The gold coin he was currently examining showed the profile of a ruggedly handsome man, with a straight nose and proud, clean cut features. King Gabriel.

Crow loathed him. Granted, he was biased, but he loathed the ugly bastard.

“Oh.” Azra heaved a huge sigh. “Like I said, it’s part of his larger mission to rehabilitate my image. To give me a bit of a…more battle-hardened reputation, I suppose.”

He sounded doubtful, and Crow’s mind flashed vividly back to an image of him holding that flaming sword when they first met, holding it as far away from his body as possible, like it was going to bite him.

Crow raised his eyebrows and looked over at him now. Azra was frowning at his spotless nails, checking them for dirt. 

“Uh huh,” Crow drawled, straight-faced. “How has that been going?”

Azra grimaced, and folded his jeweled hands in his lap with another sigh. His silk sleeves sported little lace ruffles today. “I’m afraid I’ve never been much good with swords, or axes, or- or any of those big sharp cutty sorts of things.”

“Big sharp cutty things, eh?” Crow said with a grin. “Right, but I meant why does it suddenly matter so much? You aren’t the next in line, and you say you’ve enjoyed reading and unprincely activities your entire life. What lit the sudden fire under his gilded arse to change your image now?”

Azra looked glum. “Ah. Well…that’s the crux of it.” He looked down at his hands again, and began twisting his signet ring. “Gabriel has got it into his head that I finally must marry, and as soon as possible.”

“Oh.” Crow’s grin faded, and he told himself that the sudden lead-heavy feeling in his chest was due to lack of sleep the night before. He swallowed. “Oh. Right. Married, huh? I guess that’s pretty…important, for a prince?”

“Yes, it’s mandatory. Currently the royal coffers are…a bit lighter than the king would prefer, and as I’m the only unmarried prince left… well. There’s a noblewoman that he has in mind from the neighboring kingdom. A very wealthy noblewoman. Gabriel’s in preliminary talks with her family, and he wants me to be able to present an appealing offer, if things progress.”

“I see. So all of this guard duty…is in preparation for that?” The heavy feeling tripled, became more like a large boulder sitting on his chest.

Azra nodded, still looking down at his lap. “Yes. I suppose Gabriel decided that having me out of the palace in any sense was preferable to having people see me embarrass myself with my fighting, or sitting around doing soft activities. And this way he can tell everyone I’m off doing warrior work.”

He said it all so matter-of-factly, resignedly, without any particular rancor, and it made Crow want to leap up and run all the way to the Fells to flying-punch Gabriel in the balls. Or slip henbane into his ale. Or dust the smug bastard’s breeches with some of the truly devilish itching powder that he had discovered (by accident) as a byproduct of an antidote gone wrong. The Council would surely give him some kind of medal for that.

Crow closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to get his raw dismay under control. It would be something of a giveaway if his clothing burst into flame. Don’t be stupid. It’s not as though you were any kind of competition, were you? It doesn’t make any difference.

I definitely don’t want to incinerate this nameless girl that I’ve never met before. No. Or this king who’s prettying up his brother to be sold.

“Hm. And how do you feel about all this?” he asked once he was sure he could speak without yelling. “Do you want to get married?”

“Want doesn’t have much to do with it, I’m afraid.” Azra’s gaze slid sideways. “I’ve known my whole life that I’d have to marry and produce heirs eventually, for the good of the kingdom. My life has never been my own to live as I wish.”

“Well, that sounds like absolute poppycock to me,” Crow commented, mimicking the precise way Azra had said it. In his normal voice, he continued, “Seems to me everyone’s life is theirs to live as they wish.”

“If only that were true.” Azra looked up at the trees overhead and gave a wistful sigh. “But I’m sure it won’t be as bad as all that,” he added hastily, though he didn’t sound at all convinced. “It’s not as though it were the end of the world. The girl Gabriel has in mind is from a good family, and is sure to be beautiful, and accomplished, and…and I’m sure it will all be rather lovely!”

Crow squeezed the gold coin until his fingers ached and the metal grew hot enough to burn. He wished it was King Gabriel’s actual face.

That unpleasant revelation should have been the end of it, obviously. Crow should have been able to stomp down the stupid infatuation, he knew, now that there was a definite end to the friendship incoming. Besides, and most importantly, people did not care for sorcerers. Crow knew that the way he knew fire was hot and water was wet. There was as much chance of someone like Azra reciprocating his feelings as there was of him sprouting horns; to dream otherwise was a recipe for disaster. Sure, they got along well enough, but at the end of the day Azra was just marking time on an otherwise boring obligation, until he got- ugh- married, and produced a hoard of fluffy-haired, cheerful royal Heirs. 

So Crow told himself a dozen times a day, but unfortunately his imagination didn't seem to be listening. It only got worse. It kept popping up like some cackling troll from one of Azra’s folk stories when he least expected it, rubbing its hands and whispering gleeful what if’s in his ear, tormenting him with lovely images that made his heart ache. And other parts of him ache.

When Azra brushed at nonexistent wrinkles in his clothing. When Azra lit up over a new book, all cheery enthusiasm and kind smiles. Wrapping his lips slowly around a fork with eyes shut in bliss. When he watched Crow perform the most mundane magic with eyes shining in awe, as if he was something remarkable. When he gave him that arch look that made him want to throttle him and kiss him senseless all at once.

And on the seventh night, plagued by all these images and more, lying there in his bed tossing and turning and unable to sleep… Crow finally gave in to that ache.

He’d just been lying there, running over the day in his mind, grinning at one particular memory: Azra had accidentally wandered into a low-hanging tree branch and got caught in it. He’d looked so funny, all tangled up and trying in vain to stand on his dignity while he struggled to free himself, insisting that he was not stuck, and he did not need help, thank you very much. And then as he carefully put his hair to rights, delicately plucking out bits of leaf, combing elegant fingers through those pale curls. All that moving around had done wonderful things to the shape of him under that doublet. The laces of the high neckline had even come slightly loose, baring a single pale “v” of skin down the center of his throat…skin that had looked impossibly soft, perfectly placed to lean in and press his lips to it…

It was all too much. Crow found his hand creeping downward, which was not unusual in itself, but the urge had simply never been directed towards any specific person before. But now… with Azra’s face bright in his mind’s eye… just a light press of his palm over the hard arch between his legs was enough to flood his entire body with prickling heat. Much more powerful than anything he’d ever felt before, making him gasp and shudder. To be touched like that by him… He pressed again, stroking his whole hand up it, and this time he let himself moan, let that delicious heat shiver through his body and out of his throat. What the hell did it matter? There were six floors between him and the only other person in this tower, so there was no one else to hear. There was no one to witness his embarrassing, pathetic situation except himself, and he already had no dignity there. No, he’d never felt this way before, fine, but he felt it now and there was no point in denying it, not with his entire body simply begging for another person’s hands to where the very thought made him shiver…

Crow gave in and took hold of himself, arched his back into his comfortable bed, moaning in relief and pent-up frustration as he conjured up the images that had started flowing through his nightly dreams. He wanted it to be Azra’s soft fingers squeezing tight around him, wanted those fingers in his hair. He wanted Azra atop him, or under him, he didn’t care which. He wanted to pull him close and press his body into that lovely warmth, to blunt his sharp edges against that softness and let it mould around him…

His hand wasn’t quite enough. Crow grabbed a pillow next to him and pressed it over his front, thrust hard up into it with another desperate moan. It felt so good that he did it again, and again, and more…mmmh…

And most of all, he wanted to give Azra pleasure too. He wanted to touch him, rub his hands over that lush body, bite his soft, kissable throat. He wanted to put that familiar expression of bliss on his face, to make Azra’s cheeks flush and brow crease. Would he struggle to stay quiet, like the proper and restrained noble he often was?  Or would he be all eager indulgence, and let himself moan as Crow pleasured him? Yes, a man that moaned over dessert would surely moan loudly in bed, oh, fuck, how he would moan...

It was over humiliatingly quickly. In less than a minute Crow was clawing at the bedsheets with his free hand, groaning, choking out half-formed gasps that sounded suspiciously like Azra’s name. And if he spent himself into that unfortunate pillow harder than he ever had before in his life, if he lay there shocked and loose-limbed after; if he lost all semblance of restraint because the thought of Azra’s hands on him drove him wild… then, well. There was no one else to know.

There was no denying it now, not even to himself. No amount of shouting at his beleaguered orchids could mask the fact that he had gone well round the bend.

It was the last day.

The sun was shining brightly in Eden, the most perfectly beautiful weather one could ask for. The white marble was almost luminous under its dressing of vines, the flowers were perfectly bright and colourful, the breeze perfectly crisp. A mockingbird was singing perfectly happily and very, very loudly without a single care in the world somewhere close by.  

It made Crow want to lob a fireball at the cheery little wanker.

The last day. Azra’s last day of guard duty, and the last day of the best week Crow could ever remember. He’d been trying not to think about it, which of course only meant that that was all he could think about.

Azra hadn’t said anything; for all their easy conversation they had carefully avoided mentioning anything about What Came Next, so for all Crow knew it was the last day he would ever see him, since he hadn’t dared to ask if he would be coming back. But maybe it was simply a given that he was never coming back. That this illicit friendship had run its course. Maybe it was stupid to even wonder.

Across from him, Azra bit into his custard tart and let out a happy sigh. Crow looked away and struggled to banish the sudden, invasive mental image of him making that sound, that expression, in a much different context. It was harder than usual. Last night’s… solo relaxation activities were still fresh in his memory, had been fresh in his memory all day. He felt a little guilty about it, truth be told. Should he? He still wasn’t sure. It wasn’t the act itself that bothered him, that was hardly new, but more the vague worry that he’d disrespected Azra somehow by involving him. Curse it, he’d never had to contend with this kind of thing before, and it was all so much more…complicated.

He gnawed distractedly along the edge of his own tart, mainly just for something to do with his hands. “Do you want the strawberry?” he asked, holding it out.

“Yes please.” Azra reached over and plucked the bright red strawberry off the tart, and popped it straight into his mouth. “Mmm.” He sighed, eyes briefly closed in a blissful expression. “Oh, that is simply scrumptious. Perfectly ripe.” He took a fresh bite of tart and licked a spot of custard off the little silver spoon, with almost obscene enjoyment, and Crow had to cross his legs to avoid embarrassing himself. He mentally added that spoon to his ever-growing list of things he was jealous of. It really wasn’t fair. No one had any right to look that happy over a bite of dessert.

Azra chose that moment to daintily lick his fingertips clean, too, and Crow nearly fell off his seat.

He gave himself a few internal slaps.

“Fresh fruit is one of the nicest things about summer, don’t you agree?” Azra asked as he used a napkin to wipe his fingers.

“Yeah. Definitely.” Crow couldn’t remember what he was agreeing to, but it seemed a safe thing to say.

He’d been working himself into a sweat all afternoon as the sun slowly crept across the summer blue sky, trying desperately to think of a natural segue into the topic of What Next. Best not to just blurt it out like an idiot. No sense seeming too keen and scaring him off. Was that too keen? He had no idea. Was this a normal thing to ask of a…a friend? He’d never had a friend before, so he couldn’t say. Never mind a hereditary non-enemy that he happened to be mooning over. Shit.

He sweated harder.

It was definitely best to play it cool and collected, just to be safe, he strategized. Come at it sideways, that was key. Yeah. Maybe, if they started talking about plays again, they would eventually come around to a point where he could casually suggest that maybe, if Azra happened to ever come back down on guard duty, they could meet and -

“So!” Azra said brightly, breaking into his thoughts and making him jump. “I’ll be back on guard duty again in two weeks time, and then after that I imagine it will be even more frequent. Shall we…well, I don’t want to presume too much, but shall we do this again?”

Just like that.

With an enormous effort of will Crow kept a huge, foolish smile from sweeping over his face. He opened his mouth to enthusiastically agree- and hesitated as a rare speck of caution tapped him on the shoulder.

The smartest answer would be to refuse, obviously. A clean break to the madness. The longer he let this go on, the more painful it would be when Azra inevitably got married and vanished from his life like a fading dream…

Azra waited, just looking at him, face open and expectant as he chewed his bite of tart.

No, it was no use, he couldn’t do it. It was better to have Azra for now, to bask in the warmth of that light that he poured out all around him, than have nothing. Even if it was temporary. Even if he would eventually lose him anyway, and shrivel like a plant left too long in the shade…

It was worth it.

Crow was reminded of the winged insects flinging themselves into the flaming torches outside his tower at night. Burning themselves to death and ecstatic about it all the way. That’s how Azra made him feel- like a big ugly black moth, flapping stupid and slack-jawed around the glow he gave off, banging into things. It was pathetically embarrassing. And intoxicating. And hopeless.

But it was far too late for caution. Who did he think he was fooling? He was over the horizon and gone, gone, gone…

“Sure, why not,” he said, and grinned as if he hadn’t just sealed his own fate. “I’ll see you back here in two weeks, Your Holiness.”

Chapter Text

Far to the Northwest, on tall cliffs of pure white stone, lay a palace.

A soaring, glittering white palace, one adorned with myriad towers and turrets that gleamed golden in the sun. It sat perched on an outthrust piece of rock overlooking the vast Silver Sea, with a sheer drop directly behind it and nothing but open sky all above and below. Carved from the same white stone as the cliffs it sat upon, one could easily imagine that it had simply sprung up one day by writ of the gods.

The palace library was situated high in the upper West wing, a circular multi-story room lined with high windows facing the sea. That sea was mirror-smooth today. The noontime sun sparkled like diamonds on the surface of the calm water, forming a dazzling path that led straight out past the blue horizon.

Lovely. 

Prince Azra sat on the padded velvet window seat, a book in his lap, listening to the distant cry of gulls.

This little nook was a particular favourite spot of his. The cushions were very comfortable, and his back fit quite nicely against the corner of window and wall. Just the right amount of sunny, not direct enough to burn his skin, and the glass was deliciously warm against his left side. One could sit here and watch the entire day pass if they were so inclined, which was exactly what he intended. He’d come prepared with biscuits and a cup of wine, and as far as he was concerned there was nothing more to want in the entire world. Almost.

It was a properly lovely summer day, and he was hiding.

No, no, not hiding, precisely, he corrected himself. Princes did not hide. Of course not. He was only sitting in a place where he was highly unlikely to be disturbed, which was not the same thing at all. Yes. The fact that said place was at the very back, unused corner of the top floor of the vast library, behind several tall shelves and around three corners, was purely coincidental. A bit dusty, to be sure (he had already sneezed three times), but purely coincidental.

He wiggled in a bit more comfortably against the window with a contented sigh, and treated himself to another bite of biscuit as he soaked in the blessed peace and quiet. Silence was such a rare luxury in a palace.

His chambers were no good for relaxation, of course; everyone knew exactly where to find him there. The rest of the palace, from the gardens to the arms yard, was constantly abuzz with courtiers and staff coming and going, bowing and scraping, gossiping. Commenting. Smiling too wide and asking if there was anything they could do for him. Watching, evaluating, tutting behind his back, asking if he was quite sure that he wouldn’t like to whack at people with swords today. Driving him to distraction, when all he really wanted to do was sit quietly and read! The library was his favourite place, and a part of that was because it was everyone else’s least favourite place. His brothers in particular couldn’t imagine why anyone would voluntarily spend time in a library surrounded by moldering books (their words, not his). But then his brothers had always taken after Father that way.

It wasn’t as pleasant as being out in the Southern Wood with Crow, but here, at least, a man could find some privacy! Here, at least, all was serene.

A shadow fell over him. “Aha. I thought I might find you back here.”

Usually serene. Some people always knew exactly where to find him, blast it all.

He gave a long-suffering internal sigh, and lowered his book to see the familiar grey leather boots standing before him. Not every irksome person in the palace was a courtier.

“Can I help you?” he asked, and finally looked up. And up.

Michael. Second oldest brother, first in line after Gabriel, and everything a prince should be, naturally. Well over six feet tall, Michael was broad at the shoulders and trim around the waist even in his late forties, with biceps as large as Azra’s head from near constant training. Much like every other man at court. He always wore clothing at least one size too small to show it off, too. Perfectly white, straight teeth that rarely showed, as Michael rarely smiled beyond a smirk. Glossy brown hair under a silver jeweled circlet curled artfully to his chin, framing the sort of cut features that kept courtiers mooning after him in droves. Michael had grown from a reedy boy into the spitting image of their father, like Gabriel, whereas Azra had only ever managed to grow chubbier.

Michael lounged with casual arrogance against the nearest bookcase, one eyebrow raised, and ran an idle finger along the leather spines of the books. He grimaced at the dust and wiped his finger hastily on his silver doublet. “Am I not allowed to say hello to my baby brother?”

“Of course you can. Hello, then.” Azra pointedly looked back down at his book, and turned a page. Perhaps if he was dull enough Michael would simply go away.

And perhaps he would sprout wings and learn to fly.

Michael didn’t move. “I see you’re holed up back here all alone, as usual. And reading again?” he asked in a tone of insincere amazement.

A brilliant observation. And what else does one do in a library? “Indeed,” he replied shortly instead. Short answers were best, where his brothers were concerned. Anything more gave them too much to work with. As it was there was far too much to work with, from his book to his mannerisms to the way his surplus waist bulged over his breeches all the way around when he sat. He was silently grateful that he had already eaten the biscuit.

“Not natural for a grown man to read so much.” Michael leaned back against the bookcase with a regretful sigh. He grabbed a book at random from the shelf and squinted at it, as if it were some foreign specimen in a museum. “If you aren’t careful, people are going start thinking you read because you can’t think for yourself.” He chuckled as if it was quite a clever joke that he’d come up with all by himself, as if they all hadn’t said the same sort of thing a hundred times before. “You practically talk like a book already.”

You certainly run no risk of that. “Hmm,” Azra said noncommittally instead, and turned another page with rather more force than intended.

Michael seemed disappointed at his lack of reaction.

“I haven’t seen you around the palace or training yard this last week,” he said. “Where have you been? Off adventuring, were we? Or wooing some lucky courtier before your nuptials?” There was that smirk, and Azra made a thin line with his own lips. Michael was holding the book by the top of the delicate spine, he noted irritably. Squeezing it, really. It was bound to warp if he kept that up.

“You do quite enough wooing for the both of us. And you know full well where I’ve been,” Azra said mildly, careful to keep his irritation out of his voice.

“Ah, that’s right. Off on guard duty. Defending the kingdoms from the hordes of evil.” Michael’s voice was ever so slightly mocking, and Azra felt his cheeks warm.

Oh. So they had all known, had they? That his “critical assignment, at a heavily attacked location” was a sham to keep him busy and out sight. How…disappointing. And unsurprising, but it stung more than it should have. It certainly explained why no one had asked a single question about what he did out there all day, or asked for reports, or anything at all. He wondered if his brothers had all come up with it together. He supposed it was slightly better than his original suspicion, which was that they had sent him off to get wounded and acquire some kind of warrior-like mystique.

He doubted that even a big jagged scar right across his face could accomplish that, or make him any more visible to the rest of the nobility. His reputation around this palace had been set in stone since boyhood. Inevitable, really, for someone with a natural aversion to all the activities that the noblemen so loved, and eccentric to boot. He’d long since made his peace with the fact that he was simply…dimmer than others, a firefly in a world full of candles. Not meant to be seen.

 A meaty hand snatched the book out of his grip before Azra could react. “What’s this you’re reading now? A cookbook?”

“Give that back!” Azra leapt up and grabbed for it, but Michael held it easily out of his reach, just as if they were still children.

“One Hundred Tales of Lore and Legend”, Michael read aloud from the cover of the book, and finally allowed him to snatch it back. “That kind of rubbish still? It’s all you ever read. Aren’t you a bit old for this childish drabble?” He guffawed, throwing his head theatrically back, and clapped him hard on the shoulder. Too hard. Azra winced and pulled away. He used the movement to nudge the stack of other, similarly themed books at his feet out of sight. He also noted with distress that Michael had bent a page corner when he so carelessly grabbed the book, and it made him sharper when he replied.

“It is not childish, thank you. You have your hobbies and I have mine.”

“That’s true. I guess you do need something to fill the time between meals.” Michael slapped his own flat stomach with the other book in his hand. It made a sound like punching a slab of meat.

Azra pursed his lips, and couldn’t help but think of the extra chocolate biscuits he had tucked into his pocket, wrapped in the black handkerchief that Crow had given him. “Ha, ha, yes. Very good. Don’t you have some swords to go sharpen?”

“As a matter of fact, I thought I might go practice in the yard.” Michael shoved the book roughly back onto the shelf without looking, pushed himself away from the wall and stretched, making a point to puff his enormous chest out as he did so. He swung his arms around a few times and flexed his enormous biceps, straining the fabric of his too-small doublet. He was going to pop a seam if he kept doing that. Azra had seen it happen. “The next local tournament is coming up in only a few weeks, and I want to be sure to make a good showing of it. I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself.”

The warmth in his cheeks deepened into a heat, and Azra could tell he was blushing now, again, blast it all. He hated that.

His one and only reluctant attempt at the tournament sword games, five years ago, had ended in humiliation when he cringed away from striking his opponent at the last moment. He would never, ever be allowed to forget it, either. And no matter how much time passed, no matter how often he told himself that he didn’t care one whit how good he was at whacking people with metal sticks, he couldn’t seem to rid himself of the embarrassment. He silently cursed his red face and showed Michael only a coolly disinterested expression. “Then you had better get on with it.”

“You’re scheduled for training with us tomorrow, too,” Michael said. “Eight o’clock. Don’t forget.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He dreamed of it often.

“See you at dinner.” Michael strutted off through the bookshelves with a smirk, looking very satisfied with himself.

Azra waited until he was out of sight, then sat back into his dusty nook with an exasperated sigh. Dinner. The one time of day that he could not avoid the collective company of his family.

He sat there with book forgotten in his lap, and stared out the window.

One more week. Only six more sunsets to muddle through, then he could ride back to the Wood for more “guard duty”. What a blessed relief! The thought was a fresh breeze in the suddenly stifling room, and made him smile in anticipation. Ride back to shady picnics and long lazy days with just him and Serafina and books and…and striking topaz-yellow eyes with flecks of deeper gold, ringed in black…  

With an effort he turned his gaze firmly back to his book, but his thoughts would not be so easily turned aside.

Crow. The Enemy, of course. But also, by now, a good friend. An unexpected friend that had sauntered into his life in the most unorthodox way possible. Now there was a tangle, no mistake about it. A smirking, gangly, very surprising redheaded tangle, nothing like he had ever been lead to believe. Azra had journeyed below the Wall expecting to find monsters, and instead been confronted by the most breathtaking man he’d ever laid eyes on, standing there with hair blazing in the sun and a hand full of leaping flame. Like something out of legend. A beautiful man with no fangs at all, only a disarmingly boyish smile that transformed his entire face when he threw his head back and laughed…

He would give a great deal to hear that throaty laugh right now.

He examined the bent book page, and sighed. Surely he could ask Crow to fix it when he saw him next, he consoled himself. And perhaps there would be another letter today. That always cheered him right up.

And why shouldn’t it? he thought stubbornly. There was nothing whatsoever unseemly in having a friend, no, not even a forbidden one that would surely see him disowned if ever discovered.

It was unlike him to break the rules so flagrantly, but ever since Gabriel’s announcement about his impending engagement…well. Lately he had found himself saying and doing things altogether unexpected. When a man’s life was about to drastically change, that wasn’t so very surprising, was it? Perhaps this was one of those mid-life crises people liked to talk about.

Yes, it was good to have a friend, one set apart from the games of the court. Crow was so easy to talk to, in a way he had never found with anyone else before. Crow never simpered to his face and sneered at him the moment his back was turned, never one to bow and scrape and genuflect. He could trust that each smile was genuine, a luxury as rare as silence. Crow was honest in his reactions and free with his sarcasm. He was even sometimes blatantly rude. 

It really was astounding, Azra mused, how different the same expression could feel, depending who made it. When Michael smirked it made him want to fling his tea into his face. When Crow smirked, it had a different effect.

But then… Now Azra smiled to himself, feeling his cheeks warm. Crow was handsome and dashing, with piercing golden eyes and an undeniable rakish charm, and something intense and compelling about the way he moved that made him so intriguing to watch.  

So he could admit that he was perhaps a tad biased.

And the way Crow looked at him with those eyes! So intently, but with none of the cold calculation that he was used to seeing in courtier’s faces. Crow looked at him like… like he actually saw him. Like he didn’t see a dull, disappointment of a prince who couldn’t even be bothered to learn to fight properly, a faded imprint where a full-colour person should be.

And then, of course, there was his magic. The way those long, elegant, skilled fingers pulled miracles of fire from the air, with the same casual ease that a man might pluck a flower! Azra couldn’t help but sigh at the memory. Remarkable, truly remarkable. And oh, the barely-hidden joy on Crow’s angular face as he shaped the magic into something beautiful, as he set it dancing. Just last week he had created a tiny fiery facsimile of Serafina and made it gallop around the clearing. He always tried to keep stoic, Azra could tell, but that excitement was there, shining right under the surface like a candle and as bright as his magic. His joy was lovely. Everything about Crow was lovely. In a world of candles, he was a bonfire.

Enough of that.

With an effort he pulled that carriage of thought to a screeching halt, took firm hold of his unruly thoughts and forced them to behave, the way he had always done since he was a boy. Taming unruly thoughts was probably his best skill by now, though it seemed faulty lately.

Crow was pleasant company, that was all, he told himself firmly. Yes. He was playing with fire as it was, keeping a friend like that. Especially a friendship that came with an expiration date. The thing that he had been dreading his entire life had finally arrived, and he…would have to make the best of it. Once married he would have new duties, and eventually the obligation of- of children… and would certainly never have the time or opportunity to travel all the way down below the Wall and laze about.

It certainly wasn’t as if he had anything to complain about, after all. He had been born to a life of privilege that many would kill for, of course he knew that, and such privilege required certain obligations. And he had his books full of entire worlds pressed between the pages, and Serafina, and a lovely palace library all to himself, and he would always have those things. Fortunate, he was. Only an ungrateful lout would think that was not enough.

The last thing he needed was to start encouraging the type of distracting thinking that he had stuffed far, far away his entire life.

Life was so much less painful when you didn’t let yourself wish for impossible things.

Azra-

I’ve had a visitor. A Knight found the tower yesterday and spent ages yelling himself hoarse and trying to hack his way in through the hedge. Luckily I spotted Sir Idiot early on and was able to keep re-growing the chopped off bits. Bastard was persistent, I’ll give him that- he kept at it for three hours before giving up. Screeching about “foul magics,” waving that sword about and calling me a coward for not coming out and facing him. He used language that I’ve never even heard before and is no doubt too harsh for delicate royal ears. It was kind of impressive, actually. I’ve taken a few notes for future use.  

He was probably just angry that I wouldn’t throw myself at him with my bare fists and have the decency to die honourably. Why are Knights always so damned surprised that a magic user dares to use magic against them?

I found a place that does great treacle tart, by the way, that might live up to even your lofty standards. I’ll bring one next time.

Dear Crow-

My goodness. I’m very glad you were able to hold him off (I presume that the letter was written by you, and not your shade from the beyond?).

I was planning to tell you about my own day, obligated to train for hours at swordwork with my brothers, which is a trial all in itself, to be sure, but that feels a bit inadequate now by comparison. So I’ll say only that I am looking forward to a bit of relaxation.

One day I will need to see this formidable hedge you mention so often.

Until tomorrow,

Crow put down the letter and sighed, dragging a hand down his face. Finally. Tomorrow he would finally see him again. An entire fortnight since Azra’s “guard duty,” which hadn’t sounded like a lot at first, but that was Time for you. Fourteen days, and he’d spent every day of it feeling Azra’s absence as keenly as a missing tooth.

The only thing that had kept him going was the daily letters they had been exchanging.

It had begun as a joke, during that first week away, a back and forth to see who could out-snark the other. Azra had written first, to tell him when he would be coming back, and Crow had written back asking what delicacies he should have prepared upon Azra’s return. And then that had segued into exchanging recipes and chatting about their day, and funny stories, just as if they were still having lunch, and it eventually turned into a part of his regular routine. Get up, comb his hair, make breakfast, water his flowers, sneak around to avoid Hastur, write a letter to his hereditary enemy, practice some botany spellwork…

All completely normal and sane over here, in the Kingdom of Denial. Yessirree.

Crow took a final determined slurp of willowbark tea, grimacing at the familiar bitter taste. Blehhh. Enough of that. Nasty stuff, tea. He set the empty cup aside, pushed himself back from his desk and stretched, rubbing absently at the fresh bandage on his left forearm under his sleeve.

The Knight he’d mentioned in his letter had ended up lying in wait for him beyond the thorny hedge, and rushed out of some bushes with that damned broadsword the moment Crow left his tower to go buy the treacle tart. The only reason he’d not been split in two is that all that stupid armour made a truly incredible amount of noise, like a whole rack of pots being dropped, and by the time the man clanked and clattered all the way up to him it had spoiled the element of surprise. The screaming had been a bit of a giveaway as well. There was still a big ugly scorch mark on the nice green grass right outside the hedge that Crow needed to fix, but at least the armour would fetch a good price.

And best of all, Hastur hadn’t seen the attack happen, so no snide reports about incompetence would be winging its way back to the Council.

It had been awkward stitching the wound with his right hand, but he’d managed, and at least it wasn’t hurting anymore. Willowbark tea worked miracles even if it did taste like pond sludge. His book of botany magic had an incredibly useful set of little spells for enhancing a plant’s growth, which he’d discovered could also be used to enhance the potency of dried herbs.

But of course he wouldn’t tell Azra about any of that. If Azra had too many uncomfortable reminders of how the rest of the world saw sorcerers…well. No sense risking it.

He carefully tucked the letter into his desk drawer along with all the others, then poured himself a glass of red wine to wash the taste of tea from his mouth.

Glass in hand, he ambled over to the great shuttered window and pushed it open to look North, over the vast sweep of dark green trees stretching into the horizon. To his left a spectacular sunset had painted the sky in streaks of purple and citrine and fiery pink. The pointed emerald treetops were touched with orange gold, blazing like torches. Beautiful. He sipped his wine approvingly, and for the thousandth time thanked fortune that his window faced North instead of South. Doubtless that was a treasonous thought, but treason was his bread and butter these days.

He reached outside and rubbed a hand over the outer stone wall with a sigh. His fingertips came away with only a few flakes of black paint stuck to them. Brilliant. The whole tower was due for a re-paint. Weather and the stubbornly elegant vines had chipped away most of it; the place was looking grey at best, and in some places the natural white stone had started to show through. That would never do.  If the Council caught wind that he was larking about in a pretty tower there would be hell to pay.

A raven landed on the sill with a clacking of claws, a mere handspan or two from his elbow, and stared hard at him with beak slightly open.

“I know, I know,” Crow muttered.

He hadn’t refilled their feeder yet today, and the greedy bastards got impatient.

The raven fluffed its throat hackles and made a noise like water running over pebbles. It was a young bird, like all the ones that lived around the tower. Its black feathers gleamed iridescent purple in the light of the setting sun.

“I’ll get to it soon,” Crow promised.

The raven continued to stare, clearly unsatisfied. It hopped a bit closer and made that clicking-warble sound again.

Crow snorted. “Fine.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of sunflower seeds. He set a few on the windowsill and pushed them towards the edge. “Here. Get on with you.”

The bird cocked its head, examining the offering with one beady black eye, then seized a couple seeds in its thick beak and took off in a flurry of wings that blew his hair back.

Crow idly flicked a stray black feather off the sill, watched it spiral slowly down, down to the ground far below. He rested his chin in hand, and looked back out North with a huge sigh. He caught himself doing this nowadays more often than he liked to admit, leaning on the sill like some pining princess. The truth was that lately he spent far too much of his time lagging about, waiting to see that stupid little white bird come flying over the trees. He’d never thought that the sight of a damned overbred pigeon could bring him such happiness, but here he was.

He missed Azra. Curse it, he missed his bright smile and silly little courtly mannerisms, his fussing over ink blots and a mud stain on his breeches. He missed his ridiculous clothes. He missed the way he would ask him questions as if he actually cared to hear the answer. He even missed seeing that stupid horse, because at this point the two were a matched set.  

He knew it was too much to hope for that Azra missed him too. The best he could say for sure was that the prince preferred him to boredom, and that was already remarkable enough.

It was embarrassing, really. Crow walked around the tower all day humming to himself, thinking of the next letter he could write, trying desperately to come up with interesting things to say. Despite all his efforts to act normal, his previous normal had been near-constant scowling, so Hastur had begun to glare suspiciously at him whenever they crossed paths. One time Crow had been foolish enough to read his letter in the kitchen instead of his bedroom, and nearly soiled himself when Hastur popped up out of the corner of his eye like the world’s most awful jack-in-the-box. Trying to get a look at the letter, no doubt. One of these days he was going to accidentally incinerate him; it was a miracle it hadn’t happened yet.

He needed to be careful. If Hastur were to send in an unfavourable report, or mention any odd behaviour…the last thing he wanted was to be summoned again to explain himself.

But it was difficult to feel too worried, with a new letter to look forward to every day and a new reason to venture out of the tower. Even the glares of the townsfolk couldn't completely spoil the fun of looking for new desserts, or a book that might interest Azra, something he could bring next time and casually say “Oh, I just had this lying around…”

He daydreamed about him while he chattered on to his plants, while he tried to read, while he (very carefully) dusted and rearranged his Artifact collection. Every night he found his thoughts drifting towards him, in some form or another. Thinking of the way his hands moved when he talked, the way his voice sounded, wondering what he was doing. Hoping he was well. And often resorting to more…hands-on activities to relieve the pressure, when simply thinking was not enough. His spare pillow had seen some things.

Azra had slipped beneath his skin like one of the quicksilver poisons Father had taught him to work with as a child. “Don’t touch these, never with your bare hands. It’s an insidious poison; it won’t choke you to death or stop your heart; you’ll just succumb to a slow and subtle madness.”

A slow and subtle madness. That’s what this was. And one that he had no hope of recovering from, because he didn’t even want a cure.  

The next day Crow zipped into Eden with a nervous spring in his step, carefully chosen clothes as neat and tidy as they had ever been in his life: black waistcoat over full-sleeved black shirt, cloak draped at what he was fairly sure was a rakish angle, and affixed with a silver pin. He’d taken special care with his hair, too; it was tied back with a black silk ribbon. Not that Azra would notice or care about any of that, but he should at least look presentable, surely, in case the prince was having second thoughts about continuing to associate with a vagabond sorcerer, or had begun to grow bored of him, or….or….

Never mind. Sometimes I just like to look extra nice, is that a crime?  

Azra was already there, early per his habit, standing next to the pavilion and leaning against his horse. As he looked up and saw him approach his face broke into a huge, unmistakably happy smile, and Crow felt all his tension drop away like a ton of bricks. It was an oddly familiar feeling. After a second he realised it felt exactly like seeing his tower manifest in front of him when he used his amulet to travel back from Pandemonium.

Home. He felt home.

Crow very deliberately did not laugh, or do something impossibly stupid like run up and throw his arms around him in greeting, no matter how much he wanted to. He only gave a lazy smile and laconic wave to Azra’s cheerful “Hello there! Lovely to see you,” and sauntered casually over to his usual seat, the way he had every time. He sat down slowly, then very deliberately busied himself with unpacking the treacle tart he had brought.

Azra was doing that thing again.

It was one of the funniest and most endearing things about him. Azra was all fussy dignity and tidy clothes, all carefully tied cravats and neatly pressed handkerchiefs, walking around so buttoned up with his well-bred nose in the air – until he wasn’t. Until he caught sight of a piece of food he wanted to eat, or remembered a book he had read, or performed his magic tricks. Then, like a spark catching fire, his face would light up, his eyes would sparkle, and he practically vibrated with pent-up excitement.

Right now was one of those times. Azra was clearly doing his best to act normal, but – his eyes shone, and he was standing there waiting next to Serafina with hands clasped behind his back, shifting slightly from foot to foot.

Crow pretended not to notice. He let the silence sit there for a long minute, just to tease him, then finally looked up and cocked an eyebrow.

“Well, go on. Out with it, before you explode.”

Azra’s face split into a wide smile, like he’d just been waiting for him to ask. “Do you mind if I show you something before we eat? Well, two things, really, but this one first.” Excitement thrummed through his voice.

“Sure. A new magic trick?”

“Oh no, far better!” Almost before he finished speaking, Azra pulled his hands out from behind his back. He was wearing little white cotton gloves and holding a book. The dark leather cover was beautifully embellished with intricate patterns stamped in gold, and Crow bit back a grin. Of course. Oh, he’d missed this. The very sight of him was a swallow of hot honey mead on a sore throat.

“I acquired this just last week,” Azra burst out, nearly breathless with excitement. “It’s an illustrated version of The Republic of Thieves! Very old, the only one in existence that I know of. It has some of the most marvelous artistic work I’ve ever seen.” He ran a reverent hand over the gold-leafed cover, gloved fingertips caressing the fine glossy raised lettering. The gesture caught Crow’s eye and set his heart beating a little faster.

He wondered what it would be like to be touched with that kind of slow, deliberate care.

“Here.” Azra sat down, face alight with enthusiasm, and eagerly patted the seat next to him. “Let me show you.”

This was…new. Heart thrilling, scarcely able to believe his luck, Crow stood and walked over, and with only the slightest hesitation (shit, how close was too close?) sat down on the pillar next to him. There was almost a full foot of space between them, but still… it was by far the closest they had ever been to each other before. There was something indefinably, wonderfully different about sitting next to him instead of across from him. Crow felt as if the air had suddenly grown several degrees warmer on his right side, like sitting next to a campfire; he imagined he could feel that heat pressing against his skin. He shot a sidelong glance at Azra, but he was still just smiling at the book and holding it like it was made of glass. 

“It was quite the endeavor to get it down here without damaging it, let me tell you,” he was saying. “With texts like these, even the natural oils from our hands can damage them! That’s why I brought my special gloves. I also thrice-wrapped it in waxcloth to protect from moisture, and paper before that, and packed it in its own special carrying box. But I just had to show it to you.” He peeled open the top cover with infinite care, revealing a set of beautifully illuminated, brightly painted pages edged in more gold.

“Look here!” he exclaimed, and leaned towards him, holding the book out for his inspection and pointing at a brilliantly illustrated piece of scenery. He said a lot of things about it, too, but Crow couldn’t have said what they were. The world had blurred, and Azra’s voice faded into a wa wa wa wa the moment he leaned close. 

Azra’s downturned eyelashes were a shade darker blond than his hair, casting bronze shadows over his cheeks. There was a tiny brown freckle beneath his left eye. The sun streaming through his white hair made it glow like living gold, like sunlight made solid, and Crow wondered for the hundredth time how it would feel to run his fingers through it.

Probably nicer than anything I’ve ever touched.

Azra kept turning pages and pointing out new things, apparently without stopping to draw breath, and Crow nodded mindlessly along. He knew he should be paying better attention to what he was saying. He did his best, but he kept getting distracted by the nearness of him, by the details of his face that he’d only seen in his imagination for half a month, by the funny little motions Azra was making with his gloved hand. It was impossibly cute.

And was that…? Yes, he could even smell Azra, a heady, flowery cologne that was somehow reminiscent of springtime. It suited him perfectly. Crow had to resist the urge to lean in and inhale deeply, like some drunk tavern lecher. Shit. That would definitely go over well. Don’t mind me, just sniffing at your hair. Not sinister at all.

“What do you think?” Azra asked at last, ending his monologue and yanking him back to earth with a bump. 

“Beautiful,” Crow replied, startled into honesty. “Um. Not bad at all.” Before he could start to blush, he reached over and touched the spine of the book, where some of the fragile worn binding had become loose. A quick word, and it sealed up tight again.

“Oh.” Azra beamed at him. “Thank you.”

“Any time.” He meant to say it casually, as a throwaway line, but he made the mistake of looking into Azra's eyes as he did, and somehow between his heart and his mouth the words came out sounding entirely different.

Azra’s smile changed, became something softer and more serious for a fleet second. Then he dropped his eyes and stood up briskly. “Now for the second thing, something I hope you’ll like even more.”

He carefully set the book down in its box, closed and sealed the lid, then went to the saddlebags again and pulled out a velvet bag containing a second, smaller book. This he handed directly to Crow, and clasped his gloved hands together in front of him.

Crow took it curiously. The cover was of sage green leather, and flowing embossed silver letters declared it to be An Illustrated Compendium of Exotic Flowers. Fascinated, he opened it with all the care that Azra’s books deserved, onto a spectacular illustration of speckled fuschia star lilies. He paged through it with increasing interest, silently marveling at the silver-touched paintings of strange plants he had never seen before. Things called maidens tears and dragon flame and barrowleaf. Tiny underwater bell-shaped flowers that were nearly translucent; gauzy pink bulbs like whorls of spun sugar. Spectacular colour combinations and shapes he had never heard of before, from lands far away. Things that his gardeners hands itched to try and create.

“I saw it at the same rare book shop where I found my book, and, well, I couldn’t simply leave it there,” Azra said. “I thought you might like to have it.”

Crow looked sharply up at him. “This… is for me?”

“Yes, of course, if you want it.” He was fidgeting with his signet ring again under the glove. “I know it’s not a magical text, or anything special like that. But there are entire chapters of flowers in there that I’ve never seen before, not even in our hothouses! I’m very fond of flowers myself, and the illustrations are lovely. I do hope you don’t have anything too similar already, or…”

Crow just sat there holding the book, feeling his chest fill with buoyant warmth. Holding his book. The book Azra had bought for him. Azra had thought about him while he was away, even once, and cared enough to buy it for him.

“How did you know I like flowers?” he asked at last, interrupting the flood of explanations. “I never said that.”

“Oh.” Azra flushed a delicate pink. “Well, it seemed… You did say that you liked to garden, and when you showed me your fire magic you created a few flowers. And since you said you can only do that with things you can visualize clearly…it seemed the kind of thing you would…” he trailed off, and his eagerness was tinged with anxiety now. “Do you like it?”

The sweet warmth grew stronger, spilling out of Crow’s chest to fill the rest of him all the way down to his toes and fingertips. Not the burn of magic, for once, but something much softer and infinitely more lovely.

“It’s the best gift I’ve ever received,” he replied at last. He did not say that it was the first gift he had ever received, given freely by someone who didn’t want something from him in return. “Thanks.”

Azra’s smile beamed out again. “Oh, it was nothing, really. But you’re welcome, I’m so glad you like it.”

“It’s too much.”

“It is not.” The blush deepened on the prince’s cheeks as he spoke. “I thought this entire guard duty assignment was going to be simply terrible, and tedious, but you’ve made it…well, wonderful. The most fun I’ve had in a long time. You’ve shared your magic and this lovely place with me, too. That’s all worth far more than a book. You’ve been…you’ve been a good friend to me.”

Crow struggled to formulate a response to this remarkable speech. There was something dangerously close to affection in Azra’s voice, something that made his blood thicken like syrup and his heart struggle to beat. He latched on to the least dangerous sentiment. “Ah… I don’t mind sharing this place. It deserves to be appreciated, bring a little life back to it.”

Azra smiled and looked at the clearing around them. “I’d say there’s quite a lot of life here already.”

It was true. With the advent of summer the glade had exploded into even more flowers and greenery, partially with his clandestine help. The cracked pavilion ceiling hung heavy with vines and little blossoms that were supposed to be white, but that Crow had stealthily spelled to grow yellow instead. The broken arches were little more than pillars of oddly-shaped green, dotted with the occasional clematis flower. Moss in a dozen shades of verdant green had conquered every inch of the ground that wasn’t already covered in grass.  

Crow took a deep breath, and tried to sound offhand as he said, “As it so happens, I brought something too.” He dug into one of the many pockets in his cloak and pulled out a small black leather pouch. He tipped it over into his hand and shook out a single round chunk of white quartz the size of a walnut, filled with cracks and copper threads. It would have been unremarkable, save for the fact that it blazed with a steady white light.

“Oh! Is that…” Azra leaned forward, fascinated. “That’s a glowstone! Gabriel used to have one, but it burnt out decades ago.”

“Yep.” Crow jostled it on his palm a bit, watching the light shimmer. It was cool in his hand, a byproduct of the spell that allowed it to funnel tiny amounts of heat into light. Essentially the same thing he did whenever he created light or lit a lamp, but glowstones lasted indefinitely by somehow fixing the spell to the stone. Yet another lost useful trick of sorcerer artificery. He cleared his throat and held it out towards Azra. “I’ve had this in my Artifact collection for years, but I don’t need it. I can make light whenever I want. But you can use it to read at night instead of candles or lamps.” Azra had frequently bemoaned the risks of using fire anywhere near his precious books.

Azra looked shocked. “Oh, but- Don’t be ridiculous, this is worth far more than any book, it must be worth a small fortune!” Despite his protests, he picked up the glowstone and turned it over in his fingers, staring longingly at it. It seemed smaller in his hands than it had in Crow’s. The light cast odd shadows over his face. “There are hardly any of these left. How remarkable that it still works after hundreds of years.”

“Yep. Sorcerers used to be fairly impressive.” Instead of a bunch of idiots sitting in a swamp and telling themselves they are destined for greatness.  

“Don’t be silly. You can still do remarkable things.” Azra squared his shoulders and held it back out with an obvious effort, bravely lifting his chin. “But I couldn’t possibly accept.”

“Go on.” Crow folded his arms, making no move to take the stone. “It’s useless to me, and it’ll only go back to collecting dust if I keep it. You’d be doing me a favour, really.”  

“Well, if you’re absolutely certain…” Azra had already closed his fingers over it, probably without even realising it.

“I am.”

“Very well.” Azra smiled excitedly now. “Thank you. I promise I’ll put it to good use.”

“I’m counting on it.” Crow handed him the little leather pouch, and ignored the way his heart thumped when their hands touched.  

Azra unpacked the food for their usual meal, then reclaimed his seat next to him, to Crow’s surprise and pleasure. There was a new ease to it, to whatever this was. Something had shifted, some kind of unspoken agreement had been reached, unquantifiable perhaps but still there. It made him entirely too happy to be healthy.

The one downside to sitting next to Azra was that it made it harder to look at him while eating and make it seem natural. Crow had to eye him sidelong, but it was well worth that sacrifice. He cut them each a slice of the treacle tart after lunch, and was gratified when Azra proclaimed it equal to the ones they made at the palace.

Emboldened, Crow decided to bring up an idea he’d been mulling over for the last week.

“So. I’ve been thinking,” he said casually into the quiet.

Azra swallowed his bite of dessert and eyed him, slightly suspicious. “Have you? What about?”  

“Well, last time you expressed curiosity about what I go do above the Wall. And you did mention that you’ve never gone anywhere in the kingdoms before.”

“Yes…that’s true…”

Crow raised his eyebrows and favoured him with a grin. “How would you feel about changing that?”

Chapter Text

“I’m still not entirely sure this is a good idea,” Azra said nervously. “Upon reflection, it feels rather foolhardy.”

They were standing in front of the Eastern gate, the white marble Wall towering high above their heads. It was just past five and the sun was not yet set. Much later than their usual meetings, but then this was not a usual meeting.

“Pfft," Crow scoffed. "A tavern is hardly what I’d call foolhardy. I told you, I’ve been going up there for years and years, and no one has ever noticed anything. Remarkably oblivious, these Northlander types.”

Azra gave him a look.

“Besides, it’s too late for second thoughts!” Now Crow flashed his most wicked grin. “You’re already dressed for the occasion.” 

Azra looked down at himself and tugged at his sleeve, as if reminded. “That’s true… Though I’m not entirely sure these clothes suit me.”  

Crow bit his tongue against his automatic reaction to that. Azra had brought commoner clothing with him to change into, and... He wore a plain linen shirt under a high-collared brown jerkin that lay snug across his broad shoulders, with brown breeches. His cloth-of-gold cloak had been swapped for one of embroidered azure wool that brought out the blue in his eyes. Clothes of a prosperous merchant, not royalty. He’d absolutely insisted on a cravat, and a shirt with ruffles on the sleeves, but other than that he looked like anyone else in the cities above the Wall.

It definitely suited him. He looked wonderful.

“They look fine,” was all Crow said. “Although…” He reached out with both hands and adjusted the white cloth around Azra’s neck, loosening it, definitely not just using the excuse to touch him. “There. It looked a bit too formal before.”

Azra shifted his shoulders and anxiously patted the cravat again. “I must say, it feels nearly indecent.”

Crow snickered. “If you’re ‘indecent’, then I’m completely naked.”

“Oh, good Lord.” Azra flushed and gave him another furtive once-over, gaze darting over his close-fitting black shirt and tight leather breeches. Typical clothes for an evening out. Crow had left the laces at the neck and sleeves loose, baring a strip of his chest to the sternum. Every couple of minutes Azra’s blue eyes kept flicking there, lingering for a split second before sliding quickly away. Scandalised, no doubt.

Crow grinned. It was always so easy to shock him. “You’re still wearing more layers than I’ve ever worn in my life.”   

“I have no doubt.” Azra made an odd little motion with his fingers, and Crow realised he was trying to nervously fiddle with a signet ring that wasn’t there.

“Relax.” He gentled his voice. “We’re just going for a drink, not invading a kingdom.” 

“Oh, I know. It’s very exciting! But…it’s only that I’ve never gone anywhere outside of my official capacity, with retinue and such. I’m afraid I won’t know how to behave.”

“You behave fine with me.”

“Well…thank you.” Azra smiled a little. “I suppose that is encouraging.”

“Just act natural. No one will look twice at us now that you’ve left off all your gold. C’mon, Your Holiness. Live dangerously for once.”

With a bit of cocky swagger Crow turned and gave the gate a shove.  

It didn’t budge. He scowled and tried again, ramming it with his shoulder this time, then again, harder. Other than a mysterious cracking noise that definitely wasn’t the door, nothing happened.  

“Ow,” he muttered, massaging at his shoulder. “Damned rusty hinges.”

Behind him, Azra made a small noise that could have been a cough.

Crow turned to glare at him, but he only blinked innocently back.

“Do you need me to-”

“No,” Crow snapped. He whirled back to the door and pointed at the hinges. “Kivitam,” he commanded, a minor spell of unsticking, dislodging, and this time he was able to push the door open easily. He did so, ignoring the faint coughing behind him. 

They walked through the Wood until they reached the main road, then crossed the bridge to the nearest tiny farming town. From there they were able to hire a carriage to transport them the short final mile to Thistledown. It was his most-frequented town: close enough to the Wall to be convenient, yet not rural, and just big enough for a sorcerer-in-disguise to disappear.

They finally made their way to his favourite tavern, a two-story place built of rough-hewn timber and stone with iron lanterns hung at intervals all along the outside. Not fancy, but not quite seedy either, it sat perched on the outskirts of town, right at the corner of two lesser-used dirt roads. Perfect for the weary traveler passing through, or someone looking to avoid attention. There were only a few other people walking out and about on business of their own.

Before crossing the street Crow stopped. “I just remembered, you’ll want to pick a different name, just in case. We can’t go around calling you ‘Azra’. Even all the way down here, people might have heard that name.”

“Oh. Excellent point.” Azra was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet with nervous energy. “Very well, I’ll be…Francis.”

“Francis?”

“It was the first name I could think of. It’s the name of our palace gardener.”

 “Sounds fine,” Crow said, tucking away a smile. No surprise there. Any man who had a horse for a best friend and gave away his crown to random peasants would have had friendliness to spare for a gardener. He had probably befriended every servant in the palace.

“And what about you?”

“I’ve been coming up here for years. I already go by Ashtoreth.”  

“Ashtoreth?” Azra’s mouth twitched. “From Flame and Fury?”

He shrugged, trying not to look embarrassed. “You don’t like it?”

“No, no, I didn’t say that. Very theatrical.”  

Crow suspected he was being teased, but Azra’s face was perfectly serious.  

“Right then, here we are. Just relax and we’ll be fine.” He paused before the door, through which they could hear the rumble of many voices. “Coming?”  

Azra had stopped to stare at the wooden sign hanging above the entrance. It featured a clumsily painted, scantily clad, cheekily winking woman sitting atop the twirling black words, The Painted Jezebel.  

“Crow, is this…a respectable establishment?” he asked doubtfully.  

“You wound me. This is my favourite tavern.”  

“That,” Azra said dryly, “was not the question.”  

“Would I take you somewhere irreputable?” Crow demanded with mock horror, pressing a hand to his chest.”

“Disreputable. And yes, naturally. That’s what scoundrels do, after all.”  

“Ehhh. True.” He squinted up at the sign with hands on his hips. “Well, it’s no Golden Pony. But it really depends what you mean by ‘respectable’.”

“Good Lord.”

“It’s fine. You wanted something a bit new and out of your experience, right? The drinks are really good, I promise. The clientele can be a bit…eccentric, but people are friendly enough, and the fights are mostly civil. Haven’t seen anyone pull a knife yet.”  

Azra was looking less reassured by the second.

“In we go,” Crow said, grinning, and held open the door for him.

The low-ceilinged taproom that comprised the ground floor was loud and boisterous inside, but not quite enough so to be called rowdy. Everyone was talking very loudly, but no one was talking angrily, and the general atmosphere was one of good humour. The air smelled sharply of varnished wood and spilled beer. More lanterns hanging along the inside walls cast a pleasant golden light over the crowd, just enough to feel cosy.

It was the kind of place where you could simply walk in and start speaking to nearly anyone if you liked, yet people minded their own damned business. No one ever asked uncomfortable questions like Who are you? and What are you doing in these parts? and Why are you wearing those things on your face at night? It was also always full enough where no one stood out, but not so full as to be too crowded.

Best of all, none of the patrons ever had that fanatical do-gooder glint in their eye that meant Crow might have to blast an unwitting acquaintance off the side of his tower one day.

All told, The Painted Jezebel was a very specific kind of in-between atmosphere, and it had taken a while to find it. A true gem in the rough.

Crow led the visibly nervous Azra through the familiar tables of people, occupied mostly by ordinary roughish-looking woodsmen and farmers mixed in with the occasional hard-bitten mercenary type, up to the long stretch of oakwood bar. Several other patrons sat there on high wooden stools, slumped in various stages of inebriation despite the early hour. One or two of them cast a bleary eye over Crow and Azra, but that was the extent of the scrutiny. A scruffy white-haired gentleman was already passed out cold with his face in his food, which wasn’t the risk it might have been elsewhere. At this tavern one could get sloshed in peace and be assured that they would not wake up with a knife in their back or their purse stolen. The proprietor kept things civilized that way.

Crow lounged casually against the bar and rapped his knuckles on the counter.

“Be right with you, luvs,” a female voice called to them from a back room, and a moment later the speaker appeared in the doorway:  A woman of later middle-age laced into an optimistically tight, garishly purple dress, with corsets cinched up to show off an excess of dubious bosom. Her short, elaborately curled hair was brighter red than Crow’s own, but going by the blond bits poking through hers was definitely a dye job. A bad dye job. 

As usual, a black and white magpie sat perched on her shoulder, claws gripping the ruched fabric of the dress sleeve.  

Azra glanced dubiously at him. Crow smirked.  

The woman swished cheerfully up to them in a near-visible cloud of perfume and rouge, and leaned forward over the bar with one hand on her hip. The bird swayed effortlessly with her, adjusting to the movement like a sailor atop a rocking ship.

“Good evening to you, Master Ashtoreth! We haven’t seen you around here for weeks. Staying out of trouble, I hope, dear?” She gave him her usual wink and coy smile, one that seemed to imply she hoped nothing of the kind. Her lips were painted bright red, a match for her hair.

“Evening, Tracy. Evening, Sergeant.” Crow gave a jerk of his chin to the bird on her shoulder, which chirruped and regarded them with its usual impassive beady eye. “Ah, you know. Only the virtuous life for me. But I’ll have my usual, if you don’t mind.”

Madame Tracy was the proprietor of the tavern, and one of the very few people he actually knew by name in Empyrion. The “Madame” part was her own affectation. She had a permanently coquettish tilt to her head and the air of one who very well may have been an occupational “madame” in her younger years. She managed the place with a kind of effortless finesse and confidence despite the mixed crowd.  

“Certainly, luv.” She turned her lidded gaze to Azra.

Her sharp eyes took in everything about him in one practiced sweep from head to foot: his carefully combed hair and polite smile, his cravat, the manicured hands folded neatly on the bar with ruffles poking out of his sleeves.

The ruffles, Crow realised decisively, had been a mistake.

Tracy looked with new appraisal back at Crow, who very determinedly did not let his expression change.

“And for your friend?” One carefully plucked and powdered eyebrow arched very slightly upwards.

“Oh, he’s not my friend,” Azra blurted out before Crow could answer. “We barely know each other. Strangers, really. Just met him today, in fact,” he babbled.

Crow briefly closed his eyes behind his glasses. “Tracy, this is Francis.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Tracy said with a smile. “Master Ashtoreth has never brought a guest before, not once in all the years he’s been coming by. It’s good for such a nice young man to have some company.”

“Charmed, madam,” Azra said, and gave a polite little courtly bow (complete with sweep of his cloak) that couldn’t have looked more out of place in their surroundings. A half-asleep drunk at the bar actually turned to squint at him.

It belatedly occurred to Crow that advising Azra to “act natural” may not have been a great idea.

He hastily cleared his throat before anyone could say anything more, and slid two silvers across the bar. “He’ll have a white wine. Whatever you have that’s sweetest.”

Tracy’s smile widened, unfazed. “Of course, dears. Find a seat and I’ll have that out to you in just a tick.”

They did so, choosing a small table for two near a back corner of the room that was relatively free of other patrons.

“‘Just met him today’, hm?” Crow leaned close and pitched his voice low enough to be lost in the hum of conversation. “You should probably avoid lying if you’re going to be that bad at it.”

“Well, it isn’t a skill I’ve tried to cultivate,” Azra replied tartly, just as quiet. His ears had gone rather pink.

“I’m sure you haven’t, Your Holiness.”

“Oh, stop with that.” Azra gave his shoulder a light shove. “And I thought we were supposed to be in disguise?”

“Yeah, but I never said we needed to pretend we’re strangers. No one knows who we really are, remember?”

“I may have got a bit carried away,” Azra replied. 

“Mm hmm. And while you’re at it you may want to cut down on the bowing. We’re simple folk in these parts.”

“Manners,” Azra said with a lofty tilt of his chin, “are universal.”

Crow was spared having to respond to that by the arrival of Tracy with their drinks. “Here you are, dears.” She set down a tankard of dark ale and a wooden cup of wine and sashayed away, but not before giving him a hearty wink behind Azra’s back.

Crow groaned and rubbed both hands down his face under the glasses. “Brilliant. Now she definitely thinks we’re here together.”

Azra tilted his blond head, puzzled. “But we are here together.”

Crow gave him a frank look.  

“Oh.” The pink ears flooded red, and the rest of his face as well. “Oh. Like that, together. Oh dear.” He gave a bashful laugh and looked back across the room.

“Yeah, oh dear.” Crow kept his eyes down, using a finger to trace the wet ring his drink had left on the table. He could feel his own cheeks getting warm. “But don’t mind her, Tracy’s alright.”

“Yes, she seems… a very colourful sort.” Azra picked up his cup of wine and peered into it appraisingly.

“That’s good,” Crow said with a grin. “I’m a colourful sort too.”

“I suppose you are.” Azra picked up a nearby cloth napkin and began polishing the cup, a smile playing about his mouth. “I admit the bird took me rather by surprise at first.”

“I told you the people here were a bit eccentric. Though I’d think you’d be harder to shock after spending all this time around disreputable sorts like me. Are you going to inspect the table for termites too?”  

“If need be,” Azra replied primly. He took a small sip of his wine, and his expression became surprisingly pleased. He took another, larger sip and closed his eyes with a familiar satisfied sigh, and as usual Crow took the brief opportunity to look at him unguarded. Azra’s face had softened into that perfectly relaxed, nearly beatific expression that Crow found so hard to look away from. How he would love to have Azra look at him like that.

The moment ended far too quickly, as always. Azra opened his eyes and looked at his cup again. “This is quite delicious.”

“Uh huh. Told you the drinks were good.”  

Crow glanced over towards the bar, and caught Tracy smiling over at them in a knowing sort of way as she polished the countertop with a cloth. He gave an internal groan. That just figured. He guessed it would have been too much to hope for that no one would comment at all.  

“So, how does it feel? Being completely unrecognised?”

Azra looked around the room again, an expression of wonder on his face. “It’s strange, but I must say it feels…lovely. And audacious. I suppose it shouldn’t be such a surprise, but no one is looking at us at all.” He smiled at Crow now, rather shyly. “Thank you for bringing me here. I know it’s a risk; I do hope I haven’t embarrassed you too badly.”

“Nah, not at all. You’re a natural, you fit right in,” Crow reassured him, and absolutely did not let himself grin.

Azra beamed, and raised his cup to him. “Cheers!”

Crow did smile then, as always, and leaned forward to tap his tankard against the cup. “Cheers.”

And just like that, a new routine was born.

Spring turned to full summer.

The days flitted by sparrow-quick, now that Crow had been plunged into this strangely wonderful new reality. Lunch. Eden. Books. Drinks. Azra. The Painted Jezebel became a solid fixture in their evenings, at least a couple times a week, where they drank Madame Tracy’s excellent-quality alcohol and argued companionably about whatever topic crossed their minds.

And then, as they grew bolder, they added trips to some of the larger towns further above the Wall, the ones still too far Southwards for any commoners to recognise Azra, and too small for any other nobility to grace with their exalted presence. These towns had theatres, and festivals, and what Azra excitedly referred to as cultural events. It turned out that the prince’s company made it even easier than usual to avoid suspicion, as no one looking at him could possibly think he was up to no good. Indeed, when he was around no one even spared a glance for Crow and his glasses at all. Azra radiated an unmistakable aura of cheerful trustworthiness that immediately opened doors and was enough to overcome Crow’s more dubious demeanor.

All this fun was interspersed with the dreary stretches where Azra was away, usually for a week at a time, but even those were brightened by the constant letters. Crow’s increasingly full desk drawer was kept locked tight against prying manservant eyes.

And Crow was dismayed (though not surprised) to find that this new madness did not lessen as time went on, at all. But he did get somewhat used to it. He still felt that same lurch whenever Azra smiled at him, sure, that wasn’t going anywhere, but at least he knew what to expect now. He built up enough resistance to where he managed to avoid staring cow-eyed at him more than the bare minimum, so that was something.  And if his breeches often felt tighter when Azra was around, then… that was nothing he couldn’t handle.

The only thing he couldn’t handle, the one thing that kept it from being perfect, was the invisible hourglass counting down the days until all this would come to a screeching halt. Azra hadn’t mentioned his possible engagement again, and Crow for his part was content to pretend that it didn’t exist. Maybe if they didn't talk about it, it would never happen.

Oh, he knew it was a stupid strategy, like a child playing hide-and-find with their face pressed into a pillow, but avoidance was his only choice. Telling Azra how he felt was obviously out of the question. Such an unwise confession would only send Azra running screaming for the horizon as fast as Serafina could carry him, and Crow didn’t want to cut even one moment of this short before its time.

It wasn’t Azra’s fault that Crow had been stupid enough to go fall in-

No. He shied away from the word even in his head. Words had power. As a magic user he understood that better than most, understood that some words had the power to reshape the world and change reality irrevocably. So he refused to even think that word. He stuffed it far, far down, and vented his feelings late at night once tucked safely back in the privacy of his own bed.

He had simply fallen, sudden and without control, like missing a step on the stairs, and had not stopped tumbling headlong ever since.  

They were in what had become their customary back table at the Painted Jezebel, and the topic of the moment was plays.

Crow had found that when Azra had a cup or two of wine in him, he liked to pontificate about his favourite books and theatrical productions. It worked well, since it was one of the safest public topics of conversation that they were both passionate about.

Crow groaned. “Ugh, not A Prince’s Demise. That’s a terrible play.”

“You cannot be serious. It’s a classic!”

“It’s so old that it creaks. That doesn’t make it good.” 

“Really, Crow. Here I thought you had at least a modicum of taste-”

“It’s a tragedy. Everyone in it dies by the end, even the supposed hero – who is a prat, by the way. All that melancholy wailing, staggering around and just making things worse; it’s so bloody gloomy. Who wants to watch a story like that?”

“Oh, tosh. ‘Thought provoking’ does not make it gloomy. It has quite a lot of philosophy!” Azra enthused, as if this were a plus. “Besides, there’s a ghost, and politics and intrigue, and poetic romance. It’s ever so dramatic!”  

“Uuggh,” Crow groaned again, but he couldn’t keep a grin off his face. “Politics. I might have known, from a member of the nob- of your lot.”

“Just because you have the cultural depth of a spoon doesn’t mean that we all have,” Azra said loftily, but his eyes were sparkling. He made a show of looking away as he sipped at his drink. “I’m not at all sure I can continue to socialise with someone so unrefined.”

“Ha. I’ve got more refinement in my arse than A Prince’s Demise has in its entire first act.” Crow downed the rest of his wine in one gulp and banged the empty cup onto the table, a bit harder than he’d meant to. He waved Tracy over from the bar for a refill. “Go on, then, what about Stuff and Nonsense? Can we at least agree that that is a better play? It’s funny, and has some really good dialogue.”

“I suppose I can agree to that.” Azra smoothed a wrinkle in his cream silk sleeve, which for once had no ruffles at all. He’d compensated with an especially elaborate cravat instead, and wore a emerald-green linen cloak tonight over the usual brown leather jerkin. “It does have one of the most amusing sets of main characters.”  

They paused as Tracy refilled Crow’s cup of wine. Her usual tightly-laced dress was bright magenta today, the same colour as her heavy eye makeup, with gaudy flame-orange ruffles cascading down the skirt. Sergeant clung to her shoulder, beady-eyed and watchful as always.

“Enjoying yourself tonight, luvs?” Tracy asked. She’d struck up a very familiar rapport with the two of them over the last couple months, and smiled down at them now in a motherly fashion.  

“Oh yes, thank you.” Azra smiled back at her. “It’s such a nice summer evening.” He had adjusted remarkably well, Crow thought proudly, and didn’t even blink at the bird anymore. He sat there at the battered wooden table wearing linen as comfortably as he ever wore brocade, even if he did refuse to give up his cravats. Such progress. 

“Any special plans for later?” Tracy asked, overly casual.

Crow pretended as always not to notice her sultry sidelong glance and not-so-subtle wink. Tracy had winked like that at some point every. single. time. they’d come, and he had absolutely no idea what to do about it. He certainly couldn’t say anything. It would only draw attention to it, and as far as he could tell Azra genuinely didn’t ever notice. It was hard enough not to blush as it was.

“I believe we were planning a trip up to the theatre,” Azra replied, cheerfully oblivious. “Isn’t that right, Ashtoreth?”

Crow grunted in the affirmative.

“It’s still early enough,” Azra continued, “and there’s plenty of light left.”

“What a nice idea,” Tracy said, leaning forward to top off his drink as well. “Though I personally find the most interesting activities are always after dark, hmm?”

Crow choked into his wine, and busied himself with hammering on his chest as he coughed.

Azra looked at him in concern. “Are you alright?”

“Yup. Fine, fine,” Crow gasped.

Tracy swished off to the next table in a very self-satisfied kind of way.

“So,” Azra sighed, as they relaxed back in their chairs. “What are you in the mood for now?”

“Uh,” said Crow, who was feeling the wine, and still rather flustered. He took a moment or two before answering, pretending to think it over as he brooded at his drink through his glasses and collected his thoughts. The immediate responses that had leapt to mind were not at all helpful, since all of them involved a private room and a soft bed. He bit his lip. “Ahhh…brandy?”  

“Oh, it’s a bit early for anything stronger than wine,” Azra said with a sigh. “What I could really use is a nice cup of tea as a pick-me-up.”  

“Hngh. Tea doesn’t pick you up, it weakly prods at you.” It was a familiar exchange by now, comfortable as old shoes. “Coffee is what you want.”  

“Civilized people drink tea,” Azra insisted stubbornly.

“You can be civilized for the both of us. I prefer to be awake.”  

Azra muttered something about uncivilized ruffians and took a delicate sip of his wine. Truly though, Crow didn’t mind tea when it was Azra preparing it. He made the entire thing into an elaborate ritual, full of the simple joy he brought to all life’s small pleasures. It was a delight to watch.

He was a delight to listen to, too. The previous week Azra had cursed in his presence for the first time. An involuntary “bugger!” fell from his lips when he accidentally dropped one of his precious books into a mud puddle, followed by a horrified clapping of both hands over his mouth. Crow had nearly suffocated laughing; a swear word in that fussy, polite voice had been the funniest (and, if he was honest, most endearing) thing he had ever heard.

He’d repaired the book afterwards, too, of course.

He cleared his throat and yanked his wandering thoughts back to the question at hand. “We could walk to that little bakery up the road. It’s still early enough that they might be open, and they serve tea too.”  

“Now that is a good suggestion. It’s a lovely clear evening for walking.” Azra beamed at him, and Crow’s heart did its typical little jig. As always. Normal by now. Boring, even.  

“…all due to that nest o’ yellow-eyed devils down South!”

The loud, brash voice across the room cut through the quiet lull in conversation like a donkey’s bray; it made Crow jolt and both of them turn their heads to look.

A large man with a bald head sitting at the crowded bar was brandishing his tankard, ranting to his friends, and the subject of his ire soon became apparent: “…second fire by lightnin’ strike this year, not natural I tell yeh, it could only be dark magic.” He took a long drink and wiped a forearm across his bearded face. “Wish the kings would stamp out the lot of them, filthy unnatural bastards.” There was a low, irritated muttering of fervent agreement from the men around him. Two of them carried quivers of arrows slung across their backs, and Crow grimaced.

It was a common type of complaint to hear when people were in their cups; sorcerers made excellent scapegoats for…well, just about everything. Usually just idle talk, but hopefully this particular bunch wouldn’t be getting any ideas. He particularly dreaded attackers with arrows. A shield spell existed for such things, but it had never worked for him. Not only did you have to have absolutely unwavering, instant concentration (no mean feat with an arrow whizzing towards your head) but it took rock-solid conviction: you needed to believe that the arrow would stop more than you believed it would not. Which required, in Crow’s opinion, a certain amount of either arrogance or delusion. Whichever it was, he was lacking.

He adjusted his dark glasses and squinted closely at one of the arrow-carrying men, trying to decide if he seemed the tower-storming type. It took a special combination of madness and pigheaded confidence to try it, but you couldn’t always tell by looking. Was that an ominously Heroic gleam in his eye? If this place started getting the wrong kind of reputable clientele he would have to change taverns.

Azra’s startled expression had darkened to a frown, and he was staring hard at the loudmouth with lips pursed.

Crow leaned forward and tapped his arm to get his attention. “S’fine. Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly. The last thing he wanted was for Azra to catch that man’s gaze and give him reason to take offense. They couldn't afford a scuffle.

Azra turned back to him, eyes troubled. “I could say something. It’s not right,” he said earnestly, though quietly. “They shouldn’t say such horrible things about you.”

Crow only shrugged and shook his head with a wry smile. It was always jarring, hearing things like that; it jerked him right out of his warm pretending with a sharp reminder that he was, in fact, in dire peril from the general population. But Azra’s indignation was more fortifying than any drink could be, and it warmed him to the core. “It wouldn’t do any good. He’s drunk and angry and would probably just hit you.” And then I’d incinerate him. Unprompted, his imagination presented him with a very lifelike, high colour fantasy of sweeping a dazzled Azra off his feet and carrying him gallantly off into the sunset, cloak flying, like the finale of one of the more maudlin plays. As poor Tracy’s tavern burned down behind them, no doubt. Crow gave his head a little shake. Focus. “Besides, everyone else here thinks the same things and would probably back him up.”

“Hmph. He could certainly try to hit me.” Azra was scowling mulishly at his drink, the expression more charming than threatening. “I daresay all that blasted training has got to be good for something.”

“Shocking,” Crow said, dropping his voice further. “Contemplating a bar fight, Your Highness? I had no idea my wicked influence had gone so far.”

Azra turned slightly pink, and rolled his eyes. “I suppose it wouldn’t exactly be keeping unnoticed.”

“No, it wouldn’t. But I appreciate the offer, fighting to defend my honour. Such as it is.”

Azra rolled his eyes again, face softening into a half-smile. “Well, someone ought to.”

“We can just pretend you did.” The idea was so intriguingly attractive that Crow quickly squashed that line of thought before his body could make a problem out of it. They still had a lot of walking to do. Things could get awkward.  

“Very well. I suppose it wouldn’t do to muss our clothing before the theatre.” Azra lifted his chin and straightened his cravat with a few precise little movements that seemed more designed to show it off than adjust it. Crow drowned his grin in another gulp of wine.

The cravat was a new one, and Azra was very proud of it. Last week they had ventured as far West as one of the markets by the coast, their most daring excursion yet. Azra’s interest had been immediately captured by a clothier stall selling a variety of items in a fabric Crow had never seen before: it featured woven stripes in varying thicknesses and colours, criss-crossing and overlapping each other to create elaborate square patterns. Very odd. A large sign dramatically pronounced that it was just in, imported directly from “the barbaric warrior clans across the Silver Sea!” A likely story, in Crow's skeptical opinion.  

The merchant had been a savvy man. He’d taken one look at Azra and produced a flurry of patterned cravats with the deft speed of a festival juggler, and assured the captivated prince that it was sure to be the height of fashion in no time at all. Azra had excitedly bought one of every colour.  

Crow supposed that it appealed to his sense of adventure-by-proxy.

Today’s cravat sported layered brown and forest-green stripes against a cream background. It did look improbably good on him, a perfect match to the rest of his clothing. The outlandish pattern would have been completely bizarre on anyone else, but Crow had to admit that Azra made it look very nearly…stylish.

It slowly began to dawn on Crow that he’d been sitting here with chin in hand, gazing wordlessly at him for far too long. But Azra didn’t seem to mind. He was just sitting there with head tilted to the side, looking right back with a quiet smile.

Crow quickly averted his eyes, finished his drink in one toss and stood up. “The theatre, then?”  

“Indeed.” Azra put a hand on his shoulder and pulled himself up out of his chair, steadying himself. Crow held his breath. Azra had started doing this every so often, casual little touches that Crow suspected were casting some sort of spell over him. A simple hand on his shoulder definitely shouldn’t overwhelm him like this. It shouldn’t root him to the spot and be all he could think about, and yet… no one else had touched him, in any capacity, since he was very young. He closed his eyes behind his glasses. It created a bright, warm static that traveled slowly outward from the point of contact, drastically out of proportion and painfully addictive. It made him want to lean into it, to keep stock-still in order to encourage the hand to stay.   

Azra let go and the moment ended, leaving a chill where the shadow of his touch lingered. Crow opened his eyes and briefly considered offering him an arm to lean on, too. That was something other people did all the time, he’d seen it, strolling arm and arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. How would it feel, to hold out his arm to him and have him take it so casually, to walk together just as if he was anyone else….?  

The idea made his heart thump excitedly, but he dismissed it just as quickly as the more lurid fantasies. No, with his luck Azra would only be shocked, or unsettled, and then where would they be? Dead of embarrassment, in Crow’s case.  

“Oh look, there’s your namesake!” Azra paused in his reading to excitedly point across the clearing. A crow had alighted on the curve of a marble archway, one of the half-broken ones that seemed to defy gravity.  

They still spent most of their time here, in Eden. Exciting as it was to go 'adventuring' above the Wall, they couldn’t do it too frequently lest they start to draw attention, and be remarked upon. Sure, it was fun to pretend they were just like everyone else, but there was always the awareness that their safety (or freedom, in Azra's case) depended on keeping themselves scarce.

Crow wasn't about to complain. The ruins were especially beautiful at this time of year. And he liked nothing better than spending time with Azra just like this, alone and unguarded, listening to him read. 

“That’s the first I’ve seen a crow here; we usually only get sparrows and the like, don't we?” Azra had a plate of bread and grapes sitting on the ground between them, next to his marble seat; he tore off a piece of a roll and tossed it towards the crow.

After a wary minute or two the bird hopped down from its place and snatched up the treat, then fluttered off.

“Careful,” Crow commented lazily. He was lounging on the soft grass near Azra's feet, back propped up on another chunk of marble with arm tucked behind his head. He had a bottle of redcurrant wine in one hand and his eyes half shut. The summer sun was warm on his face. “Keep that up and they’ll start coming here in droves. He’ll tell the others about it.”

Azra chuckled.

“I’m serious! You should see how the ravens flock to my tower, and crows are pretty similar. Wickedly clever things, with damned big brains. They have their own unique languages and even play pranks on each other.”

“Oh.” Azra looked quizzically at him and raised his eyebrows. ”Do they now?”

“Yep. Huge flocks of crows lived around Pandemonium where I grew up, and I always used to watch them from my window,” Crow said. He took another swig of wine. “They’re funny birds, and kind of bastards, but they can be really friendly too. There was one big fellow that would actually hop into my bedroom window when I was a child. I used to feed him.” Until Father caught him at it, that is. After that…after that he’d kept his window shut. Crow shook the memory away and continued. “He’d leave me gifts in return. Just little bits of shiny rubbish that he found around.”  

“My goodness. I had no idea birds could behave like that,” Azra mused. He popped a grape into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, and after a moment his face split into a mischievous grin.

“What?” Crow asked suspiciously. 

“Oh, nothing.” Azra said it casually, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

Crow scowled at him.

“Well, it’s just that- I’ve been bringing lunch all this time…”

“Yeah…”

“And you gave me that glowstone. So if I keep feeding you, are you going to start bringing me more shiny gifts too?”

“Oh, sod off.” Crow tore a crescent roll in half and threw it at him. “My dazzling company is the shiniest thing you’re getting from me, Your Holiness.”

Azra laughed and brushed crumbs off his doublet with a careless flick of his fingers.  “Well, the name does suit you. You’re clever as well.”

“And kind of a bastard?”

“I didn’t say that.” Azra lifted his chin and looked off into the distance, but his eyes darted back, playfully.

“Of course not.” Crow grinned. “Glad I chose well.” 

There was a pause, then the blond head swiveled towards him. “Wait...you chose your name?” Azra said in surprise. “Really? You’ve never actually mentioned that, not once in all this time.” He sounded fascinated, and ever so slightly indignant. “Do all sorcerers choose their own names?”

Shit. He hadn’t mentioned it, very deliberately. Too late for that now. 

Crow sighed, resigned, and scratched at the back of his neck. “Ehhh. Well. No, just me. See, my mother named me Anthony before she died, but Father never liked the name. Thought it was too…soft, I guess,” he said, with a crooked smile and a glance at him. “So when I turned ten I changed it.”

Azra was looking at him in open sympathy. "Goodness. I'm sorry, that must have been...a difficult thing, for a child to deal with." 

Crow shrugged one shoulder with deliberate nonchalance. "Eh, could've been worse. I could have been named 'Percival' or 'Cuthbert', or something like that. Then I'd have real problems." 

Azra laughed, just as he'd intended, those delighted little eye crinkles making an appearance. "What made you choose 'Crow', then?”

“Well, I was young, and I thought it sounded intimidating and sorcerous. You know how it is. Crows were appropriately coloured, and they have all that superstition about them, so...uh…” He cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed again. Explaining it out loud made it sound pretty stupid. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“That makes perfect sense. It's a lovely name.” There was not a hint of mocking in Azra's face or voice. 

“Thanks.” 

A peaceful silence fell over the clearing, not an uncomfortable one at all. 

“Anthony.” Azra said it thoughtfully after a moment. “I quite like it. It's lovely, too.”

It did sound nice in his precise, scholarly voice.

Crow shrugged again. “'Suppose. It was never the name itself I disliked, just…the reaction to it.”

“Hm. In that case it seems a shame to discard it entirely. Would you mind if I call you Anthony once in a while?”

“Uh… no, go ahead, if you like. I don’t mind.” Crow was surprised to find that he meant it. From Azra, it felt…warm. Special.

Azra just beamed at him in response, that absurdly happy smile as if Crow had done him a favour. He wore one of his outlandish new cravats today, layered stripes of blue and grey that matched his eyes. His doublet was pale silver. His boots were polished, and he sat perched on his dusty broken pillar with book in his lap and back perfectly straight.

He was ridiculous, and lovely as a flower, and completely unaware of it.

The full force of that smile hit Crow right between the eyes and made his entire chest constrict. It did this at least once a day, curse it all, struck him out of the blue just as he thought he was getting used to it, as intensely as it had the first time. It made it hard to be content. It made it hard to keep his thoughts sane. 

He wanted to reach across the small space between them and take Azra’s hand. He wanted to stroke his cheek and say that he could call him whatever he liked. He wanted to tell Azra that if he would only stay with him forever, be truly his, that he would never ask for anything from the world ever again.

But obviously he couldn’t say any of those mad things. They were on borrowed time. So Crow just grinned back, as always.

Chapter Text

Tonight’s topic of dinner conversation was swords. Again.

Azra sighed. Quietly.

They were in the palace's large, stately private dining room, attended by a row of servants standing at stiff attention along the wall. The table was lit by dozens of candles set in tall silver candelabras. Gilt-edged china and crystal goblets clinked. As usual, soft music flowed from a large golden harp that sat in the far corner, untouched by human hands. Gabriel always insisted on bringing the Artifact out for every meal, even when there was no one else to show off for. He insisted it “raised the tone” of the room, whatever that meant, but that was Gabriel for you. He and the others loved to adorn themselves with as much exorbitantly expensive magic as they could get their hands on. It seemed especially gaudy lately after spending so much time eating in the simple beauty of the Wood, or at the Jezebel by lanternlight. 

Azra eyed the harp sourly. He really wouldn’t have minded some music, except for the fact that the blasted thing could only play the one verse from the one song. Over and over and over again. It was not a long song. And was it getting slightly faster each time? He suspected that whatever spell had enchanted it centuries ago had begun to wear off.

His brothers were currently sitting there at the table, yammering away at each other about the advantages of longswords over greatswords. Or perhaps it was longswords over bastard swords. Azra had long since stopped paying attention, and heavens knew no one was asking for his opinion. All to the better. 

He sat there in silence while the conversation ebbed and flowed around him, quite content to focus on the food and not draw attention to himself. The food was much more worthy of focus, in his opinion: an enormous roast of mutton braised to exquisite tenderness in red wine, slathered all over with garlic and herbs. Each meltingly soft forkful of meat came apart in his mouth like butter, so salty and a little bit sweet, and it was nearly enough to make him moan aloud. Truly delicious. Paired with the tiny delicate clusters of sautéed mushrooms in cream sauce, it was the best thing he had eaten in at least a month. Cook had outdone herself tonight. He would have to thank her personally later. He sighed appreciatively, and began happily working his way through a second portion.

He daydreamed as he ate, and as usual, despite his efforts, his daydreams were mostly occupied by one particular face. He knew he shouldn’t. But surely a little bit of daydreaming couldn’t hurt anything, not really. It couldn’t hurt to think about how, at their last outing to the Painted Jezebel, Crow had worn a new black shirt that hugged his slim shoulders and torso in a wonderful way, accenting yet softening all his lean angles and planes. The way the laces of his neckline always hung loose with nothing underneath, hinting at the merest dusting of auburn hair down his chest…

Or how sometimes, when they had lunch in Eden, Crow would lounge with his long body all stretched out, one knee bent, face tilted upwards towards the sun. Like a sleek black cat, basking, all feline grace and composure. At those times all the sarcastic tension in Crow’s face melted away, and he looked so happy and content. Much like the way his entire demeanor softened when he smiled, or as he leaned close to examine a flower when he thought no one was watching. There was no lovelier sight in all the world than that look.

His golden-eyed, dashing sorcerer with the wry sense of humour, who was easily as remarkable as his magic. Anyone with working eyes should be able to see it.

The room was suddenly too quiet. Azra looked up from his reverie, and found himself the unwelcome subject of all three of his brothers’ attention.

“Oh. Beg pardon, come again?”

“I asked if something was amusing,” Michael said. “You were smiling.”

“Oh.” He smiled and shook his head. “No, no, I was just thinking about a wonderful story I read earlier.” As he expected, everyone simply rolled their eyes at their silly younger brother and returned to their conversation. Azra faded contentedly back into obscurity, making sure to keep his face neutral this time.

In only three more days he would be able to ride ho-  south, ride south again, three more days until he could see Crow again, until he could truly relax. The knowledge was just enough to keep him from feeling suffocated. His little inn room at the Golden Pony had come to feel more comfortable than his sumptuous home quarters ever had, and good heavens, the moment he stepped below that Wall he could breathe.

He did not care to think about how it would feel when that was taken away. No. Best not. He would be fine, of course.

Servants cleared his twice-emptied plate and began filing into the room again, carrying the dessert course. Azra perked up to see the silver trays laden with vanilla cake and raspberries. One of his favourites. He eagerly accepted a large slice, though he knew he would probably regret it later.

“Hm.” Gabriel cast an assessing eye over him as the cake was set down. Those eyes were a different shade of blue than his own; in the right light, such as now, they could be almost violet. A match for his royal crown set with square-cut amethysts.

It was the first time he had spoken to him all meal, and Azra braced himself. Here it came…

“Is that really a good idea?” Gabriel asked, right on cue. “The Equinox Ball is only a month away. And then the Tournament of Kings is only three weeks after that.”

“Plenty of time, then,” Azra replied evenly, ignoring the lurch in his gut at the reminder. He took a dignified sip of wine, and picked up his fork.

A long-suffering sigh. “Have you been doing those exercises Armsmaster Carmine set you, when you’re out on duty?”

“Sometimes.” Azra kept his attention firmly on his plate. He didn’t need to look up to see the smirks and exasperated glances being traded up and down the table.

“Sometimes? Azra. We discussed this.” Gabriel shook his head and sighed again, and Azra could have done very well without his patronizing sighs. “Well, we’ve still got time to fix that this week before you go. Every day is a new opportunity to begin afresh, eh?”

King Gabriel took after Michael and their late father, with the same chestnut brown hair and classically chiseled features. Though he had just celebrated his fiftieth birthday, the years seemed to have barely touched him: his clean-shaven jaw was taut and unwrinkled, his back unbent, his hair untarnished by even a speck of grey (though Azra suspected that he dyed it). No extra pounds would dare go near his trim physique. He exercised twice daily and ate a carefully regimented diet.

Also like their father, Gabriel believed with unflinching rigidity that your body was a reflection of character, a standard to maintain, and never failed to be the one holding the mirror.

“You know full well it’s not my point of interest, Gabriel,” Azra replied patiently. The same old dance back and forth, just another piece of the argument he’d had for his entire life with Father. Gabriel had decided to take up that mantle as well when he became king.

“Nonsense! You just haven’t given it a fair chance. I’ve got a new regimen you can try. Worked wonders for one of the court boys. I’m certain you’ll love it; best set of drills I’ve ever done, let me tell you.” Gabriel grinned encouragingly, flashing a set of gleaming white, large teeth. Like a horse, Azra thought, rather uncharitably. But they did look a bit like Serafina’s. They also looked brighter than usual, the result of some newfangled cosmetic potion, no doubt.

Azra took a large, deliberate bite of cake, just to irritate him.

“I’ve given it forty years of chances, Gabriel,” he replied once he had chewed, and swallowed, and blotted his lips with the napkin. “I can’t imagine that another three days will make a difference.” Or another forty years, for that matter.

“Oh, but we couldn’t possibly take you away from your interests,” his brother Sandalphon put in from the far end of the table. His voice was ever so slightly nasal from a large, twice-broken nose. He didn’t have the other two’s height or slender build, but was still burly and muscled with the bullish strength of a champion boxer and wrestler. He’d taken both titles in the last three kingdom tourneys. Unlike the other brothers Sandalphon kept his brown hair cropped close to his head, neatly shaved, in part out of practicality and in part to conceal a receding hairline. He was casually wolfing down his second slice of cake, and gestured with his knife. His thick fingers gleamed with layered bands of gold, at least one, Azra knew, an Artifact enchanted to grow hot in the presence of danger. “Just think, one day there’ll be a tourney in poetry, or magic tricks, and you’ll be sure to take the championship.” Sandalphon grinned, revealing a glint of more gold where he had replaced two knocked-out teeth.

More snickers. Azra ignored it with the ease of long practice and continued eating, though some of the sweetness had gone out of the dessert.

Gabriel held up a commanding hand, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. “Your interests are secondary to your duty, Azra. You are part of this lineage, whether you like it or not, and we cannot have one of the heirs looking like an incompetent in the art of battle. If you only put half as much effort into that as you did into your little hobbies, well.” He sat back with a decisive gesture, his amethyst pinkie ring flashing in the candlelight. Another Artifact, this one designed to render any poison in his food harmless. It had cost a sizeable fortune.

With an effort Azra refrained from pointing out that there was no battle, hadn't been in over twenty years. “But they already have you three for that sort of thing. I don’t care about being competent in battle.” You insufferable prat, a small voice in his mind added. That was Crow’s influence, no doubt about it. Just the other day Michael had laughed at him for eating a fourth biscuit at lunch, and he’d had to bite his tongue to keep himself from telling Michael to put the biscuit someplace uncomfortable. The memory made his mouth twitch in spite of himself.

“Of course you do. I’ll tell Carmine to expect you tomorrow morning.” Gabriel nodded and continued eating as if it was all settled. “Don’t make me issue a royal command.”

He said it like he was joking, but Azra knew he was not.

“Like I said,” Gabriel continued. “The Equinox Ball is a month off, and that’s still just enough time to…improve, before you meet Lady Urielle.”

The bottom dropped out of Azra’s stomach again, and he had to swallow down an agonized groan. The dreaded Equinox Ball, and formal introduction.

Just two weeks ago Gabriel had burst into his chambers out of nowhere, without so much as a knock or by-your-leave, startling Azra so badly that he’d spilled ink across the letter he was writing to Crow. Completely unheeding, the king had grandly announced that the marriage arrangement was set to proceed, all triumphant toothy smiles and booming voice, while Azra stared in horror.

Every day since then he’d tried so hard to block it out and not think about it. He hadn’t even told Crow yet, partly for fear that it would somehow make it real, and in part because he simply couldn’t find the words. Every time he tried they would stick in his throat. He’d found that sometimes things just took on a certain…weight, and became so heavy that speaking (or even thinking) them felt impossible.

He did not want to talk about this now. Not ever, and especially not right here, with his entire family and the wide-eared servants watching, but he tried anyway out of sheer desperation. “For goodness sakes, Gabriel. She’s the next best thing to a child. More than twenty years my junior. If you’re so set on having me marry, can’t we at least find someone closer to my own age? There’s no rush.” At all.

“The time for being selective was long ago, Azra. You aren’t getting any younger, and there isn’t an unlimited supply of eligible unmarried daughters just waiting around for you to settle down. You know it’s taken all these years waiting for this one to come of age, and at any rate the negotiations are nearly complete now. It’s done.”

“But-” Azra opened his mouth to argue, but Gabriel cut him off.

“You will do your duty in marrying her, if nothing else,” he said mildly, but with a warning note coming into his voice. “She’s the first daughter of the wealthiest Empyrion family, of impeccable lineage, and young enough to produce many excellent heirs. It is an advantageous match for our line and both kingdoms, and by all reports she is beautiful!” He sat back and spread his hands with a laugh as if to say, What more could you possibly want? “A better prize than any of us were able to land, truth be told. Honestly, given your various… well, shortcomings, you should count yourself fortunate that her family has accepted the match at all.”

When Azra said nothing, Gabriel gave a satisfied nod, and began briskly cutting up his own measured portion of mutton. He hadn’t touched the cake.

“So that’s settled. You’ll meet her at the Ball, as planned, then we can make the official announcement at the Tournament; it’s the perfect opportunity since all five royal families will be there. When you are not out on guard duty, I would suggest that you throw yourself into your training in preparation. Wash the dust from your brains after all those years buried in your books. We’ll make a great warrior of you yet, just wait.” Now he smiled with all his large white teeth and assumed that jovial, paternal air that always set Azra’s own teeth on edge. “I’m told she’s a lovely girl; surely you want to impress her a little, hm? A month is still time to develop more skills, gain some accolades.” Violet eyes looked him briefly over, and Gabriel gestured with his laden fork. “Still time to lose the paunch.” He placed the bite of meat in his mouth and chewed.

Azra stared down at his plate. The damnable, infuriating harp kept cheerily strumming, filling the silence.

Duty. It always came back to duty. Restricting, chivvying, prodding him with iron spurs when his feet dragged. Inextricably hand in hand with the life he had been born into. Reminding him yet again why it was useless to want things, lest they run up against that unyielding wall.

“Yes,” he said dully, resignedly, and put his fork in his cake again, though he didn’t really want it anymore. “Doubtless you’re right.”

“I know I am. You can’t spend your life with your nose buried in poetry and fanciful stories, Azra. Filling your head with such nonsense. This head-in-the-clouds behaviour was harmless when you were a boy, but those days are years past. It’s high time you put it aside, took part in the real world, and the court, like a grown man. Once you’re good and settled in you’ll see the right of it.”

“Mm.” Azra stuffed another bite of cake in his mouth to suppress a retort.

There was no point in arguing. When Gabriel made up his mind about something, well, that was that. Just like Father. When it came to matters of the kingdom, duty trumped all. Azra’s personal… romantic preferences… would be seen as entirely beside the point.

At the end of the day, his brother was also his king, and disobedience was not an option.

And he’d always known that he didn’t have a choice, of course, so there was no reason at all for him to feel so sick at the thought. His path had been fixed since birth. He’d always known that he would run out of stalling time and be married to some noblewoman or other eventually for the good of the kingdom; he’d been lucky to have so many years to himself as it was, so there was no reason whatsoever to feel like a chicken being dragged towards the butcher’s block.

He just…hadn’t expected this to feel so very imminent.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so very bad. Urielle was indeed said to be beautiful. Perhaps she would be clever and engaging as well. Clever and engaging, and maybe even red-headed… He shoved the thought away.

And as for the rest of it… His stomach twisted. Well, he’d just have to make do somehow.

“And,” Gabriel added as an afterthought, raising a forefinger, “it’s high time that you got yourself a horse.”

That made Azra look up and really take notice.

“I already have a horse.”

“Yes, but you need a proper warhorse, a stallion! Not that oversized mongrel beast.” He shook his head, still chewing. “No, I’ve humoured you long enough, but a man needs a steed that does him credit. Next week I’ll have Reynolds take that one to the market and come back with something more suitable to your station.”

Azra put down his fork with a clack, appetite quite fled. The bite of cake was glue in his mouth. “I have the right to choose my own horse. I do have that right.” He forced his voice to stay level, flat, to not to let his emotion show. “I’ve had her for more than ten years.”

“Exactly. Far too long; a younger horse is just the thing for a fresh start. I know you’re sentimental about the animal, but this will be for the best, trust me,” Gabriel said easily. “I should have known better than to let you get so attached. You’ll like the next horse much better, just you wait.”

“I- you cannot just sell her,” Azra said, as evenly as he could. Arguing with Gabriel always made him feel panicky and helpless, just like with Father, and tonight he found that it also made him angry. “I’m not a child any longer; I won’t let you do that again.”

“I can, and I will,” Gabriel said, face hardening dangerously, the way it always did when someone dared say can’t to him. “Unless you demonstrate that you are taking your place in this family seriously.”

“I am. I do! I-” Azra folded his napkin carefully across his lap, trying to buy time to think. “Actually, I’ve been thinking-”

“Watch out,” interrupted Sandalphon, grinning. He and Michael had been watching the whole exchange with interest. Watching Azra get flustered had always been their favourite spectator sport.

“I’ve been thinking,” Azra continued, pointedly ignoring his brother, “that we may be able to broker peace with the Sorcerers’ Council. Surely that would be worthwhile, and to the benefit of all our people.”

More snickering.

“Is it really so impossible?” he asked earnestly. “Our peoples once lived in harmony, after all. Sorcerers aren’t unthinking monsters, they’re people like you or me. If you want me to take part in the ‘real world’, as you say, let me try. That way there would never have to be another war. No more senseless loss of life. And the benefits could be myriad, like in the old days before the War. Increased trade, perhaps even sharing of new magical items or skills. We do get excellent use from the Artifacts we have, after all.” He licked his lips and gestured to the magical harp, which was still determinedly cranking out its one horrid song. “Perhaps, hypothetically speaking, if I could act as an emissary in my official capacity, and speak to them…”

“Hypothetically speaking,” Gabriel said, with wry amusement now, “those unnatural creatures would murder you as soon as you set foot down there. They’d murder us all in our beds if given half a chance.”

“You could sooner make peace with a rabid wolf,” scoffed Michael. He wasn’t even looking at them, but was idly examining his teeth in the reflection of his dagger blade. The poison-detecting silver ring on his forefinger caught the candlelight as he moved, glittering. “Vicious unnatural creatures. Sorcerers are only good for being eliminated.”

“Not befriended,” added Sandalphon with a smirk.

“Yes, thank you for your input,” Azra retorted, unable to keep quiet.

Gabriel held up a placating hand towards him. “Azra.” The tone dripped with sorrowful condescension, and Azra had the very childish urge to flick a forkful of cake into that smug face. Though that would just be a criminal waste of perfectly good cake. The worst part about being around his brothers, he’d decided, was how unlike himself it made him feel; he had an uncomfortable sneaking suspicion that it brought out the worst in him.

Gabriel continued. “The idea is commendable, praiseworthy even, but obviously doomed to fail. Another war is, frankly, inevitable at some point. Sorcerers are not like us, they’re barely even human. You can’t negotiate with pure evil. They are not capable of honour, or trust, or even love. They would take advantage of any leniency like that.” He snapped his fingers. Amethyst glinted off his ring.

Azra looked at his face, at his gleaming unshakable confidence, and felt the fight go out of him. As usual. “Yes, I…of course,” he said heavily.

But Crow was nothing like that, of course. He was so brave, and kind, and funny, and loved flowers. His dearest friend, who had somehow become as integral to his life as books and food.

Whom I will probably never see again after I’m married.

Azra shoved the thought away for the thousandth time, along with the panic it brought. He took another mouthful of raspberry cake without tasting it. He had to force himself to swallow.

When you were headed inexorably for a cliff’s edge, the best you could do was shut your eyes.

“The horse can stay, for now.” Gabriel sighed, and shook his head with an indulgent smile. His good humour seemed to have returned. “Although this ridiculous softness will not serve you well, in the long run. You cannot simply refuse to be who you are.”

There is irony in that, if I cared to find it.

“Yes, Gabriel. You’ve made that quite clear,” was all Azra said. Perhaps, just perhaps once he was married, he could convince Gabriel to revisit the idea of an ambassadorship to Apollyon…

The king sighed in exasperation, and finally, finally turned his attention back to his less troublesome brothers. The harp played on. And on.

Three more days. 

Chapter Text

Today was another Eden day below the Wall, which... had turned out to be a bit of an unfortunate choice. Within minutes of arriving, one of Apollyon’s famous summer thunderstorms had struck without warning, the clear blue sky suddenly boiling with dark clouds and grumbling ominously like an irritable bear. Luckily it turned out to be mostly show, one of those warm flash-and-thunder affairs without much rain, so they’d elected to wait it out.

At least the marble pavilion provided a tiny bit of cover. Crow and Azra each sat cross-legged with their cloaks pulled over their heads, and were passing a bottle of distinguished red wine back and forth as a consolation. Their closed basket of food sat next to them, waiting for clear skies. The Artifact sword and saddlebags with their precious paper cargo had been stowed safely under a tiny piece of marble overhang.

Serafina stood a few paces away, bearing the rain with stoic indifference. 

Crow took a long sip of wine and leaned back to look at the grey clouds. The center of the pavilion’s marble roof had caved in long ago, leaving a jagged hole with a clear view of the sky. Usually it provided a kind of whimsical charm. Today the charm was somewhat lessened by the constant drip, drip on their heads from the flowered vines above, and the way it let in just enough of the faint drizzle to keep them constantly damp. But despite all that he couldn’t have called it unpleasant, no. He liked rain. The air was full of the invigorating smells of cool wet earth and fresh greenery, reminiscent of his garden room, and the constant low hum of raindrops hitting leaves was soothing.

Soothing to him, anyway. He glanced at the huddled figure a few feet away, and had to swallow a laugh. 

“Of all the unfortunate luck.” Azra’s usually-fluffy white hair was plastered flat to his head, and he was peering up at the weeping sky from under his cloak with an aggrieved expression. He held the cloak up as far above his head as possible in a vain attempt to keep the wet off, but the delicate cloth-of-gold fabric wasn’t made for inclement weather. Water kept dripping through. Despite that he’d stubbornly refused Crow’s offers to swap cloaks, and even more stubbornly insisted that Crow take the more protected, drier spot under the roof. That gentlemanly streak was going to be the death of him. The bedraggled prince clearly wasn’t happy about their increasingly soggy situation, but to Crow’s relief he hadn’t once suggested they call the visit off. “I don’t suppose you can do something about this rain?”

Crow snorted and adjusted his (much more practical) black cloak around himself. “Like what? You know I can’t control the weather.”

“I don’t know, something else…sorcerous?” Azra asked hopefully.

Crow took a fresh gulp of wine. “Hmm. I have a spell that lets me turn wine into water. Do you want me to cast that?”

Azra heaved a dejected sort of sigh, one that somehow conveyed both tragic resignation and vast exasperation.

Crow chuckled and handed back the wine bottle. Azra had the most expressive sighs he had ever heard; they were a work of art. “Sorry. Magic has its limits.”

Another deep, sorrowful sigh, and now Azra looked at him with a rueful smile. “Oh, I know. I’m sorry Crow, I don’t mean to make such a fuss.” He put a hand out and touched his shoulder, a reassuring gesture. “Or to imply that your company is somehow lacking.”

“Naturally not.” Crow grinned back. “It’s alright. Here.” He pinched the gold cloak between thumb and forefinger, and with a careful thought sent a very precise wash of heat through it – he’d practiced that enough over the years to where he didn’t need to worry about accidentally burning the cloth, or worse, the person underneath it. There was an audible puff and hissing of steam as all the water in the damp fabric evaporated at once. He repeated the trick on the periwinkle doublet, leaving it warm and dry. “There you go, that should help a little.”

“Oh!” Azra sighed in exaggerated relief this time, all the tension draining out of his face at once. He beamed at Crow, that disproportionately awed and delighted smile. “Oh, thank you, that’s so much better. It’s remarkable how uncomfortable a little bit of wet can be, isn’t it?” He pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief and used it to fussily mop his face dry.

“Yeah, it is very damp,” Crow agreed. The rain didn’t really bother him, but for solidarity's sake he performed the same drying magic on his own clothes, scratching his itching hand. “At least it isn’t cold. This should pass soon, these storms never last long.”

“That's a relief.” Azra wriggled into a more comfortable seated position and draped his now-dry cloak around himself, pulling up the hood. “I’m also sorry to make us just sit and wait like this. Once the rain clears I can bring my book out to read us a story; I'm afraid to ruin it in this weather.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind at all.” A bit too much truth in that, Crow reflected wryly. He wouldn’t have minded sitting in an actual mud puddle, as long as he was allowed to sit in it next to Azra. His bony arse had begun to go a bit numb, though, and he shifted position on the cracked marble floor. “And that reminds me, today I brought something new to show you. Something that won’t mind the rain and might cheer you up while we wait.” He hadn’t forgotten, not for a moment, but he’d been working himself up and waiting for the perfect opportunity. This, apparently, was it. 

He finger-combed his damp red hair back out of his face, then rooted through the many cluttered pockets of his cloak until he found what he was looking for. He hid it in both cupped hands, then turned and revealed it to Azra with a slight flourish. “Ta da.”

A small brown and white plant bulb, round with a tapered top. 

"Oh, how...lovely." Azra blinked at it, then looked quizzically up at Crow. “An onion?”

“What?” Crow’s self-satisfied grin faltered. “No, it’s not an onion,” he said indignantly. “I thought you said daffodils were your fav- um, I thought you were familiar with daffodils?”

“Oh.” Azra’s eyes widened in comprehension. “Oh! Is that what the seeds look like?  I’ve only ever seen the full-grown flowers!”

“Ahh. That makes sense I guess. What with your palace gardeners doing the planting for you and all. Well, your Royal Lordship, this is what the daffodil looks like when it’s dormant.” He handed it to him.

Azra took it. “How fascinating. I do miss seeing them; it’s my favourite part of spring. We have them planted all around the training yard grounds, and when they finally bloom it always feels like the sun rising after winter is over. As if the earth is celebrating.” He gazed wistfully at the bulb for a moment, a faint smile on his lips, then smiled and handed it politely back. “Thank you for showing me. You were right, it did cheer me up.”

Crow smirked. “I’m glad you like it. But that’s not what I was going to show you.”

He cleared his throat and cupped the teardrop-shaped bulb in both hands before his face, frowning at it. He was suddenly...irrationally nervous. And were his palms sweating? That was stupid, he chided himself. Azra knew he had magic, had seen all his other magic plenty of times by now… but then that magic was impressive, wasn't it? It was something to be taken seriously, commanded respect, even if people did scream and run and throw pointy things. This…this he had never shown to anyone. He’d meant to show it to Azra for such a long time now, but something inside kept balking whenever the chance arose. And it wasn’t as though it were even a dark secret, just a small silly one, and surely if anyone could be trusted to appreciate it, it was this man. Surely Azra wouldn’t scoff, or laugh, or think it was weak and frivolous…

Crow could still vividly see Father’s face even after all these years. The way he had glanced down his hooked nose at the book of botany, just once, and forever dismissed it as beneath his notice. The sneering disgust and condescension, a lifetime’s worth of disdain soaked into those three short words, prissy hobby magic… 

Crow swallowed nervously and glanced up at Azra, who was watching with blue eyes that showed only innocent curiosity. 

Oh, fuck off, Father.

Crow focused his mind, and his voice was steady as he spoke the word, the first spell he had memorized in secret when he was nine: “Fulmedesh.”

For a second nothing happened. The bulb just sat there motionless, lazy, looking very much indeed like a useless onion. It was sleeping deep in preparation for a fall planting, and it took a lot of energy to rouse even a single flower so far out of season. Crow usually didn’t bother. Today he bothered. He scowled and focused harder, channeled more magic in, and felt the warm rush of power sing through him as resistance gave way.

The top of the bulb abruptly split open as bright green blades pushed up into the air. Thin white rootlets began to grow down from the underside at a frantic pace, twining through his cupped fingers as they groped for a bit of earth. The blades of green grew taller, leaves broadening and splitting off into more leaves, until a single narrow stalk towered over the rest. The end of that stalk swelled, flushed golden, and with a glorious flash of colour finally burst open into the signature bell and petals of a yellow daffodil.

Crow released a slow breath, heart hammering, blood still humming and alive with magic. “There.” He looked up.

Azra was sitting there staring at him, not the flower, with lips slightly parted. He didn’t seem to notice that his cloak had slid down off his head. The rain was falling unchecked onto him, and he wore an expression of such awe...

Crow's mind went blank as fresh parchment. He just sat there staring back, unmoving, with water dripping down his neck and the daffodil held before him in outstretched hands. The only sound was the quiet whisper of rainfall.

After a second Azra stirred and quickly shifted his gaze to the flower. He reached out and cupped it in one careful hand, stroked it with a thumb. Tiny sparkling raindrops had beaded up on the yellow petals. “Oh my goodness. It’s so beautiful,” he said, voice hushed and reverent. “I had no idea you could do this. Is this a new magic?”

Once the prince’s eyes weren’t fixed on his face, Crow recovered a piece of his wits. “Uhm. Well, no, not really, just new for...us. For here. I’ve got a book of spells for gardening; I’ve had it since I was a child. I can speed up plant growth, make them bigger, change colours, all sorts of things if I have the energy to spare. I can even make things grow out of season, or completely change their shapes- well, it takes time to do that, but given a bit of, er…” Crow trailed off and bit the inside of his cheek, aware that he was gabbling, words tumbling over themselves. “It’s just a hobby,” he finished lamely. 

“Just a hobby? I daresay you're selling yourself short.” Azra looked back at him, and the awe was now mixed with puzzlement. “Crow, I’ve seen you perform magic nearly every day for months, but never this kind, never with plants. You clearly love it, and you’ve never even talked about it. Why is that?” 

Crow made a face, feeling a faint warmth rise in his cheeks. How could he begin to explain? “Eughhh, well. It’s not exactly, ah…encouraged, this kind of magic.” His fingers twitched, still trapped awkwardly in place by the flower roots. “Not the kind of thing I could ever show anyone before.”   

Azra frowned, looking baffled. “Whyever not? All of your magic is wonderful, but this is…simply extraordinary.”

“Father thought- Sorcerers think things like this are undignified, beneath us. It’s not…properly intimidating, or powerful. We’re only supposed to learn things that are good for battle, or practical use, or killing things.”  He grimaced. “Reputation, you know.”

“Ah.” Azra folded his hands in his lap and nodded. “Oh dear. I can understand that, all too well.”  

“I thought you might.” A corner of Crow’s mouth quirked up.

Azra tilted his head and mimicked the expression, his eyes crinkling the way they always did. “Well. Then it’s quite lucky that you have no reputation to lose with me, isn’t it?” He was teasing him now, but Crow didn’t mind because that smile was back again, brighter than the daffodil. Like the sun coming out after winter frost.

Crow grinned back. “Yeah. One of the many benefits of being an irredeemable ruffian.” He disentangled one hand from the roots with a jerk, breaking them, then carefully plucked the flower by the stem. “It’s out of season, so it won’t survive if planted and left to its own devices out here. But we can enjoy it while it lasts.” He met Azra's eyes and offered it to him with a small seated bow. "For you, Your Highness."

Azra blushed furiously pink to the roots of his wet hair, and Crow felt a jolt of mingled exhilaration and panic. Too much? Had he gone too far?

But Azra only reached out and took the flower from his hand with a shy smile. “Thank you.” He put it to his nose and inhaled, eyes closed. “It’s wonderful. All of your magic is wonderful. The other sorcerers’ foolishness is their own loss, truly. Such a marvelous talent should never be hidden away, or discouraged.” He tucked the flower stem carefully into the buttonhole of his doublet, cheeks still a flustered tint of pink.

Crow ducked his head and busied himself with picking away the last of the white roots clinging to his hand. There was a rock-hard lump in his throat. His cheeks felt hot, and for once he was certain it wasn’t from magic. “Look at that, the rain’s finally stopped,” he commented. 

It had. Even as he spoke the sun burst through the thick clouds, chasing away the grey and illuminating the entire clearing afresh. The rain had washed all the dusty summer haze from the air, and all the colours around them looked twice as vibrant as usual. The flowering plants almost glowed. The air smelled crisp and alive.

“So it has.” Azra whisked off his damp cloak and turned his face up into the sunbeam with a blissful smile. He inhaled deeply and slowly let it out. “Now that is much more like it.” 

“I wish the week was longer,” Azra said very softly, as if to himself.

They had finished their lunch of baked pheasant and were contentedly munching on iced ginger biscuits from the Tadfield bakery. Azra had started bringing packets of them regularly ever since Crow mentioned that they were a special favourite. Still trying to feed him up, no doubt.

For about a quarter hour they’d both been quietly enjoying the post-storm sunlight, lost in their own thoughts… which for Crow meant dreamily watching the way Azra’s hands absently brushed at his almost-dry hair. It was still a bit tamped down from the rain earlier; he would gladly volunteer to ruffle that pale hair back to its usual fluffy state with his own fingers, if only Azra would let him...

He realised that Azra had said something, and quickly swallowed the mouthful of biscuit he was chewing. “Er. Sorry, what?”

Azra was turning the daffodil in his fingers, watching it catch the light. “I wish I didn’t have to go back after tomorrow. It’s just that these last couple months have been so very wonderful, and lately the days seem to go by so quickly. I just wish…I wish I could stay longer. I wish I could stay longer this week.” He bit his lip.

Steady, now. Crow swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat, one that had nothing to do with biscuits.

By some unspoken agreement they had never talked about anything like this, never before acknowledged that there was anything beyond the here and now. Crow was very good at focusing on the here and now. Usually.  

“I wish you could stay too,” he replied, touching the far distant edges of the truth. Too much honesty would only ruin this. Because of course honesty would be that I miss you more every single day you’re gone. I’d give anything for you to stay for good, to have the chance to make you happy, if only you cared for me the same way. But he didn’t say any of that. Instead he took out his feelings on a fresh bite of ginger biscuit, and used the sugary sweetness to force some cheer into his voice. “But there’s always next time, at least, hm?”

“Yes, yes of course.” Azra was quiet for so long, his expression so uncharacteristically melancholy, that Crow began to worry. Had something happened? But then the prince drew a deep breath and only said, “I have the Equinox Ball next week, if you remember, so I’ll be gone a bit longer than usual this stretch.”

Oh, the Equinox, of course. Crow relaxed. The biggest yearly event in all Empyrion, with every kingdom trying to outdo each other with over-the-top galas and parties. No wonder his peace-and-quiet-loving prince was melancholy, no doubt he was dreading it. Crow had seen the festivities from afar for years, even gone to the commoner festivals once or twice, but he’d forgotten all about it this year. Shit, was summer nearly over already? In his happy daze he hadn’t even noticed the changing of the seasons, but now that he thought about it the days had been a little cooler. Change was in the air. 

Crow stuffed down his disappointment and nodded sagely. “Oh yeah, the Ball. You said that’s a masque, didn’t you? That sounds like fun,” he teased.  

“If only.” Azra huffed, sounding his usual tart self again. “I’ve got to attend for the entire evening, and it’s always a complete nightmare. Just dreadful! And this year it will be far more dreadful than usual because I have to meet…well.” He gave his head a little shake and dropped his gaze back to the flower in his hands, stroking the petals with a fingertip. “I’ll have to meet lots of people. And I’ll have to socialise with the other courtiers.” He said this with all the horror of someone describing bodily torture instead of a party, and Crow couldn’t help chuckling.

“That does sound terrible,” he said, grinning, and offered him another biscuit from the waxpaper packet.

Azra brightened, as he always did at dessert, and accepted one with a smile. “There’s the Ball, then there’s a few days of festivities afterwards, minor tourneys and such, and I’m expected to be in attendance for all of it. I won’t be set to have guard duty again until after everything is over. So you’ll be free of me for a bit.” He took a large bite and sighed again, though not as deeply as before.

“Pfff. More like you’ll be free of me.” Crow tried to sound unconcerned as he asked, “How long is ‘a bit?’”

“Perhaps ten days? Two weeks at the very most.” Azra sounded grimly determined, as if daring it to be otherwise.

Two weeks. Ugh. Crow glumly resigned himself to spending a lot of days staring drunkenly out of his bedroom window. Gazing over the horizon for a speck of white feathers while the ravens pecked at his head and stole his snacks.

Coping, he'd found, was not his strong suit. 

“I’ll be back on guard duty by the following week I expect,” Azra was saying, “since there’s three whole weeks between the Ball and the Tournament of Kings. Surely I’ll be able to get some guard duty in during that time. I promise I’ll send you a message as soon as I find out exactly when I’ll be back.”

“Good. I’ll wait with bated breath.” He really would. How embarrassing. “Do you still have enough ribbons for letters?” He kept his cloak pockets stuffed with them nowadays. After his last market run, Hastur had asked a pointed question or two about how he was using them so fast. Crow had replied acidly that he was using them to decorate his hair. That had shut him up.

“Oh yes, at least a dozen,” Azra assured him. “I always check to make sure I’m not running out.”

“Good, good. Well then." Crow selected another biscuit and ate half in one bite. “Don't fret,” he mumbled, “the Ball will be over before you know it. I’ll find something particularly good for us to drink tomorrow, to give you strength to prepare for all that socialising, mm?”

“That sounds lovely.” Azra smiled, rather weakly this time. “I’ll need all the strength I can get.”

“No dramatic exit today?” Azra asked as he fastened up the saddlebags. He was wearing the daffodil again; he'd found a pin somewhere and secured it firmly to the left side of his doublet. It complimented the fabric colour well. It made Crow blush every time he looked at him. 

The prince always liked to watch him vanish in the flash of light from his homing amulet, and truth be told Crow loved letting him watch. It was a pretty indulgent use of his once-a-day Artifact considering it was for such a short distance, but Azra always stared at him with that look that made him feel like one of the great and powerful sorcerers of old. It was a great way to end every visit with style, and a really big payoff for something that required no skill on his part at all.

And of course, right now the little red disc was still sitting on his bedroom desk. Right where he had left it that morning in his haste to get dressed and leave. 

“I forgot my amulet at home.” Crow shrugged, hiding his disappointment. “I’ll just walk, it's not far.”

“What?” Azra shook his head and tightened the final saddle buckle with a yank. “No, absolutely not, there’s no sense in you walking all that way in the wet. I’ve long been curious to get a glimpse of what your tower looks like anyway. Let me give you a ride.” He put a hand on the horse’s side and looked at him with an expectant smile. 

Crow craned his neck to stare up at Serafina. Serafina flicked her ears and stared back, equally skeptically. “What, on that beast? Nuh uh, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come now. After all this time you know full well that Serafina is perfectly gentle.” 

“Maybe to you,” Crow muttered darkly. “The moment I get on she’ll decide that what she really wants is a nice chunk of sorcerer for lunch.”

“Now you’re just being silly.” Azra rubbed the white horse’s shoulder fondly, and swung himself up into the saddle with that graceful, effortless motion that flexed every single muscle in his thighs and…other areas.

Thump-thump, went Crow’s treacherous heart. And other parts.

Stop it, he told himself sternly. 

Azra smiled and patted the saddle behind him, a faint gleam of mischief in his eyes now. “Come along. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

“Hold on, I’m not nervous, I didn’t say I was nervous,” Crow protested. “I just don’t…get on with horses all that well, that’s all. I think they can smell the magic, or something. They don’t like me. And to be frank I’m not very keen on them. Big awkward things as strong as a bull, you never know what they’re going to do.”

Azra pursed his lips. “It sounds a little like you’re nervous,” he mused. Oh, that was definitely a gleam of mischief, more like a torch full of it. The endearing little bastard. 

Crow fixed him with his best ferocious glare. A good glare from his uncovered eyes was always enough to make other people drop their gaze, turn pale and immediately back away. A shopkeeper had even fainted, once.

Azra only raised his eyebrows. He extended down one gloved hand towards him and held it there, a hint of challenge in the gesture. 

“I won’t let any harm come to you, Anthony.” The prince’s face was very deliberately solemn, yet not mockingly so. The daffodil shone bright at his breast. His blue-grey eyes were gently earnest. “Trust me?” He made it a question. 

That was the trouble. Crow always had. Instinctively, foolishly, and far beyond having a choice. He gulped. His limbs had gone a bit watery.

“Nghh, you know what? Fine, Your Holiness.” He crossed his arms, looking the horse over. She loomed above him, eyeing him. Just waiting to stomp him into paste. “I doubt she can even hold the both of us?” he asked hopefully.

“Oh, easily. I don’t have armour on, and I doubt you weigh very much.” Azra’s eyes crinkled, and one corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

Crow decided to ignore that. “Fine.” He took the gloved hand, but before he could even begin to try to get his foot in the stirrup he found himself being hauled high into the air. He had time for a single panicked flail, and then he had been plopped down into the saddle- straddled directly behind Azra. Squashed right up against him, actually, in an incredibly awkward and borderline intimate fashion. It was not a large saddle.

He sat frozen for a moment with hands out at his sides, then gripped at the leather behind him to steady himself. He felt a thousand feet in the air, which was madness coming from someone who lived in a high tower, but...it really was a bloody enormous horse. No animal had any business being this large. If it bucked, or he fell... “Uh…what do I hold on to?”

“Me, obviously.” Azra sounded like he was grinning.

Obviously, Crow mouthed silently behind his back, where Azra couldn’t see. “Right. You. Of course.” He gingerly grasped handfuls of periwinkle brocade to either side of Azra's waist, feeling hot and flushed. He belatedly realised that this was exactly the sort of activity he should be avoiding around this man, at all costs. Brilliant. Sorcerer foresight at work once again. Anything that saw his crotch pressed up near Azra was a truly terrible idea; the most mortifying thing he could imagine would be to become hard at this particular moment. Calm. Chaste thoughts. Chaste thoughts. Cold baths. Winter blizzards. Lord Belz glaring at you. Hastur smiling. Urgh, too much.

Azra was warm against his hands and body. Crow could feel his knuckles pressing into a waist that was both soft and solid, radiating that calm, steady presence. He looked at the back of Azra’s neck, only inches away, where blond hair curled at the nape in a little swirl. He had to resist the urge to press his lips to it. He wanted to kiss the side of his neck. He wanted to slide his arms around Azra and lay his cheek against that broad back, to close his eyes and soak him in like sunlight…

“Are you alright back there?” Azra asked over his shoulder.

Crow stuffed those yearnings far away, back into his box of impossible things. He couldn’t stop them from popping up, but he’d be damned if he was going to let them ruin this. He shut his eyes and took a couple of deep, silent breaths.

“Yeah, yep, fine. Fantastic. All good.”

He was. He felt…safe.

He did not let go.

“Go ahead and stop right here,” Crow said. They were still right within the edge of the Wood, concealed from view, and he cast a quick glance around. He was probably being paranoid, but the last thing he needed was for some overeager Knight to burst out of the shrubbery at them. He listened carefully. It was hard to concentrate in such close proximity to Azra, but there was no telltale clank of armour echoing. No thwhack of someone trying to get through the hedge. Only the occasional drip of water from the trees, and the warble of birds enjoying the weather.

"Is anybody looking?" Azra asked. He sounded nervous, for all that this had been his idea. "I thought no one lived around here."

"Shouldn't be," Crow said breezily. "But can't hurt to be cautious. I just wanted to be sure some peasant isn't passing through who could spot us." He gave a firm nod. "Right, seems safe. My tower is right through those trees, you can drop me off there." 

Hastur would be in his ground-floor chambers by now, as always, and the thick hedge completely obscured the first floor or two of the tower. Even if he was in the kitchen for some reason, Crow reasoned, the only window faced Southwards, so as long as they stayed on the Northward side of the tower they were entirely safe from any prying eyes.

“Oh, my.” Azra had pulled Serafina to a halt again, and sat looking up at the tower before them with mouth slightly open. “How…menacing.”

They stood just outside the tower grounds, a few yards away from the encircling thorns. It did look pretty menacing, Crow thought, squinting at it with a critical eye. The sable-black hedge stood at least fifteen feet tall, a tangle of nasty protruding thorns as long as a man’s hand. Some of his best non-flower work, that. The tower was still a bit faded from want of paint, and he hadn’t got around yet to removing a lot of the clematis vines (which lent it an unfortunate amount of whimsy), but the overall effect was still properly intimidating, if he did say so himself. At least the vines weren’t blooming yet.

Crow nodded. “Yeah, that’s the idea. It’s supposed to keep people away.”

“I imagine it’s very effective!”

“Ha. Not very,” Crow admitted.

“Really?”

“Think about most of the nobles you know. Would a bit of black paint and a thicket really put them off? Or would they see it as a challenge?”

“Oh.” Azra sighed. “Oh dear.” He looked back up at the tower, aghast. “I simply cannot believe that anyone tries to climb this thing!" 

Tries and succeeds. “Yep.  Only a bloody idiot would ever try, and yet...” Crow shrugged. He really, really wanted to sit here talking with Azra all evening, horse or no, but he’d been up here behind him long enough to where it was going to start getting very awkward soon. It had taken all of his focus to keep bloodflow from creeping south as it was. And it had been such a good day. At some point one had to stop tempting fate.

So he swung a leg over Serafina and began to carefully dismount, sliding off the side of the horse on his belly as gracefully as he could. Which was not graceful at all. "Oof," he said. 

A hand grasped his arm, lowering him slowly to solid wet ground, and he looked up to find Azra smiling down at him. "Look at that. It seems you survived the experience."  

Barely. It had nearly been the end of him, though not quite for the reasons he’d expected. Crow straightened his clothes, giving himself time to stop blushing like a ninny. He could still feel Azra's waist under his hands, legs knocking against his own with every step and sway of the horse... "Yeah, well, I'm chalking it up to luck," he muttered, adjusting his cloak.

"Of course," Azra agreed, eyes still twinkling. "Well, it's starting to get dark, so I suppose I'll bid you farewell until tomorrow."  

“Until then, Your Holiness. I will come bearing wine for your troubles,” Crow promised.

A flicker of anxiety passed over Azra’s face, but it cleared just as quickly. Now he frowned at the hedge. "Those thorns look quite painful. How will you get in? Is there a door somewhere?”

Ha. Crow could have rubbed his hands together in glee. Now here was a chance to regain a bit of dignity. “No door needed, for a master of the Dark Arts." Crow twiddled his fingers at him. 

The look Azra gave him was as arch as any he had ever seen. 

Crow raised an eyebrow at him in return. He turned on his heel, pointed a commanding (and unnecessary) hand at the hedge, and said, "Edro." 

The hedge shuddered. With a rustle and crackling of wood the thick vines closest to him moved, like hundreds of twisty black serpents coming to life. They twisted and shifted and finally pulled apart to form a tall thorny archway high above their heads, a toothy maw.

There was a loud gasp behind him, and Crow nearly cackled. He knew exactly how it looked to people who weren't used to it; the first few times he had tried the spell he’d been alarmed too. He made sure to pare down his huge grin to a merely smug expression before turning back around.

Azra was sitting there with reins slack in his hands, staring openmouthed up at the towering wall. 

Crow folded his arms and shrugged with a studied nonchalance. "You see? Effortless." He didn't see any need to mention that anyone could in fact use the password to do the exact same thing. He'd had to make it work that way, otherwise Hastur would be as much a prisoner as a resident.

So what if he wanted to show off a little? 

He smirked and walked backwards through the archway, facing Azra all the while, until he stood on the other side. "Farewell," he intoned, solemnly raising a hand. "Until tomorrow." 

The last thing he saw before the thorns closed again was Azra rolling his eyes. But with a smile. 

Chapter Text

It was an especially nice day, Crow noted as the forest scenery flew past. Granted, all the days had been nice lately, in one way or another, but today there was not a single hint of the thunderstorms that had disturbed them yesterday. The sky was almost aggressively blue, not a cloud to be seen in all directions for miles. Soft fresh breeze, clear sunshine, and the warm air held just a hint of crispness - all the hallmarks of a day teetering on the cusp of autumn.

It was made nicer still by the lingering happy glow left over from yesterday’s visit. The look on Azra’s face when he gave him the daffodil... and that soft brocade-covered waist under his hands as they rode home, the press of him under his fingers... Crow could still feel that warmth now. He grinned at the memory, but resisted the unwise urge to close his eyes and savour it. That would make quite the memorable entrance: to zip dreamily into town and smash himself parchment-flat against a building, while the townsfolk looked on in horror. 

Crow slid to a stop out of his quickening spell and took a few moments to run through the usual concerns: Hair smoothed, check. Black cloak straightened and thrown rakishly back over one shoulder, glasses clean, excellent. No mud stains, or bug splatter, or split breeches with his arse hanging out. Check.

Dignity intact, he hefted his leather bag over one shoulder and walked down the last few yards of cobblestone road into the town, a jaunty swing in his stride.

The prospect of up to two weeks without Azra stung badly, to be sure, but he was absolutely determined to not let that ruin their last day together. Here and now, focus on the here and now. And right now he was here to buy drinks and dessert for their lunch in Eden. He was going to bring some of Azra’s favourite things to cheer him up before the Ball, to send him off with a smile, and they were going to have, as Azra would put it, a perfectly lovely afternoon.

First stop was the local bakery, which was nothing special. Mostly just bread and other common fare, but they did make one gooseberry tart that Azra particularly liked. Exorbitantly expensive, of course, but well worth it for the delighted smile it produced every time. Crow bought two, as well as one of the new sugar-dusted lemon cakes that had mysteriously begun appearing on the shelves. There had been a couple new additions lately, and he thought with amusement that Azra’s taste for sugar had probably influenced the baking economy in a significant radius all around his tower. Actually, bakeries were probably one of the most reliably safe places for Crow to eat, nowadays - the increased regular business no doubt was excellent incentive to keep him alive. 

The baker, a dark-haired man with an impassive demeanor, wrapped up the treats in the usual brown paper and twine and handed them over the counter without comment. His face was not pleasant, exactly, but solidly neutral. Bored, even. A step up from open hostility, for sure.

Crow reflected on that as he walked out of the bakery. Not one townsperson had spat after he passed yet today, and now that he thought about it, had the general glares been lessening lately? He was almost sure that they had. Maybe, mad as it seemed, his increased shopping presence in recent months had actually done some good, had forced the mundanes to get used to him. Wouldn't that be something. The thought put an extra spring in his step. 

Now for the drinks.

He stopped in front of the inn, pursing his lips. The inn had the downside of being a lot more crowded, but it also had a much better alcohol selection than the pub, and he wanted something especially nice... and today seemed to be going well. After a moment’s thought he adjusted his glasses and decided to brave it.

He pushed through the doors and crossed the tiny dining room, ignoring everyone with deliberate carelessness, drawing stares but no comments for once. No audible muttering at least. When he sauntered up to the bar it took a moment or two of standing there for him to be noticed. One particularly nervous-looking fellow yelped and dropped his drink with a crash, and the other patrons quickly backed away to create a wide radius of space all around him, but no one actually broke and ran for the door. Now that was progress.

Crow hid a smirk, and perused the wall of wine bottles on display behind the counter, rubbing his chin. “Hmmm. I think I’ll take a white Dorwinion, do you have one of those?” Stronger than average wine, and the priciest thing a backwater town like this was likely to carry. 

"Good choice, sir.” The innkeeper pulled a bottle down and gave the frosted glass a polish with his cloth, then handed it over.

“Excellent.” Crow was feeling magnanimous, so he flipped a gold coin to him before carefully putting the wine in his bag along with the baked goods. The man caught the coin and nodded his thanks, the same as he did to every other customer. As quick and casual an interaction as Crow had ever experienced. Smirking contentedly, very pleased with himself, he turned to go.

There was a sudden vicious stabbing pain on the back of his upper left arm, and his vision went red.

“Gaaaaaarrrghshit!” He let out a strangled cry and whirled around. He already had a defensive handful of flames, and flung his arm out as he turned to face-

A boy, standing there round eyed and white-faced, with a dagger clutched in both unsteady hands. A young boy; he barely came up to Crow’s chest. Crow stared down at him in shock, flames dying, spell abandoned. He turned his head slowly to look down at his stinging arm. His nice black sleeve was slashed in a ragged line. A dark wet stain had already begun to blossom over the fabric.

The boy had taken a hasty step backwards, and a dark-haired woman suddenly came scrambling over out of nowhere and grabbed him round the shoulders. “Richard! What did you- oh, please, please sir, I’m sorry, have mercy, have mercy, he didn't mean anything by it…” She was already half weeping in terror, dragging the boy backwards and towards the door while she begged. Crow just stood there speechless with hands limp at his sides, and watched them go.

It had gone very quiet. Crow looked slowly around the room. Everyone was just standing there staring at him, frozen wide-eyed in whatever they had been doing. Forks with bits of food halfway to their mouths, cards arrested mid-shuffle. The innkeeper’s face had drained of colour. The other bartender didn’t seem to notice that the glass he was filling was overflowing. Everyone just watching, waiting to see what he would do. The air abruptly stank with fear and tension, thick enough to cut.

With a grunt of pain Crow clamped his good hand over the wound, pulled his cloak around himself, and silently strode out of the inn.

By the time he got back to the tower the bleeding had stopped, so at least no stitches were needed. His poison-detecting ring was clear as water, too. So that was something.

Moving gingerly, he removed his soiled and torn shirt, set it carefully aside. He didn’t feel up to repairing it with magic just yet, so he pulled a fresh one from his armoire and mechanically put it on. There. All covered up. He slowly washed his hands of the visible blood, and even more slowly dried them on a clean white cloth.

For the best, really. Helped remind me of something I’ve been in danger of forgetting, in all this running around.

His arm hurt. He still had some willowbark in a stone jar down in the kitchen, but he was running late already and there was no time to make tea. He simply grabbed a chunk of the bark and stuffed it in his cheek to chew, grimacing at the bitter taste. He poked at his arm one more time to make sure no blood was seeping through his new shirt, settled his bag of wine and dessert over his good shoulder, then set out to meet Azra for their lunch. He kept his glasses on.

Azra was already waiting in Eden, as usual. He always delighted in finding new and tasty meals for them; at this point he must have single-handedly changed the fortunes of every cook in Tadfield. Today he had brought thick slices of honeyed roast ham, turnips plentifully seasoned in salt and black pepper, and a loaf of crusty barley bread with fresh butter and cheese. He poured them each a cup of wine and laid out plates and silverware on the cracked marble dais that they often used as a table, chattering on as he did. 

Crow had no appetite. The willowbark hadn’t done much for the pain this time. He sat hunched on a fallen pillar a few paces away with his cloak wrapped tight around himself, injured arm held against his body, brooding at his cup of admittedly excellent wine through his glasses.

“...and I’ll be back the very moment that I can make my excuses. Surely...surely it won’t be so very long,” Azra was saying distractedly.

“Mm.” Crow had almost forgotten about that, in his gloom. He wrestled with his sinking disappointment, tamping it down. It was only for a little longer than usual. It only sounded so awful because he felt a bit low at the moment, that was all.

He straightened up a little and forced a small smile. “Right, yeah. Well, have fun at the Ball.”

Azra sighed anxiously, eyes still fixed on the loaf he was unwrapping. “Truly, it won’t be any fun. I just wish...well.  There's...there's something in particular that I'm not looking forward to, this time.”

“Good, good.” Crow was having trouble concentrating on any of the conversation. His wounded arm had started to throb in earnest, sending pulses of pain all the way down to his fingers. A matching headache had begun to jab right behind his left eye, like some vicious little man was poking him with a needle. Maybe some more wine would help. He reached for the bottle without thinking, and let out an involuntary hiss of pain through grit teeth as the motion tugged sharply at the wound.

Azra had been peering right at him and stopped dead, hands arrested halfway through cutting slices of cheese. He frowned. “What was that?”

Shit. “Nothing, nothing. Just a muscle cramp, that’s all.” He drew the cloak tighter around himself and tried to look relaxed.

“Crow. Are you hurt?” His voice was full of concern, and Crow shrank from it.

“No, it’s nothing, s’fine.” He couldn’t quite meet his eyes or make his mouth turn upward, but gave a dismissive wave of his hand. He reached for the wine again, with his good arm this time, but Azra put a hand in front of the bottle to block him.

“It is not nothing,” Azra insisted, voice rising in alarm. “You’re white as bone, and out of sorts. And you’re wearing your glasses. I should have seen it sooner. What’s wrong?”

Instead of answering, Crow flicked his fingers and conjured a puff of wind to shove Azra’s hand out of the way, then reached for the bottle again.

Azra gasped in outrage. “Oh, how dare-” He grabbed the wine and pulled it fully out of reach. “What on earth is the matter with you? What’s happened that has you all rolled up with your spines out?”

Crow only hunched his shoulders further within his cloak, grunted and shook his head.

Azra’s eyes narrowed; his nostrils actually flared. He gave Crow a flat look and moved over to sit right next to him, braced his hands on his knees and let the silence just sit there.

Stubborn bastard.

“Alright, fine. Fine! A boy stabbed me in the arm earlier, in town. It’s not serious, nothing that hasn’t happened before. No need to fret your royal self.”

Azra’s mouth had fallen open in horror. “A boy...stabbed you? But why?”

“Why do you bloody well think?” Pain of both kinds made Crow sharper than he intended, and he dragged a hand across his aching eyes. The headache was getting worse. “It’s just…business as usual, when you’re me,” he said, calmer. “Every so often someone has a go.”

Azra processed this, the aghast expression slowly shifting to troubled. “Just your arm, you said? Are you certain you aren’t hurt anywhere else?”

“Positive. Just a scratch, it’s nothing.”

"Being stabbed is not nothing!" Azra swallowed. “Is the boy alright?”

“Wha- Of course!” Crow recoiled from the question. Coming from him, it hurt more than he cared to admit. “The boy couldn’t even have been thirteen. A child. I don’t harm children.”

“I’m sorry- I didn’t mean-” Azra looked stricken. “That was a horrid thing to ask, please forgive me. Of course you would never hurt him.”

Crow grunted again and looked away. “I wouldn’t be so sure. His mother certainly thought I was going to kill him. That’s what monsters do.”

“Stop that. You are not a monster, at all,” Azra said firmly. “Not in the slightest, you’re- quite the opposite. I didn’t mean it that way, truly, I was only thinking of what you told me about your power being so instinctive. I thought perhaps you had been taken by surprise, and not seen who was attacking, and accidentally…” he trailed awkwardly off, and put an apologetic hand on his arm. “I thought that was why you were so upset, I'm sorry. I know full well you never would have hurt him on purpose.”

Oh. Crow sighed and relaxed a little. “No, I’ve just…never had someone so young try to kill me before,” he muttered. “It’s always been adults. And no one from the towns around here have tried in years. I guess I just thought maybe, after all this time…” He couldn’t go on. It felt stupid to say out loud.

“You thought that maybe they had begun to trust you,” Azra finished for him, quietly.

Crow reluctantly nodded, and yanked up a fistful of long grass at his feet, crushing it. “Or at least just get used to me, loathe me less.” He called up some heat, and watched the grass blacken and crumble to ash in his hand. “But I guess not. He would have got the idea from what adults say about sorcerers, about how dangerous we are. And you know the worst part is, he thought he was doing something good, something brave. Defeating the wicked scourge, you know. I saw his face.” He scrubbed his ash-smudged fingers roughly on his knee. “He wasn’t even angry. He was scared.”

“They don’t know you at all. No one who knew you could possibly hate you, or be afraid of you. I’m certainly not.” Azra reached out and put a soft hand over his, heavy and comforting, and it was all so gentle and sincere that it made Crow’s throat go tight.

He had to swallow hard, and clear his throat.

“Well, you probably should be,” he ground out.

The thumb on his hand rubbed, just a little. “Anthony. My dear. Don’t be silly.”

The gentle reproof made his eyes prick and throat close even more. He desperately wanted to cover that hand with his own, to take it and press it to his lips, but… his courage failed him. What if Azra yanked away? He couldn’t bear that, not right now with his arm throbbing and his heart sore and open. So he did not move, but sat there in that liminal space looking fixedly at the ground, feeling the warm comfort flow through the simple connection.

They sat there together in silence, listening to the tock-tock-tock of a distant woodpecker.

“I didn’t ask to be a sorcerer,” Crow muttered gruffly at last. “I was just born to the wrong people. And I haven’t even burned anything down in years and years. But everyone still thinks I’m a monster anyway. I just wish they weren’t all so…afraid.” The words just came out, unbidden, and he’d never admitted anything like this to anyone before. He hadn’t even realized those thoughts were in him, not really. People were supposed to hate and fear sorcerers; it was something to be proud of, cultivated. Power and strength was everything, and even a hint of weakness like that would have had the Council in a rage.

But curse it all...he was so weary of being resilient. He was tired of being good at taking a hit.

“Just because everyone thinks it, doesn’t make it true. People can be quite foolish,” Azra said quietly. “I like to think that I’m…becoming just a bit less foolish than I used to be. So perhaps there’s hope for us all.” He gave his hand a final soft squeeze before very slowly removing his own hand. It left a warm tingly spot. “Here, let me at least take a look at the wound for you. I have some salve in my saddlebags I can put on it to help.”

Crow grimaced. “Really it’s nothing, just a scratch. I can take care of it later, you don’t need to bother yourself.”

“It’s no bother, and I’d feel much better if I could check it. I don’t want you to get sick.” He tugged at the cloak. “Go on. Let me see.”

“Eughhhh…it's not a pretty sight.”

Azra gave an impatient huff. “For heavens sakes Crow, I’ve been training with swords since I was seven; do you really think I’ve never seen a wound before? Take this thing off.”

“Is that a royal command?”

Azra fixed him with his most stubborn glare, the one with iron behind it. It really shouldn’t have been that cute. “It is if you know what’s good for you. Please, my dear, I insist.”

Crow hesitated. “Well...fine. If you insist.” His long sleeves were too tight-fitted to roll up far enough, so that left only one option. For fuck’s sake, stop blushing. It’s a shirt, he isn’t asking you to drop your breeches. Feeling absurdly self-conscious, he slowly uncurled the hunched knot of his body and unwrapped his cloak, then unlaced the neckline of the shirt.

With a sudden jolt that shot through the haze of pain, he realised he was about to fully take off his shirt in front of someone else for the first time in his adult life, and beyond being half-naked, that meant... Azra would see his other scars, and see for himself how often this had happened. Crow's hands froze on the laces, arrested mid-movement. He took the scars so for granted that he usually didn’t give them a second thought, even forgot they were there. If asked, he would have said he didn’t mind if anyone saw them, but as the issue had never come up before he’d never had to face it…and he suddenly found that he minded very much.

Eh. What did it matter, anyway? It wasn't as though Crow was fooling anyone.

He defiantly pulled the shirt off over his head with his good arm, and turned in his seat to show Azra the wound, wincing at the long trails of dried blood. The cut itself was in an awkward enough spot to where he couldn’t see it properly, high up and slightly behind his upper arm, but even from here it looked worse than he’d thought.

Azra leaned in, unflinching, and tutted. “You,” he said gravely, “are a dreadful mess. There’s still blood everywhere; did you even bother to… clean it…?” His voice trailed off and face stilled as he looked over the rest of him. Crow knew what he was seeing: lines of faded white in varying sizes, all over his skinny chest and abdomen and arms, similar to the one on his hand. Short ones and long ones, jagged and smooth, some even criss-crossing each other. Lines that could only have been made by weapons. Each one a testament to a close call. The left side had been especially popular.

Crow looked away and shrugged a shoulder, resigned. “I was in a hurry.”

“Hmph.” Azra stood and went to Serafina, brows drawn slightly together. He retrieved a small round wooden jar from the horse’s saddlebag, along with a length of white cotton bandage, then came back over and uncorked the wine bottle. He sat down close next to him, right knee touching his left. He didn’t stare again, only unlaced his doublet’s oversleeves and began briskly rolling up the sleeves of his white undershirt. “Alright. Turn that way a bit more,” he ordered matter of-factly.

“Uhh…” Crow blinked in surprise, and reminded himself to breathe. He very deliberately did not look at Azra’s forearms, which were well muscled and covered with a smattering of silvery hair, and- no, curse it, he was not looking at them. He gulped, and shifted a little on his seat. “Um. Like this?”

“Perfect.” Azra poured wine onto a handkerchief from his pocket. Duck-egg-blue, edged in a solid inch of fine lace, naturally. “I’m going to clean this wound; you never know what kind of dreadful things might be lurking on a blade. This may sting just a little,” he warned. He dabbed carefully at the cut, and fire lanced through Crow’s arm.

“Aughh.” It just burst out of him, and he bit his tongue. Calm. You are stoic and calm.

“Sorry. Hm. Well, it looked nasty, but at least the bleeding has stopped. I think a simple bandage should do.”

Azra leaned close, closer than he’d ever been before save for their horseback ride, and the stinging touches of the cloth faded into nothing as Crow’s mind went completely, helplessly empty.

From here he could smell Azra’s cologne again, that sweet, floral scent. As the warm air stirred around them he caught a hint of something else underneath it, some indefinable and perfectly intoxicating thing that was reminiscent of ink and paper, and so absolutely him that it set Crow’s heart thumping. He took a slow, shaky breath.

Azra glanced anxiously up at him. “Am I hurting you?”

He shook his head, very glad for the cover of the dark lenses. “No, it’s fine.”

The forearms that he was definitely not looking at were right there, muscles gently defined as he completed the delicate work. Crow could feel the soft warmth from Azra’s hands and body, a match for the rising heat in his own face.

Keep ahold of yourself, curse it all. “So you’re a healer now, too?” he asked, trying to distract himself from that warmth.

“When I have to be. And when I don’t want someone to perish of a needless infection.” Azra flicked a look up at him, disapprovingly stern. “I’d be quite cross with you if you let that happen to yourself.”

“Well, we can’t have you cross.” Crow smiled and looked away, breaking the eye contact before his blush became too pronounced. What was so interesting about forearms, anyway? They’re just the place between elbows and hands, that’s all. Might as well find hands attractive. His strong, soft, gentle hands, capable of doing all sorts of interesting-

Shit.

“I’m sure it would’ve been fine,” he said. “I’ve dealt with these things before.”

“I can see that,” Azra murmured. He brushed a fingertip over the skin next to the nearest scars, a puckered round mark on his left shoulder, and a long, faint line beneath his collarbone. Tiny touches that left a tingling echo.  

“Crossbow bolt,” Crow said before he could ask. “And knife. Different times.”

“Good heavens. And…what about this one? Unless you prefer not to say.” Fingers touched his back, near where he knew an old, broad scar ran the length of his entire right shoulder blade.

“Big sharp cutty thing,” Crow replied, with the ghost of a smirk. “Ten years ago. A Knight came through my window and caught me off guard.” That had been a bad one. He’d had to actually make the trip to the town healer, since he couldn’t reach it to stitch it himself. “And this one here was a barbed arrow by some woodsman type fellow, nasty job yanking that out.” He looked down at himself. “It’s not as much as it looks. Most of these are pretty old, and spaced apart. Twenty-two years worth just adds up.”

“That one looks newer.” Azra pointed to the long pink, puckered line on his forearm.

“The Knight, from my letter a while ago,” Crow said with a resigned sigh. “Sir Idiot.”

Azra pursed his lips, and nodded to the scar on Crow’s left hand. “You said that was from a clumsy moment with a knife.” He sounded vaguely accusatory. 

Crow shrugged a shoulder again, embarrassed. “I never said I was the one holding the knife,” he muttered. 

Azra was quiet for a long, long moment. He opened his mouth, looking perplexed and dismayed, then closed it. “But I thought…your magic. It’s so formidable…”

“Fire has its limits,” Crow said tiredly. “And I can't be on guard constantly. Magic doesn’t exactly warn me when someone’s sneaking up.”

“I thought…I never realised...” Azra didn’t finish the sentence. His mouth had drawn together in a firm line. He sat very still, except for his hand, still gently rubbing Crow’s back next to the scar. It felt good. “And these injuries...are all from the Empyrion citizens who’ve been attacking your tower over the years?”

“Not all. This here,” Crow pointed to a cluster of tiny pink dots, suddenly eager to show something less sinister. “This is where I got drunk and ran into the thorns around my tower. A lot are from angry villagers here in Apollyon like today, that sort of thing.”

“Yet you keep living up here, by yourself,” Azra said quietly.

Crow sighed. “Yeah. Occupational hazards of being an unscrupulous villain, I guess.” He tried to keep his voice light and didn’t dare look at Azra’s face, afraid of what he might see. Disgust? Pity? His entire body was a tapestry of reminders that they should never have been socializing, at all, never mind whatever the hell this was. And now Azra could see the ugly truth in all its glory: That he was someone to be shunned. That Azra should pack up and get away from him as quickly as possible, just like everyone else.

Fingers touched under his chin, gently lifting his head to meet level blue eyes. “Oh my dear boy. I cannot think of a word that suits you less.” Azra’s face was not disgusted at all. He was very close, and looking at him with such intent tenderness, and sorrow, and understanding, that it made Crow’s insides go liquid. One manicured thumb rested lightly on his chin. That other hand was still stroking his back.

“I’m so very, very sorry you’ve had to endure all this. You don't deserve a single bit of it. And if you are going to live up here, and if horrible, foolish people are going to insist on poking holes in you, there should be someone on your side to patch you back up. You shouldn’t have to handle this alone. Please promise me you’ll tell me about things like this from now on, so I can help?”

Crow gulped, and could only nod helplessly. He would have agreed to anything in the world with him looking at him like that.

After a moment Azra dropped his gaze, a pink flush rising in his face, and his voice became firm again.

“Hold still, now.”

Coolness replaced fire as gentle fingertips touched the cut again, smoothing something over it that smelled powerfully of sage and mint and other crushed herbs. Everywhere it touched, the pain vanished like magic. Crow looked back to see Azra applying a pale green paste from the wooden jar. “What is that?”

“A salve we use at the palace, for small training wounds and burns. Hedgewitch-make, I’m certain, though Gabriel won’t admit it. It numbs as well as heals remarkably quickly, isn’t it wonderful?”

It was. Mere moments later and the pain was a fading memory; he could barely feel the cut anymore. Even his headache was dwindling away. Crow sighed in relief and closed his eyes, forgetting his resolve to be stoic. The motion of fingertips against his skin felt inexpressibly nice and soothing. He couldn’t remember the last time something felt so soothing. Or…the last time someone touched him with the intent to take pain away. It filled him with an entirely new kind of warmth, a gentle aching glow in the center of his chest that suffused his entire being, like being filled with light itself. The sensation of being…cared for, he realised, in any capacity at all, was simply foreign to him. Father had been rather unforgiving about expressions of weakness.

“Better, hm?" Azra beamed and continued applying. "I would think with all that magic of yours you’d have some spells to heal yourself,” he commented.

“Nope. If we ever did it was all lost in the War. And sorcerers aren’t exactly known for subtle magics. We’re better at breaking things.”  It was why hedgewitches had always been the famed healers, even in the history texts. No doubt that tiny jar of salve had cost a small fortune. Good stuff, that.

“Hm.” The fingers paused, and a hand rested on his bare shoulder. “Your skin is so warm,” said Azra, “but this doesn’t look infected. Do you feel feverish at all?”

Crow shook his head mutely. All his concentration had snapped into focus on the touch of that hand. Azra’s skin felt cool- not cold, but cool like a sip of clear spring water on a hot day, soothing. He wanted to close his eyes and lean into it. How nice those hands would feel stroking his chest, running through his hair, cupping his face... He tried so hard not to think about that, but his imagination would not obey.

“Good. Hmm.” The hand moved briefly down his arm and lifted away, and Crow stifled a pang of loss. Azra resumed applying the salve, a thoughtful crease between his brows. “Is it that magic of yours, then?”

“Yeah. It does that sometimes.” He watched as Azra carefully wound a white bandage around his arm with well-tended hands, lips set in a small smile as he hummed to himself while he worked. Recognizing the slightly-off-key tune, Crow smiled.

“Is that from The Lay of Sir Savelin?”

“It is.”

Sentimental slop, Father had said of that opera.

Well, his father could go to hell, because he would happily listen to sentimental slop like this any day of the week. The mellow voice lent itself as nicely to singing as to speaking. He hadn’t thought that there could be a more pleasant sound than Azra reading aloud, but as in so many things lately he was apparently mistaken.

“There. Yes, I think you’ll keep quite well now.” The wound was hidden under a tidy layer of clean cotton, and the pain was completely gone.

“Now, you’re still a bit of a mess, so just wait one more minute while I clean you up.” Azra used a fresh handkerchief, dipped in water this time, to carefully wipe the blood off his ribs. It tickled. He took Crow’s hand and turned it palm up, held him by the wrist as he swabbed at the dried rust-red trails that had run down his arm, from shoulder to between the fingers. A nod, and he leaned back to admire his handiwork. “There you go. Good as new.” He stroked the clean skin of Crow’s inner wrist with his fingertips, lingering, and released his hand with a satisfied smile.

Crow ignored the way his entire body was tingling, and gingerly pulled his shirt back on. He focused on re-lacing it up while Azra replaced the lid on the jar.

“Here.” He plucked the soiled blue handkerchiefs off the pillar next to him; a quick shake and a cleaning cantrip left the silk even cleaner than before, and he handed them back. “Least I could do.”

“Wonderful!” Azra was always so impressed. “Now, why don’t you take these off?” He reached up and gently removed the glasses from his face, and Crow blinked in the brightened light. Azra smiled at him, those little creases spreading out from his eyes. “Hello there. You shouldn’t hide your lovely eyes when you don’t need to. Does your arm feel any better?”

Crow felt a lot better, in more ways than one. More than better. Whole. It was as if Azra had put a salve on his spirit as well as his arm, leaving him feeling lighter than he would have thought possible. He looked up into the smiling blue-grey eyes, and a wild longing rose up inside him, filling his entire being and robbing him of speech. He gulped. Somehow, without his permission, this thing had grown so large that it was starting to break him open from the inside and pour out through the cracks. It felt wonderful. And it hurt, pleasure and pain entwined.

But he was still here, with him, for now. He could have this piece. 

“Good as new. Thanks.” This time when Crow smiled, it was not forced at all.

Azra smiled back, eyes relieved. “I’m so glad you weren’t worse hurt. I simply couldn’t...” He bit his lip and shook his head, and abruptly reached out and tucked a loose strand of red hair behind Crow’s ear. The gesture was unexpectedly intimate. His fingers hesitated as they touched the curve of his ear, a little stutter-stop that had the same effect on Crow’s heart, and for an endless moment they were just sitting there looking into each other’s eyes.

The cracks trembled, spiraled outward from the center of Crow’s chest with perfectly silent, sharp vibrations.

And then Azra’s hand had completed the motion, and he dropped his gaze to smooth down a bit of Crow’s shirt collar that was out of place. “There. Come and let me serve you some lunch? There's no sense letting the delicious things you brought go to waste. And I imagine it will all taste much better now that you don’t have that nonsense to distract you.”

“Alright. Yeah,” Crow choked out. Against all the odds, he was hungry. 

“And I brought more of those ginger biscuits for you, too.” Azra beamed. “Fresh baked this morning! And I have a new book with some stories that I think you might like as well. There's one where a sorcerer performs the most remarkable magic, and...” Still talking, he took Crow by his good wrist and pulled him gently but insistently out of his seat, towards where he had laid out the food. 

As it turned out, it really was a perfectly lovely afternoon.

The next morning Crow decided to make the trip a bit further North to Tadfield. He was already missing Azra, and trying not to think about him, which was proving even more difficult than usual. The bandage on his upper arm was a fresh and vivid reminder with every movement he made. If he was going to avoid moping and dwelling on impossible things for the next couple of weeks, he needed to keep busy. His choice of city definitely had nothing to do with Azra, no. Tadfield had some of the best places nearby to eat, that was all, as well as theaters and a lively marketplace that was sure to help keep his mind off…everything.

Unfortunately, his luck wasn’t up to the challenge.

He had forgotten that it was not only the palaces that celebrated the Autumn Equinox. Palace events and fashion drove much of the economy in the Empyrion commoner circles, and he was dismayed to see that the market had been overtaken by masque-themed everything in anticipation, even with five days still to go. Everyone in the city wanted to join in the fun. The market stalls were doing a brisk business in gowns (albeit in linen and cotton instead of the satin and brocade that the nobility would be wearing), elbow length gloves, glass-and-paste jewelry, and most of all, a truly astonishing array of different masks. They ran the gamut from paper and clay for the poorer citizens, up to delicate wire-and-jewel creations clearly designed to enhance rather than obscure ladies’ features. There were even full-faced animal visages for people who wanted a bit more mystery in their lives. 

As Crow passed one of the stalls his eye caught on one mask sitting in the middle of the table, among an assortment of brightly coloured feathered ones. He paused, then let himself drift over for a closer look.

It was a molded leather mask in the shape of a bird skull, raven-black, sporting a large curving beak that jutted out a full six inches or so. Properly frightening. There were a dozen other similar masks for sale in the market all around him, but this one held his attention for one reason: pieces of shadowed glass had been set into the eye sockets. It would render the wearer’s eyes fully invisible.

“Hm.” Crow picked it up and held it to his face, over his glasses, and turned to examine himself in the little silver mirror set on the table for customers to use.

A stranger looked back. The shaped black leather covered everything north of his upper lip, all the way up to the hairline, and the broad, drooping beak dipped far enough down to where only the outline of his lower jaw was visible most of the time. It changed the shape of his face entirely, rendered him unrecognisable even to his own eyes. He looked inhuman and dangerous.

“That one to your liking, sir?” The merchant, an eager little man with knobbed hands and a balding head, appeared next to him as if by magic.

“Yeah,” Crow replied thoughtfully, removing the mask and turning it over in his hands. An idea had somersaulted into his brain and was now taking shape; a very bad idea probably, but when had that ever stopped him? He felt his mouth curving into a smirk. “Yes, I think it is to my liking.”

Chapter Text

It felt very strange to step out of a carriage into a crowd of elaborately-dressed, laughing nobles.  

Strange, but oddly splendid as well. The carriage Crow had hired for the last leg of his journey to the High Fells was by far the finest one he’d ever ridden in: richly lacquered copperwood, with ornate paneling and gilded accents that gleamed brilliant orange in the light of the swinging lanterns. That hadn’t made the journey any more comfortable, but at least his arrival made an impression. He really wasn’t one for doing things halfway.  

Crow pulled in a deep breath of fresh seaside air, letting it clear the aching in his guts from the long ride.  

This, he thought, tugging nervously at his cravats, is either genius, or a really special kind of stupid. The kind reserved for legendary ballads and plays, the ones that end with wars and public executions.  

Genius. He was going to go with ‘genius’.  

Once he crept past the Wall he had gone straight for the nearest place that rented horse-drawn coaches, and hired one to drive him up North. It was much too far away to run, and anyway even the thickheaded Northerners would be bound to notice a man zooming past at quarterhorse speeds wearing ballroom attire. So a carriage it was. He’d had to swap out carriages twice along the way to make it in time, and the trip had taken a lot longer than he’d hoped, and been more expensive than he liked, but he’d made it in the end. Slightly green around the gills, but in one piece. He consoled himself that at least the trip home would be instantaneous.  

Apparently being late was in fashion, because despite the hour plenty of courtiers were only just arriving. 

The night air smelled sharply of salt, a tang that lingered on the back of Crow’s tongue. Under the clatter of hooves, music, and general gaiety he could hear the steady murmur of waves crashing against the cliff base far below. The wind blowing in from the sea was cold and sharp enough to make him shiver, but he wore enough layers that he knew he would soon be too hot regardless. There was already a bit of sweat trying to trickle down the back of his neck, though that could easily be due to nerves. If he had been nervous, that is. Sorcerers had nerves of tempered blue steel, and were certainly not nervous about something as pedestrian as going to a party filled with blood enemies, no. Never mind that his previous plans had been to avoid the palaces…well, forever.  

Crow tugged at his stiff collar and quickly glanced down at himself to ensure nothing was out of place.  

He had traded his sorcerous cloak for the finest thing he owned: a long, elegant black velvet coat covered in crimson embroidery, tailored narrow to his body with slightly flared tails, sporting a high collar and heavy silver buttons. The coat was secondhand from his father, kept stored away in a trunk all these years on the tower’s sixth floor that served as an attic. It had been dusty, and he’d had to chase off a couple of mice that had made their home inside it, but just a few light cleaning spells and it was good as new. Thankfully he and Father had turned out to be similar heights, and the coat fit well. 

Layered under the coat was matching (new) doublet and breeches of midnight satin, with black silk hose and tiered cravats in the Empyrion style. A simple silver pin held his cravats in place. He’d brushed and left his hair down for the occasion, and polished his best leather shoes until they shone like glass. 

He’d balked at the hose, but if he was going to breathe the rarefied air then concessions had to be made.  

He felt like an over-decorated layer cake, but the overall effect with the mask was striking, if he did say so himself. Properly intimidating. If he was going to look like a fool he might as well do it with style. How the hell did Azra walk around like this all the time? It felt like all the clothes were consuming him alive, and he wasn’t even going to start on what the hose was doing.  

He discreetly adjusted his crotch for the dozenth time – ugh, that was uncomfortable – and nervously checked the ties holding his raven skull mask to his face. All seemed secure.  

In you go. Fortune favours the bold, after all.   

He squared his shoulders, twirled a little lacquered black walking stick (that he had stolen yesterday) and strolled forward into the glittering, masked crowd streaming towards the palace.  

The palace of the High Fells rose up before him, starkly visible against the black of the night beyond the cliffs. It was a sight to behold: a magnificent, soaring thing of white marble and extravagant glass windows that spanned entire stories, graceful arches and carved peaks reaching straight upwards as if to touch the heavens. Which was probably the idea, Crow thought. The thing was certainly tall enough. Each gold-tipped turret was as large as his entire tower. Clear crystal mosaics had been inlaid into almost every inch of the white stonework, swirling in subtle faceted patterns that caught the shifting fire of hundreds of torches and made the entire building scintillate like a cut diamond.  

Crow felt abruptly very small and rather grubby. This place was undeniably beautiful, he admitted grudgingly, and realised with a flash of dismay that it suited Azra perfectly. If anyone deserved beauty, it was him.  

He was glad now for his elaborate outfit, though he couldn’t hold a candle to the truly absurd finery that he saw all around him on men and women alike. Violet silk ribbons and piles of lace cravats fluttered in the salty evening breeze. There were rubies as large as pigeon eggs bound to coiffed and powdered hair; sweeping satin skirts, and rare furs, and four-cornered hats adorned with nodding plumes; jewels of every colour glinted off hemlines crusted with gold embroidery. Masks in a dizzying array of styles. Heeled shoes, and peacock feathers, and lace studded with tiny seed pearls, and every other outrageous thing imaginable. A hundred different perfumes scented the night air.  

Compared to this prancing lot, his outfit was subtle. He at least maintained a bit of dignity.  

Crow held his breath as he walked through the enormous golden gates that barred the palace walls, past the stone-eyed royal guards, but their gazes slid right over him without pausing.  

He exhaled and smirked to himself. This was going to be fun. He’d never been to a party before, let alone a royal ball. And what a laugh, to get to strut around under the very noses of the people who would execute him given half a chance. And if he got to spend some time with Azra…well. That would be a bonus, naturally. Simply a bonus. He was here to thumb his nose at the landed gentry, that was all. Yep.  

He loosened his somewhat sweaty grip on the walking stick and relaxed his stride to a saunter. Blend in. You belong here, remember?   

The inner courtyard was filled with larger-than-life marble statues. Crow eyed them in fascinated disgust as he passed. They all seemed to follow the same theme: well-muscled, generically handsome men in exaggeratedly heroic stances. Fists on hips, one leg propped, with flashing eyes and absurdly puffed chests. Holding various weapons and pointing them valiantly into the distance at nothing.  

They looked exactly like every idiotic Knight and Hero that had ever strutted up to his tower. Before they encountered Crow, anyway. They looked a bit different after. 

At the far end of the courtyard stood an enormous leaping fountain, and in the center of that stood another set of white statues. This one Crow actually stopped to stare at. 

The statues showed a robed man kneeling at swordpoint before an armoured man wearing a crown. The kneeling figure’s upturned face was twisted into a hideous snarl of rage and sporting a stupid little goatee. The artist had taken it upon themself to paint the irises of the kneeling man’s eyes yellow. 

Unbelievable. Crow turned his bark of laughter into a coughing fit. In a way, it really was a shame that this lot didn’t have magic. They would get on fantastically with the Council.  

He kept moving with the crowd past the fountain, and finally stepped through a set of carven silver doors that were thrown wide to admit guests into the main ballroom.  

As he walked in his steps slowed, and he sucked in an involuntary breath.  

The ballroom itself was a sight worth coming for. It was the largest room he had ever seen, the vaulted ceiling soaring far above his head and vanishing into shadow. Everything was opulently and artistically lit only by candles, thousands of candles of every size and on every surface: set in bronze sconces, dripping wax down marble balustrades, filling dozens of clear glass lamps that hung from the ceilings on silver chains. The end result was that the room seemed to be filled with thousands of floating gold stars, as if the room opened directly to the night sky. That golden light sparkled off the jewelry, the crystal goblets, the beadwork on dancing guests’ finery as they dipped and twirled, shifting and moving like constellations across the heavens. Music from the orchestra wove through the crowd and hung sweetly in the air.  

Crow quickly shut his mouth and shook off the dazzle of it all. It wouldn’t do for him to be caught gawping like a back-country yokel.  

An attendant in white and gold livery offered him a glass of red wine from a silver tray, and Crow quickly accepted. A drink would help him relax. Now to do some lurking, and see if he could spot one particular noble in all this madness.  From here he could just see the enormous tiered banquet tables laden with, it seemed, enough food to feed an entire kingdom. It was wafting the delicious smells of bread and roasting meat across the ballroom, and his empty stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly. With all his preparations he hadn’t stopped to eat all day. His mouth began to water.  

That would be a decent place to start.  

Azra stood alone at the far end of the ballroom by the empty throne dais, watching the twirling dancers and trying not to look forlorn.  

He wished he had time for a trip to the banquet tables before Michael returned. Or even a quick spin around the dance floor, yes, that would have been nice, something to focus on and soothe his jangling nerves. His nerves were always jangling, at parties like this, but never quite so badly as tonight.

Which is silly, he scolded himself. It wasn't as though they were announcing anything tonight at the Ball. This was just a formality, the traditional first meeting, a way to introduce the intended parties in a relatively quiet way before the official public troth. Although he did rather wish it hadn't been scheduled for such a public event, with the entire court surreptitiously looking on. 

But perhaps it wouldn't be as fraught as all that. Perhaps they could make a beginning towards friendship, at least, seeing as they were more or less in the same boat together.  

He looked wistfully back out over the dance floor. The musicians had struck up a lively tune, and everyone seemed to be having a grand time. 

He very much enjoyed dancing, though he rarely had the opportunity to do so. He’d asked courtiers, as a younger man, with cheerful innocence…but it hadn’t taken very long to realise that people usually only accepted because they felt they couldn’t refuse. Once he learned to recognise that look, noticed the hushed snickering behind hands, he’d stopped asking.  

“Ahem.”  

Azra closed his eyes briefly before schooling his face to a pleasant expression. This is it.  

He took a deep breath and exhaled, then turned slowly on his heel.

Tonight Michael wore a long formal grey coat touched with silver embroidery, white chiffon cravats, his silver crown of office, and a supercilious expression. He was leading a dark-haired young lady in a gold mask by the hand with formal ceremony, and only someone who knew him well would have caught the glint in his eyes.  

“Prince Azra, may I present to you Lady Urielle, of Elysia. Lady Urielle, Prince Azra of the High Fells.” Michael bowed and retreated a few steps away along the periphery of the dance floor, leaving Azra and his lady-to-be facing each other.  

Lady Urielle looked him over. She was elegantly garbed in pale silver silk, with peach lace flounces at the throat and wrists. 

Azra smiled at her and bowed, concealing his dismay at her age. Blast it, she looked even younger than her eighteen years!  Doubtless he would be expected to see that as a plus. She was indeed lovely, with warm brown skin and a sweet, heart-shaped face, but when he looked at her all he could see was a child.  

I’d best start trying to fix that. I have to marry this girl. Woman. Oh dear. 

She for her part was looking at him in ill-concealed disappointment behind her dainty gold mask. He was well used to that, at least. He ignored the sinking twist in his gut and kissed her slender hand as politely as he could, trying not to see how her dark eyes flicked up and down his body. He resisted the urge to suck in his stomach. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear. You look lovely tonight. Are you enjoying the ball so far?”  

“I am, thank you, Your Highness,” she replied without enthusiasm. Her full lips had been touched with some kind of gold leaf that made them glint as she spoke. 

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Azra smiled encouragingly, and she smiled back – a very familiar polite, empty expression that did not reach her eyes. He winced internally.  

Oh dear.  

“Er- I am told that you enjoy music,” he continued, “and that you are quite a talent at the harp. Do you play often?”  

“I do.” She folded elegant hands in front of her against her full skirts, and did not elaborate.  

“How wonderful. What are some of your favourite songs?” 

 “Oh, too many to count, Your Highness.” She gave another small, polite smile. 

Silence stretched.   

“Ah.” He clasped his sweating hands behind his back and racked his brains for something else to say. He had hung most of his conversational hopes on that topic. “Do you, er...ever enjoy reading?”  

“Not particularly, I’m afraid,” she replied. Her tone and expression were perfectly cordial, perfectly correct, but he had spent a lifetime learning to recognise courtly disdain, or at least disinterest. Lady Urielle was a master of the art.  

“Oh.” He gave a little nervous laugh. “I see. Well, I suppose that perhaps...the theatre might be more to your liking, with the musical element? Have you ever seen the Ten Honest Turncoats? It has a most remarkable orchestral section, especially in the second act where everything gets very dramatic indeed...” He realised distantly that he was babbling on like an old fool, the way he always did when he got flustered, and that she was just standing there looking at him with that politely interested expression pinned to her face. And oh, this was dreadful, but he couldn’t seem to help himself! It felt like watching his own carriage crash from a distance, unable to stop as he careened towards disaster.  

He could sense Michael’s amusement from behind him, and the not-so-subtle eyes of others in the ballroom, watching with gleeful interest. Having an audience made everything ten times more horrid, and the twist in his guts was soon accompanied by a pit in his stomach.  

This was going even worse than he had feared. 

Not for the first time, he dearly wished he had been born to a merchant family. Then it wouldn’t matter so much that he was chubby, or bookish, or dull as old silver. That he cared more for artwork than sword work, and preferred books to blades. Everyone would leave him be. And commoners had the luxury of choosing someone who made them happy.  

But happy was what he would have to strive for with this girl- woman- regardless of what he might wish, and regardless how impossible it seemed at the moment, so he kept at it, doggedly. He did not let his own smile fall, though it did stiffen a bit as she kept responding with one word answers to his increasingly desperate attempts at light conversation. Michael mercifully left after a few minutes, no doubt bored of the show.  

Lady Urielle also pretended not to hear Azra’s tentative request to dance. At that point the refusal filled him mostly with relief.  

After an hour of awkward non-interaction he’d reached his limit. He asked Lady Urielle if he could bring her a drink, and when she coolly declined he excused himself to go make his miserable way to the banquet tables.  

He forced himself to keep a dignified pace as he made his slow trek around the room with hands clasped behind his back, through the press of satins and jewels and masks, nodding automatically here and smiling there as lords and ladies dipped into curtsies and bows on all sides. All the perfectly courteous, polite courtiers. Once arrived at the tables he just stood there aimlessly by a towering display of cherry cream cakes, uncertain what to do with himself. For once the sumptuous array of desserts failed to tempt his knotted stomach. Not after the way Urielle had looked at him. Music and colour and merriment swirled around him without touching, like water around a lump of rock.  

He gratefully accepted a glass of white wine from a passing attendant and drained half of it in a single draught, barely tasting it, breathing like a man who had escaped from prison. Relax. People will see, and talk. The rumor mill was probably already churning at that very moment; everyone at court knew about tonight’s meeting. 

All at once the enormous room felt oppressively small and cramped. There were too many eyes here, too many staring gossiping faces. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. Glancing to and fro, he slowly inched backwards, away from the glaring lights and the crowd until his back hit the shadowed wall. A thick tapestry swayed against his shoulder. Two steps to the left obscured him from view, and he indulged in the luxury of being invisible for a moment.  

From his hiding place he could see with a sinking feeling that his intended had begun talking and laughing animatedly with one of the young men who had approached. And how could he blame the poor girl? It wasn’t as though he wanted to marry her either. Even so, her blatant disdain stung. He heaved a great sigh and looked down at his glass of wine, wishing it was bigger. 

Gold winked on the rim of the crystal goblet. Gold like Urielle’s mask...gold like- like Crow’s eyes in low light… He smiled, then shook his head briskly and took another sip, trying to drown the hollow ache in his chest. Now was not the time to be thinking of Crow… but he couldn’t help it.  

He slid a hand into his coat pocket and ran his fingers over the plain black handkerchief there. He hadn’t meant to bring it with him, not really, had just slipped it into the pocket without thinking as he was getting ready, but he was glad of it now. It made him feel a bit less alone. Oh, how badly he wished he was sitting in their shady little ruins drinking wine with his dear sorcerer, instead of in this gilded cage! Crow actually enjoyed spending time with him. Though why that should be was a great mystery, given what Azra now knew about what he had suffered at the hands of Empyrion subjects. His subjects. They and apparently everyone else had been nearly murdering Crow all this time, and Crow had never said a word. Or, rather, far worse, he had, for anyone listening properly, but Azra had been so content to not look too closely at it, hadn’t he? He’d naively assumed that surely, people couldn’t be so rotten as all that… and he’d let himself grow comfortable thinking of Crow as rather invulnerable, when he knew full well that he was human as anyone. He knew full well that Crow put a brave face on things. What a terrible friend he'd been. Shame churned his stomach along with everything else. 

And now he was soon to trade their days together for more nights like this? The thought made his heart ache. Only three weeks, now, until the formal announcement.  

However am I going to do this?   

It never used to feel this hard. Never this dire. All his life he had managed to be at peace with his destiny, but lately... 

I wish…   

But wishing was for people who had a choice.  

Heartsick, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the stone wall, trying to pretend he was somewhere else. Somewhere alone, and very quiet. With Crow, leaning very close the way he had just last week, looking at him with those beautiful, intent golden eyes that made him catch his breath every time…and the face that had been haunting him every time he fell asleep at night...

After a few minutes of fruitless imagining he peeked out from behind the tapestry and glanced around. Everyone else was entirely occupied. Urielle was now dancing a waltz with the young courtier fellow from a moment ago, and Michael was off somewhere doing whatever he did when he wasn’t irritating him. Gabriel was in a meeting with the Elysian king, doubtless finalizing his nuptials at that very moment (and wasn’t that a depressing thought). No one would notice or care if he slipped away for a while.  

Keeping a firm grip on the handkerchief, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, he made his escape. 

Crow watched Azra socialise from the far corner of the room, lounging casually against a marble pillar near the banquet tables, sipping at something blue from a tall crystal flute. Tasty stuff. Very strong, tasty stuff. He knew he should probably stop drinking it, but he had little else to occupy himself besides stuffing his gullet with delicacies from the nearby banquet tables. There had been roast capon stuffed with cured pork and figs, amazing, and then a particularly excellent fudge cake filled with brandy cream.  

He’d craftily chosen this particular spot because it seemed a safe bet that Azra would come over to the food sooner or later.  

The answer to that, apparently, was ‘later’. Crow had been lurking half-hidden in the shadows for over an hour now and was, frustratingly, no closer to being able to approach him. Not with him standing right at the very front of the room like that. All Crow had to show for his patience was a too-full stomach and a slowly encroaching haze over his thoughts. All the sparkling gold lights had begun to blur a bit.  

These prancing nobles threw quite a party, though, he had to give them that. Once they got a few drinks in them they let loose nearly as enthusiastically as the common folk. He’d already had to wave off advances from two women and one man.  

He was now on his second glass of the excellent blue liquor, and starting to really enjoy himself despite his frustration. Once he bored of eating he transmuted the entire barrel of white wine back to water, the one transmutation spell he knew, that he’d always wanted to try but never had any use for, and watched with glee as the ever-more-frustrated servants poured glass after useless glass. He’d amused himself for another thirty minutes by slowly melting the little chocolate subtleties out of the guests’ hands as they tried, baffled, to eat them. The trick was to time it right as they took a bite, and do it quickly enough to make the chocolate impossible to hold, but not so quick that anyone suspected foul play. He’d nearly cracked a rib from holding in his giggles as chocolate dripped all over their hands and fine clothes. He’d also used a spell to unravel all the stitching on half a dozen particularly stuffy-looking noblemen’s breeches. It took a lot of concentration to localize it like that and not just unravel the entire piece of clothing, especially under the influence, but he was counting on a fantastically funny payoff once they entered the dance floor.  

But that was all just a bit of sport while he waited for his chance.  

His attention was always half-fixed on the blond prince, his eyes constantly drawn back to him like a lodestone. Even all the way across the room, even among the other peacocked guests, Azra stood out. But then Azra would stand out in the center of the sun, in his definitely-not-tipsy-or-biased opinion. The prince was sumptuously dressed in creams and golds and standing at the periphery of the dance floor, upon the dais by the throne. He wore no mask. A much taller man, also maskless, with artfully curled hair and wearing a silver crown, stood off to his left side. Azra was currently speaking to a young, pretty lady in a gold mask. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, spine straight, and something about the set of his shoulders suggested that they were clenched together. The poor man looked stiff as a board, actually, especially compared to the laughing and flirting courtiers all around.  

Crow set down his empty glass on the table without looking away, and selected another.  

Every single man in the room was proportioned roughly like the statues in the courtyard... except Azra. Remarkable. He wondered if there was some kind of device somewhere that churned nobles out, like a human printing press. If so it was a waste of effort: Azra looked far handsomer and far more princely to his eyes. It was a struggle to tear his eyes away from him.  

The tall, silver-crowned man next to Azra turned and made a brief comment to someone else, and Crow blinked as he suddenly recognised the profile. He had seen it on the silver High Fells currency, a dozen times by now. So that was Michael, was it? Crow’s softening wits sharpened, and he bared his teeth in a silent snarl. Now here was a diversion worth his time. He couldn’t arouse suspicion, of course…but he could surely wipe that smug expression off the man’s face.   

Crow backed further into the shadows and, focusing hard, sent a bit of heat into the soles of Michael’s shoes. Not a lot, not at first. It was the exact same method he used to light the candles at home, only much further away and with lesser intensity. Magic grew harder and took more energy with distance, and Michael was all the way across the dance floor, but Crow set his jaw and bore down, gradually increasing the amount of power.  

At first nothing happened. Then after a minute, Michael suddenly shifted. He surreptitiously lifted one foot, then the other, and rubbed the toe of a shoe against the back of his calf as if it were uncomfortable. He glanced down briefly, frowning, then casually turned and strolled away from Azra.   

Crow grinned a fierce grin behind his mask. His hand slowly made a fist at his side, and he sent another trickle of heat.   

Michael’s step quickened. His face had gone red, and he was visibly struggling to walk normally.  He was nearly to the very end of the room. Curse it, he was getting away.   

Crow growled and squeezed his fist until the knuckles popped.    

The prince cursed and tore off his shoes while nearby guests stared at him in open concern. The tiny commotion was quickly swallowed in the music and general hubbub, invisible to anyone who wasn’t watching for it.   

Crow released the magic with an exhale, and sipped his drink. There, he thought with a satisfied smirk. Michael wasn’t at all handsome anymore with his face flushed and blotchy like that. The bastard had it coming. He would have loved to make his shoes actually burst into flame, but some things just couldn’t be explained away.   

After another half hour of waiting and drinking- his chance finally arose. Azra had approached the banquet table for a glass of wine and was now slowly edging his way around the borders of the room, slinking towards the door at the far corner. Sneaking away, are we?  

Crow grinned, and followed quietly in his wake. A nervous, fluttery sensation had taken root in his stomach, blunted by the alcohol, and he had to resist the impulse to rush too much and draw attention. He knew he had drunk more than he should and was tipsier than he would have liked, but confident that he could keep things together.  

It was dimly lit outside the ballroom, and it took Crow a second for his masked eyes to adjust to the lower light. Once he could see again he hurried along the deserted corridor, peeking around each intersecting corner until- there! Azra, making his stately way down the lamplit hallway towards the front of the palace, one hand holding a wine goblet and the other tucked casually in his coat pocket.  

Arranging his hidden face to seriousness, Crow crept along behind him as stealthily as he could. It wasn’t that difficult, his feet sank noiselessly into the thick carpet runner. When he was only a couple paces away from him, he stopped and loudly cleared his throat. “A-hem.” 

Azra gasped and jumped a full inch or two off the ground, sloshing white wine in an arc and spattering Crow's shoes as he whirled wide-eyed to face him.  

“Your Royal Highness,” Crow said. He suppressed a fit of mad giggles and swept into an absurdly formal bow, extending one leg forward with back parallel to the floor, walking stick held out to the side. He’d practiced in the mirror until he thought it looked natural. On impulse he pitched his voice a shade deeper. “I was hoping to speak to your Royal Lordship for a moment, if I may.”  

“Oh.” To his credit, Azra quickly recovered and composed his features back to the polite, courtly expression he had been wearing earlier. It didn’t look anything like him. “Oh, yes. I’m, ah, terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I have a rather pressing appointment. I’m sure Prince Michael is who you want, in any case. He’s back somewhere out there, on the dance floor.” 

“Oh, beg pardon, if you aren’t interested in chatting tonight, Your Holiness,” Crow said, straightening and using his normal voice this time.    

Azra’s carefully bland expression wavered, then sharpened as he really looked at him. His eyes snapped wide. “Crow?” he gasped, and the cool, remote demeanor fell away like a discarded coat. “What in- what the blazes are you doing here?” Emotions flitted over his face almost too fast to follow: shock, unmistakable delight, and finally horror. 

“Keeping you out of trouble.” Crow briefly lifted the mask and grinned at him, then grunted as Azra seized his arm and hauled him over to the edge of the hall, behind a row of short pillars topped with marble busts. His grip was strong.  

“Ow! Careful, now. This coat isn’t exactly new.” 

“What do you think you are doing here?” Azra demanded again in a panicked whisper. He had set down the empty glass somewhere and was gripping him by both arms now, squeezing. “What- How- Have you lost your senses, you ridiculous scoundrel? You’ll be caught!” He darted a frantic look around to make sure they were quite alone. For the moment, they were. Their hallway was deserted, lit only by softly glowing lamps set at intervals along the paneled walls, but any of the revelers could come walking down it at any second.  

“Relax.” Crow kept his voice low, even though the distant hum of the music and conversation was plenty loud enough to cover his words. “I’m not here to ruin your party. No one even knows who I am up here, it’s the whole point of a masque ball, isn’t it?” He tapped the shadowy glass eye socket of his mask.  

“Yes, alright, but- oh, Crow, this is completely mad! You’re in the heart of the palace, what if- if someone asks who you are?”  

“Then I’ll lie, obviously. Scoundrels are good at that. Do you really think any of this lot is paying attention?” He nodded back towards the way he’d come, where drunken laughter and conversation kept rising and falling. “It’s a party, no one is on their guard.”  

“The palace guards certainly are!”  

“I’ll avoid them," Crow assured him. "I’ll be careful, I promise. I just thought I’d come and keep you company, rescue you from your boredom.” Too late, he remembered that he was not here just to see him. Shit. That blue drink must have been more potent than he thought.  

Azra looked like he wanted to keep fussing but couldn’t think of anything else to say. He only gave a helpless sort of huff, and slowly let go of Crow’s arms. “Well, you’ve certainly done that.”  

The familiar exasperation on his face was wholly endearing. Crow grinned, looking him up and down. “What the hell are you wearing, anyway?”  

Azra looked down at himself. He wore an extravagantly cut ivory coat that hung to his thighs, dripping with enough gold buttons, braiding, and beaded embroidery to sink a small ship. His matching ivory doublet and breeches were covered in gold needlepoint phoenixes. Four layers of ruffled white lace cravats cascaded from his high collar; more lace poured ludicrously forth from the flared cuffs to cover his jeweled hands. He stood an inch taller in thick-heeled satin shoes with lavish gold buckles, worn over embroidered ivory hose. His breeches fastened at the knees with tiny diamond buttons. 

He looked completely ridiculous, and absolutely beautiful, far more so than any of those mincing idiots out there. His hair was silver-gilt in the lamplight, bound back by a gold circlet inlaid with sapphires, and his eyes shone brighter blue than usual. 

Those eyes were currently narrowed at Crow in indignation. “And what else should I be wearing to a formal ball?” Azra demanded, raising his chin. “I do have standards.” 

“Mm hm. I don’t think you have enough lace.” Crow tugged at the frilly cravats around his neck, snickering as Azra lightly smacked his hand away. “You look nice. What do you think, do I meet your persnickety standards?” He held out his arms and turned in a circle for inspection. “I’ve never mingled with such elevated company before.”  

“Oh, Good Lord.” Azra looked him quickly up and down, and his mouth worked a few times. “It will suffice,” he finally said, tart as fresh lemon. “Ruffian. A crow mask, honestly? Have you no subtlety at all?” 

“It’s a raven skull, thanks. Much more sinister. And you’re a fine one to talk, dressed like that!” 

“I’m a prince, I’m supposed to be dressed nicely! That thing is terrifying. You frightened me half to death, skulking in the shadows like a…like….” He sputtered, and gave up. “You made me spill all my wine,” he said plaintively.  

“A capital crime, that. Are you going to have me thrown out?” 

“Oh, of course not.” Azra seemed to relax, and his exasperated expression slid away. He sighed and touched Crow’s arm briefly again, a conciliatory gesture. “I just…can’t have you risking your life on my account.”  

The words sent a flush of warmth through Crow, and he was incredibly grateful for the mask hiding his face. 

“Such concern for your enemy,” he teased. “Most unseemly.” 

Azra didn’t seem to notice the teasing, and kept speaking distractedly. “It’s only that… my people have already hurt you far, far too much already, and I couldn’t bear it if anything else- oh!” He put a hand to his mouth, expression one of shocked guilt. “I forgot about your injured arm! I’m so sorry, my dear, I do hope I didn’t hurt you, when I grabbed you a minute ago...”  

“No, no, its doing fine,” Crow assured him. “That salve of yours worked miracles.” He pinwheeled his arm to demonstrate, and almost knocked a marble bust off its pillar. “No pain at all.”  

“Oh, I’m so glad. And no one else has harmed you since I saw you last?" he asked anxiously.

Crow chuckled. “No, I promise. It’s only been a week, it doesn’t happen that often.”  

“Thank heavens for that.” Azra beamed at him in relief, and it was worth the entire hassle and risk, worth the day-long bouncy carriage ride and uncomfortably hot clothes, just to see that smile. Crow felt himself actually grow a few degrees warmer. Not only above the waist, either. It did nothing for his mental acuity. He smiled foolishly back, and barely resisted the urge to sweep him into his arms. 

Wow. Shit. That’s definitely enough alcohol for you. 

“You do look quite dashing in our styles,” Azra admitted, looking him over with a smile. “Wherever did you get clothes like this? These must be new.” 

“Dark magic,” Crow replied casually.  

Azra rolled his eyes. “Well, you seem to be rather sparse on accessories. We can’t have that,” he said with mock seriousness. "Such a lovely outfit deserves some decoration."    

There were tall vases of flowers set here and there along the hall; the closest one held long-stemmed red roses. Azra pulled a tightly-furled one free and broke the stem short, plucking off all the thorns. From somewhere within his coat he produced a pin, and stepped close. Crow stood mannequin still, barely breathing, as Azra carefully pinned the rose to his right coat lapel. It matched the dark red embroidery perfectly.  

The prince arranged it just so and stepped back to admire his work with a satisfied smile, smoothing the black coat down with his palm. “There you are, my dear. The perfect finishing touch.” He took Crow's hand and bowed over it, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his fingers.  

The touch of lips to skin hit Crow's tipsy brain like a battering ram. His entire body flushed hot. When the gears of his mind started turning again he was vaguely surprised to find that he had not burst into flame, but was still on his feet, frozen with his hand hanging stupidly in midair. Staring at Azra, who now had his hands clasped shyly behind his back. He'd turned a brilliant shade of pink. 

Crow quickly dropped his hand. "Um. Thanks," he croaked giddily. "I wouldn't want to be under-decorated among this lot. It's probably a capital offense too." 

Azra smiled, still flushed, and it was as lovely as the first time. "No doubt." 

That mad urge to hold him was back in full force, dangerously strong, so Crow folded his arms and leaned casually against the nearest pillar. Keep yourself together. “Ahem. So. Where were you heading to? Why are you sneaking off instead of in there dancing with all your admirers?”   

Something flickered over Azra’s face, dimming the smile, and he glanced away. “Oh…” 

“It’s kind of unseemly to skip out on your wait list, eh, Your Holiness?”  

Azra rolled his eyes again and gave Crow’s shoulder a little shove. “Oh, will you stop with that.” 

“With what?”  

“The entire…’Your Holiness’ nonsense.” 

“Fine, not reverent enough? How about, My Liege? Your Worship? Saint? Or how about we cut right to the heart of the matter and call you ‘Angel’.” He snickered. “Yeah, that’s the one.”  

“You cannot be serious. Don’t you dare.”  

“Ha, too late. It’s decided, angel.”  

“Oh, for goodness sakes.” Azra blushed again, avoiding his eyes. He didn’t actually look displeased. “You're being remarkably silly.”  

“Nonsense, angel.” Crow suppressed a hiccup and glanced around to make sure they were still quite alone. They’d dawdled here long enough.  

Azra seemed to have the same thought. “We should move out of this hallway at least. Would you care to… take a walk?” He looked wistfully back towards the crowd. “It will be a relief to disappear for a while.” 

About to make another joke, Crow paused at the tone and looked closer at Azra's face. There was a slight edge to him, a shadow that he hadn’t noticed through the liquor and his euphoria at seeing him. The familiar lines of his rounded face were tenser than normal, slightly off kilter. His jaw was taut. Beneath the tartness he looked genuinely distressed.  

“Azra? Are you alright?”  

Blue eyes darted sideways. “Oh, yes. You know I’m just not very fond of these large parties.”  

Crow folded his arms, frowning now. “You’re still a terrible liar. Come on, what’s wrong?”  

Azra was silent for almost a full minute, twisting his gold signet ring around on his finger. He opened and closed his mouth several times. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, reluctantly, as if the words were being pried from him, “I met the girl I’m being betrothed to tonight.” He didn’t look at him.   

Oh.   

The hallway seemed to constrict, the lights dimmed. Crow’s bubbly buoyancy felt like it had been stabbed. Betrothed seemed to echo in his ears.  

Already? No. No, it can’t be…  

He tried to think of something casual and gracious to say, anything, but his sodden wit wasn’t up to the task.  “Oh. Oh shit. Um. What? So the betrothal is… set?”  

Azra nodded, still looking down and away. “It appears that way. Almost. Tonight was the preliminary introduction, an informal meeting if you will, and the public announcement and presentation will be at the tournament in three weeks. Once that’s done then it will truly be official. I imagine the wedding will be set for some months from now.”  

“Ah.” Crow swallowed and stood there, struggling to keep his composure. It probably wouldn’t have been possible if not for the mask. Months. Only months left, at best. He cast his slightly fuzzy memory back to the pretty dark-haired girl speaking to Azra in the ballroom, and felt the first burn of searing jealousy under the sick dismay.  

You never said anything, he wanted to say. Never a word. But Azra didn’t owe him an accounting of his engagement, now did he? They hadn’t talked about this, at all, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that, and now he didn’t have a clue what to do. He groped for something else to say. 

“And...the meeting tonight didn’t go well?” he guessed.   

Azra sighed. “She was less than enthused at the prospect.” 

It was easy to hear what he didn’t say. Jealously turned to anger, and Crow regretted not giving her a bit of a hotfoot. He glared back toward the ballroom. “It’s not too late. Do you want me to go set her on fire?”  

That startled a laugh out of him. “No, no, of course not! The poor girl is just young, and not interested in me. Quite understandably so. I’m...not exactly interested in her either. Not quite my usual type.” The wry tone of his voice and sideways glance gave additional significance to the words.  

Oh. Crow wasn’t remotely surprised, at this point, but it still made his heart leap to hear his suspicions confirmed anyway. Though that was stupid when he had no right to feel thrilled at all! It wasn’t as though his chances were affected one way or another. It shouldn't make one lick of difference that Azra was not interested in women.

He swallowed hard. “Um. Surely…surely the king wouldn’t make you marry her, knowing that?” he asked without much hope. It certainly never factored into sorcerer expectations of providing an Heir, and he didn’t hold much optimism that this lot was any more sensible. 

Azra sighed again, one of his extra expressive ones that spoke volumes. “I’m afraid what I want isn’t the point.”  

“Naturally not,” Crow said caustically. “The wanker.” Oops. His feelings about Gabriel were a bit more… vehement than he usually let on. He tried not to think about it too much. Last week Azra had mentioned Gabriel’s threat to sell Serafina, and it made Crow so angry that when he got home he had to go cool off –  literally so; to go fill a washtub with cold water and stand in it until he could be sure he would not burn anything. “But hold on, there’s nothing understandable about it, anyway. Any courtier should be thrilled to marry- royalty.” Shit. He’d nearly said ‘you’.  

“Other royalty, perhaps,” Azra replied. “There’s plenty to choose from, with five kingdoms, and four princes in this one alone. I am merely a spare, and a lesser one at that.”  

The calm resignation in his voice...spoke volumes, and illuminated things that made Crow want to take him by the shoulders and shake him. And pull him into his arms, and kiss him. And then set fire to half the nobility. Instead he kept his arms folded and glared at him, not that it was visible under his mask. “That’s…the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You’re worth more than the whole rotten lot of them put together, ten times over.” He felt a slow rage coalesce together inside of him, like a piece of hot iron lodged just under his breastbone. How dare they. How dare these puffed up, self-important idiots make Azra feel inadequate. Couldn’t they see what was right there in front of them?  

His distress ran too close to the surface for his liquor-loosened tongue to rein in, and he plunged ahead before he could stop himself. “It’s hardly your fault that the bastards have all got glass for eyes and rocks for brains!”  

Azra looked up in surprise at his vehemence, and Crow flushed but didn’t look away. “Well, it’s true,” he said defensively, hating how petulant he sounded.  

After a moment Azra’s expression melted into a gentle smile. He put a hand on his arm. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said simply.  

 Crow’s head had filled with a buzzing sound the moment he touched him. He had no pithy reply.  

“Me too,” he managed.  

Azra glanced around, then said, “Come with me. I know a good place where we’ll be safe.” He slid his arm through Crow’s, put his other hand on his elbow as if to keep him there, and led him away down the hall.  

Crow floated along next to him, barely aware of his own feet. Azra’s arm through his was just a light pressure that might as well have been a cast-iron chain. He didn’t know where they were going and he didn’t care; all his concentration was fixed on that arm. He was only vaguely aware of walking down a corridor, up a curving flight of stairs, turning up and up until they came to another dimly-lit hallway with a locked door. Azra let go of him then to fish out a ring of bright keys of all different sizes and metals from his pocket. He used a small bronze key to let them inside.  

It was a tiny private balcony overlooking the ballroom, similar to the viewing boxes Crow always booked at the larger city theatres. It was just a little half-circle outcropping with a cushioned bench and polished railing. If he squinted he could barely make out identical nooks set at intervals around the vast circular room, spaced far enough apart to make eavesdropping impossible. They were also conveniently set above the hanging glass lamps, leaving them in their own private shadow while the floor below remained quite visibly lit. Clearly, these were intended for privacy.  

Azra shut the door behind them, then leaned his back against it with a huge sigh. “We should be safe enough up here. These rooms are closed off to the public- I used to sneak up here to read as a boy,” he said matter-of-factly. “No one will be coming round.” A great deal of tension seemed to go out of him, and he abruptly looked more himself. “Oh, what a blessed relief.”  

“As bad as all that?” 

“You have no idea.” Azra gestured to his face. “Would you mind- could you take that thing off for a bit? No one can see you up here.”  

Crow carefully lifted off the leather mask and set it on the bench; he blinked and rubbed at his eyes as the light from below dazzled him anew. Everything looked twice as spectacular without the shaded lenses, and as his vision cleared he took a minute to just re-admire the view. All of the view. Azra was standing right there in front of him, not even two feet away, in that ridiculous outfit with hands behind his back. His eyes were visibly blue even in their little pool of shadow, and as Crow looked at him his face broke into a true smile for the second time that evening. The entire balcony seemed to brighten.  

“There you are.” Azra raised a hand as if to touch him again, then let it drop back to his side without completing the gesture. “It certainly is nice to see a friendly face tonight.” 

“I didn’t realise that they were in such short supply.” Crow hesitated, then decided the hell with it. “You deserve better, you know. You don’t deserve the way your brothers treat you. Or any of the people here, apparently.”  

Azra wrung his hands and glanced away. “Oh, it’s not so bad, really. I’m far better off than most.”  

“That’s a load of- that’s nonsense. Azra. They have no right to treat you like that, or barter you away,” Crow pressed. “If they’re all so awful to you why do you put up with it? Or do anything they tell you to do?” A small, less drunk part of himself was painfully aware of his own hypocrisy. It wasn’t as though he’d ever told off the Council, had he? Shut up, Crow, shut up...

“You know it’s not as simple as that. I have many… expectations, and obligations that come with my station. Things that are non-negotiable.” 

“Like marrying that girl?”  

Azra winced. “Yes. Like that.”

“And then you'll have to stay up here, forever." Crow struggled to keep his voice calm. “And-” And I'll never see you again. He swallowed. “And you'll be stuck. This kind of thing will be your life.” 

“What other choice do I have?” Azra demanded, with a touch of asperity. He lifted his chin and folded his lace-covered hands before him, but Crow knew him well enough to see that he was hiding distress. “This already is my life, Crow, it always has been. I've never had a say in the matter. There's nothing else I can do.”

“You could come stay at my place.” The words leapt out of Crow’s stupid, stupid mouth without any input from his brain, and then it was far too late to take them back. Panic rose inside him, but words were still pouring out, each more mad than the last: “There are plenty of rooms in the tower. You could bring Serafina, and your books, as many as you like, and read all day. Every day could be like the last few months. Or we could leave, just go off together and find someplace where people are more sensible-”  He forced himself to stop talking. Curse that blue drink. Curse my loose tongue. I must be out of my mind.  

Azra was looking at him with lips slightly parted, his expression a strange mixture of astonishment, uncertainty, and something that looked like longing…but that was probably just wishful thinking on Crow’s part.  

“I…I don’t think my people would like that,” the prince said faintly at last, voice low.  

“Does it really matter what they would like?” Crow asked, reckless. His face was burning. Equal parts mortification and disappointment churned together into a hot ball in his chest. “They don’t seem to care much for what you want. You don’t have to do this!”  

“But I do. This is...larger than me, and what I want. I cannot simply shirk every responsibility I've ever been given, and go haring off. No matter-” Azra bit his lip and did not continue. 

“So that’s it, it’s settled then? Marry her, regardless how you feel, and just… just spend the rest of your life miserable?” Crow demanded. His skin had grown hot in a way that had nothing to do with his clothes; he clenched his sweating fists and tried to stamp the magic back down. He knew he had no right to demand anything of him, he knew that, but he was going to lose him so soon, and…at that moment he was all jagged desperation. He couldn’t bear the thought of Azra with that distant expression on his face all the time. He ached to gather him into his arms and tell him it would be alright.  

“I never said I’d be miserable,” Azra protested indignantly, and frowned at Crow’s disbelieving scoff. “I didn’t! I- I am… proud to uphold my duty to my family and my kingdom.” He swallowed hard, and lifted his chin again. “I was born to this; I’ve known that this is coming my entire life. It’s part and parcel of the privileges I’ve enjoyed, and the only thing I have to offer in return.”  

“That’s bollocks. Come on, I know you don’t want to marry some stodgy courtier and spend the rest of your life dancing attendance on people like these.” 

“I am a stodgy courtier, too, Crow!” Azra burst out, composure fracturing at last. His eyes were wide and distressed. “I am people like these!”  

“You’re not,” Crow said at once. He bit his tongue, but couldn’t keep back the fresh torrent of words leaping unchecked from somewhere deep inside. “You’re gentle, and kind, and clever. And stubborn. You love books and magic tricks; you value people and animals above gold. You’re nothing like them at all. You have everything to offer.”  

“I- I-” Azra gaped at him and mouthed wordlessly for several seconds. “The- the king has spoken, and I have no choice but to obey. This is for the good of my kingdom, and my family, and-” 

“Aaaargh, it’s for the good of them!” Crow burst out, unable to keep it in any longer. He shoved both hands distractedly into his hair and yanked at it. “That’s what people like Gabriel and your brothers really mean when they say things like that. My lot is just the same. Your kingdom isn’t going to benefit from your family growing richer. They just say that to control you so they can get what they want!” 

“Be that as it may,” Azra said unsteadily, “I- I’m not like you, Crow; I’m not free to just… just do as I please!”  

Crow lowered his hands and looked seriously at him. “I’m not as free as all that. You might notice that I’m here in disguise under pain of death. From both sides.” 

“That’s true. But you just…go out and do the things you want to do anyway, and spit in the eye of anything that tells you otherwise, no matter what. I don’t know how you do that.” Azra’s shoulders had slumped, and now he sounded only sad, so impossibly sad. It made Crow feel more like a monster than any glares or attacks from villagers ever had.  “You’re so much braver than I.” 

Crow heaved a slow sigh, feeling the heat flicker and drain away. “Not really,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve got less to lose. And it’s just a matter of deciding what matters most to me. What things are worth the trouble.” The flash of temper had faded, leaving only a deep ache and a sense of shame. How could he ask why, when he knew too well the cost of being an outcast? How could he expect anyone to willingly choose the same, when they had all this? “Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn't mean- I’m sorry.” He reached out and put a hand on his embroidered shoulder, to comfort him, before he fully realised what he was doing. He snatched it back, then turned away to the balcony railing and put his hands there, where they could not get into trouble.  A moment later Azra joined him to look out over the room.  

From their high vantage point he could see that the vaulted ceilings were painted to look as if they opened to the heavens, with spectacular frescoes of puffy white clouds spilling across a blue sky. Below them the ballroom floor was patterned like an enormous sunburst, crystal and gold mosaic tiles spiraling outward from the center to touch the edges of the room. They sparkled in the light of the myriad candles. The entire palace wall to their left was glass from floor to arched ceiling; by day it would have shown a spectacular view of the open sea, but the night had turned it into an enormous starry mirror that reflected everything back at them over and over again. He whistled softly.  

“I have to hand it to you, angel. It’s quite the view.”  

“A better one from up here.” Azra smiled at him, and Crow’s unwise heart did stupid flip flops around that little balcony. They both looked back out at the room, listening to the music in companionable silence.  

“Shame, really. If things were different, I just might ask you to dance,” Crow said quietly.  

Azra was quiet for a long moment, staring down at the whirling dance floor with both hands clasped to the railing. His face had fallen back into that unreadable mask from earlier, the one that made him look like a stranger. Candlelight from the lamps to their left winked off the beadwork on his coat and cast his face half in shadow, half in warm golden light.  

“If things were different, I might accept,” he said at last, in a near whisper.    

They were standing shoulder to shoulder in the small space, and as the silence stretched Crow wasn’t certain what they were talking about anymore. He didn’t think they were talking about dancing. There was a curious, keen pain in the left side of his chest. He cleared his throat, and looked back down at the ballroom without seeing it. 

“Probably for the best,” he said, and his voice was slightly rough. “I’ve never danced before and I’d prob’ly just step on your fancy shoes.” 

Azra’s ring-laden hand was resting right next to his on the railing; Crow’s littlest finger was almost touching it, just a hairsbreadth away.  

As if by accident, Azra’s hand shifted that infinitesimal distance to press against his.  

They just stood there with their fingers touching, the contact tenuous and perfectly deniable. Crow barely breathed. This was different, somehow, completely different than a comforting hand on his in the Wood, or even a courtly kiss on the hand. He did not know exactly what this was, only that it was something precious and fragile as gossamer. He closed his eyes and did not move. The music and laughter of the ballroom seemed to hush, their surroundings falling away into silence. The entire palace seemed as far away as if it was at the bottom of the nearby sea. There was only the enveloping warmth of Azra next to him in the darkness, and the beautifully sacred, unmistakable touch of his hand.  

Sacred. That is what you are.   

A desperate yearning to take his hand, to throw caution to the wind and tell him truly how he felt, rose up inside so strongly that it left Crow breathless. It terrified him to realise he was considering it. Hadn’t he already cocked things up enough tonight? He bit his tongue and squeezed his eyes tighter shut, feeling his heart burst into erratic flight like a caged bird. Hot sweat broke out at his temples.  

Those drinks were a bad idea. Ill-advised words pressed at his lips, making all the cracks running through him tremble. It felt as if he would shatter like porcelain if he held them back for another second, or even moved the wrong way.  

Slowly, heart a-thunder, he lifted his hand and rested it gently atop Azra’s.  

There was a slow indrawn breath in the dark beside him, and Azra did not pull away. His thumb came up to hold Crow’s smallest finger in place.  

Just then the enormous clock hanging on the adjacent wall right next to them began to toll: a deep, resonant, incredibly loud sound that shattered the quiet spell. They both started violently, and it broke the contact between their hands. The clock just kept tolling out the hour, on and on, twelve ringing strokes in all, while they stood and looked anywhere but at each other, while Crow collected himself. 

As the final strike rang its way into silence he removed his hands from the railing. “Midnight. I should probably leave, before the crowds begin to thin out too much.” Or before I do something foolish. More foolish.   

“Must you go?” Azra asked, and in his voice was something wistful and vulnerable that made Crow want to fall to his knees and pour out his heart. But that would be the height of foolish. 

No. Yes. I don’t want to go. But tonight your smile makes me ache, and there’s no hope for anything more. It was hard to speak past the yearning in his throat, but he managed a crooked smile. “I seem to have promised to avoid unnecessary risks.” 

Azra looked like he wanted to say something else, but only sighed. “Yes…we can’t have that. Please be careful. I couldn’t bear it if any harm came to you. Not again.” 

Crow swallowed, stomping down the way those words made his heart leap. “You know me. I’m always careful.” 

Azra’s eyes crinkled a little at that. “Thank you so much for coming to see me, Crow. You’ve made tonight….much easier to bear.” After a moment’s hesitation he held out his hand towards him.  

Crow took it. Azra’s hand was still as solid and soft as the first time they’d ever shaken hands, that day by the Wall. The day everything had changed. He stood there looking down at it, suffused with longing, feeling the mad unspoken things well up through the cracks again and crowd onto his tongue.  

Don’t marry that girl. Come away with me instead.   

In that breathless second he almost asked him outright again. Even though as he thought the words he could hear how stupid they sounded. Standing here of all places. Here, at the glittering heart of a crystal palace by the sea. What could he possibly offer Azra, compared to….all this?  

The answer was a slap of cold certainty: Nothing. He had nothing to offer him. Just a drafty old stone tower and a lifetime as a pariah. Even if a prince could ever feel anything like that for a sorcerer… no one in their right mind would choose that, just for him. All it could do was drive Azra away sooner. That wretched certainty shut his mouth on any confessions or further pleas he might make. He wrestled them into submission and swallowed them painfully back down. 

With a jolt he realised he’d been holding on to Azra’s hand for far too long, well past the normal allotted handshake time…and that again neither of them had pulled away. He quickly released his grip before he could say or do something he would regret. His hand tingled as he let it fall back to his side. He pulled in a sharp, ragged breath, feeling his chest expand painfully. 

“Don’t go spreading that around,” he said, and grinned like his entire heart wasn’t fractured open and reaching for him. “If any of this gets back to the Council there’ll be hell to pay. I’m on thin enough footing as it is.” He picked up the raven mask and pulled it down over his face again, shutting a door.  

Azra stood with his hands empty at his sides, just looking at him. “I’ll see you once all this Equinox nonsense is over, then?” He sounded hopeful, at least. 

Crow nodded, throat tight. “I'll be waiting.”  

He gave a low, deliberate bow. In the same smooth motion he caught up Azra’s soft hand in both of his and kissed it, pressed his lips gently to the back of it for the space of time it takes to draw a slow breath. The skin was warm against his mouth and smelled faintly of spices.  

Then he fled, face burning, before he could make any more a mess of things.

Chapter Text

Two days later found Crow at the Tadfield marketplace. Again. Because at this point he’d given up fighting it. 

The entire idea had been to get out of the tower and take his mind off Azra, so in that sense the entire enterprise was a failure. But he wasn’t in the mood to socialise at the Jezebel, and his attention span felt a bit too fractured to sit through a play, so the marketplace it was. This particular marketplace. But, he reasoned, even this was a great step up from staring cross-eyed at the red rose from the masque (which sat drying in a clean jar on his desk) and gossiping to his flowers. Sort of. 

Currently he was at the bookbinder’s stall, trying not to sneeze as he idly sifted through piles of dusty old books and manuscripts. Just on the off chance that there was something Azra might like. 

Crow never thought he would feel any particular kinship with moths, yet more and more lately he found himself wincing in sympathy when he saw the poor bastards flying determinedly headfirst into torches. 

He had been trying very hard not to remember his behaviour at the ball. The whole evening had a  shiny glaze of alcohol over it - that damned blue drink! - but some parts stood out like candles in the dark. Azra in his ridiculous pretty outfit, washed in gold light. A red rose pinned to his coat. Azra telling him that he was going to be married. Standing together on the balcony, the cautious touch of hands. Their argument. The heart-leaping press of lips to hand...

Fine. All of it stood out. It was all he had thought about, constantly, for the two days since; it haunted both sleeping and waking hours.

As soon as he returned to the Rookery he’d stomped straight up to his garden (without even changing his clothes) and regaled his flowers with the entire embarrassing story, in great tipsy detail, with his mood swinging wildly between elation and doubt every other breath. He’d made a fool of himself. He had said far too much. No, he hadn’t said nearly enough! He should have been bolder. He had been much too bold.

All while impulsively changing every single rose to a rich red colour.

The flowers had been sympathetic, but unhelpful. 

Ugh, he hadn’t even dared to look at Azra’s face after kissing his hand; he’d simply spun around and all but run away, through the door and down the hall like a complete drunken idiot, stumbling and nearly losing one of his shoes. His cheeks still burned just thinking about it. Hopefully he could brush the whole thing off as the result of a bit too much alcohol. Surely Azra wouldn’t hold that against him.

As for the…the betrothal… Crow gave himself a shake and viciously suppressed the sick full-body pang, like he’d been doing for the past two days. He’d always known this relationship was temporary. The fact that it was now signed, sealed, and official made little difference. Should make little difference. Couldn’t make a difference. All he could do now was enjoy the time they had left together without ruining things and wishing for more.

Sensible advice, but his damned sleeping mind was not sensible at all. Everything he suppressed lately decided to pop up cackling in his dreams with tenfold intensity, as if to punish him for ignoring them when he was awake. Last night his dreams had treated him to a very detailed show full of all the things he had avoided thinking about in Azra’s presence: Slowly peeling off those sumptuous ballroom clothes, hearing the slow rasp of brocade against silk, the whisper of silk against skin. The resistance of cloth as he pulled away Azra’s lace cravat in a single long unraveling piece. Kissing each new sliver of pale skin as it was revealed, like the prestige of a magic trick. Kneeling at his feet with hand supporting an outstretched calf, carefully removing those ridiculous heeled shoes, then rolling down the hose one leg at a time and kissing the inside of his thigh, maybe biting that thigh while he was at it…

Just for once, Crow wouldn’t have minded having just a little less active of an imagination. Walking had been a chore. Was a chore right now, in fact. 

He hummed to himself as he looked through a teetering pile of leather bound plays, trying to ignore his suddenly-too-small breeches, and realised he was humming a strain of music from the masque. Stop that.

He pulled a copy of Ten Honest Turncoats from the pile, smirking as he remembered their first ever conversation. If you could even call it a conversation. An exchange of threats, more like. Heh. This would make an excellent gift, something to make Azra laugh. Perfect.

Despite everything there was a fresh bounce to his step as he left the market, new purchase tucked safely under his arm. The next time he saw Azra he would once again be sober and in full command of himself, with some kind of excellent dessert and the gift of one of his favourite plays. If that wasn’t enough to make amends for his buffoonery, nothing was.

Crow zipped the last quarter mile or so home in a burst of magicked speed, shouting the password and sliding sideways through the thorned hedge with what he thought was an excess of flair. He swatted the dust off his cloak and checked to make sure the bag with the book was still in one piece. It was. 

“Ahem.” The cough came from directly behind him.

Crow jumped so hard he nearly dropped the bag. “Gahhfuck! Oh. Ahem. Uh, hullo Hastur. What is it?”

The old man stood only a couple feet away, as if he had popped straight up out of the ground. He wore the same long shapeless coat that he always did, gnarled hands shoved deep in the pockets, and his hair looked even more pasted on than usual. Shit, but he was frightening. Like one of Father’s less-attractive corpses, the kind that Crow used to spend so much time staring at and hoping it wouldn’t move. They always moved. Maybe that was why Hastur had always made him so twitchy. 

“I was waitin’ for you to get back,” Hastur croaked. “There is something that requires your attention.” His black eyes shone, excited. He looked happier than Crow had ever seen him, actually, which immediately set off alarm bells in his head. Anything that made Hastur happy was certain to irritate him, at the very least. 

“Can’t it wait?” he asked warily. 

“No.”

Rude. Crow huffed. “Fine. What is it, then?”

Hastur shuffled over to the doors set into the ground on the side of the tower, the ones that lead down to the cellar.

“Down here, sir.” He hauled open the doors, with deceptive strength for his shriveled appearance, and led the way down the steps.

“‘Course it is.” Crow pondered a moment, then grudgingly followed. It seemed unlikely that Hastur was planning to murder him down there, if for no other reason than because it would be hard to find other gainful employment at his advanced age.

“Fine. What’s so urgent?” Crow hopped lightly down the last couple stone stairs, and turned the corner.

And felt his heart leap into his throat, and stop dead.

The cellar consisted of a low-ceilinged circular room, about half the size of a normal tower floor, ringed by lanterns that were all currently lit. On one side a single narrow metal prison cell had been installed years ago, next to a rough stone area of wall with iron manacles hanging from large hooks. Both of these things had always struck Crow as an incredibly optimistic addition, given that all the enemies that visited his tower generally left it as a small pile of ash. Not much use in keeping someone prisoner when they would never, ever stop attacking.

The blackened-iron manacles were fixed to rusty chains that could be hoisted by way of a crank wheel set into the wall. They were also, for the first time in his life, no longer empty.

A blond-haired figure hung from them now, dangling from his wrists, head slumped forward with chin on his chest.

Crow didn’t need to see his face to recognize him.

“I found ‘im creeping around the back earlier tonight, right after you left. He knocked on the door. I took him by surprise.” There was a vicious note of glee in Hastur’s voice.

Oh. My. Sweet. Resurrected. Fuck. With a titanic effort Crow managed not to scream, or faint, or explode into a cloud of panicked bats. He stood rooted to the spot, pale and frozen, mind racing frantically. How- What- What is he doing here? Is he...

The old man was shifting from foot to foot in obvious excitement, clearly very pleased with himself. “I thought since these chains had never been put t’use before, that it was about time. And get this - he’s not just any ol’ Knight- he had a signet ring. He’s royalty. I saved ‘im for you to finish off.”

Shock was icewater in Crow’s veins. This had to be a trick, a mistake, anything. A fever dream brought on by stress. “Ah. Yes. Uh, I see, Hastur, very good,” he heard himself say automatically.

When he could trust his legs not to collapse he slowly walked forward, fighting for composure, to examine Azra’s dirt-smudged face. Oh, thank everything, he was breathing. A small part of himself began to gibber, but he firmly stamped it down. So this is what hysteria feels like.

Where was he hurt? There was no blood. Ah, there- through the pale hair, he could see a swelling bruise from a whack to the head. Only unconscious, then. 

Behind him, Hastur was still talking eagerly. “It took a while to drag him down here, let me tell you. I put all his valuables inside in the usual place. One you dispatch ‘im I’ll take the horse and-”

 “No,” Crow interrupted.

“You want them somewhere else?”

“No. I mean, no, we aren’t killing him.”

The black eyes blinked slowly at him, twice. The sparse brows scrunched together. “...What?”

“We aren’t killing him,” Crow repeated. 

Hastur stared at him, bafflement plain on his face. “What? Why not? It’s an Empyrion Prince,” he stressed, as if Crow had simply misunderstood.

“Yes, but this one… This one-” he swallowed. Thud, thud, thud went his heart. That hysterical shriek was still trying to claw its way out of his throat, making it hard to think. “This one didn’t attack me first. It could cause a- a diplomatic incident.”

“A diplomatic incident,” Hastur repeated slowly, sounding out the words as if speaking to a raving madman. “Wot are you on about?”

“If we kill a prince, and anyone knows he was here last, his King will come burn this tower to the ground in retaliation.”

Hastur 's eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’re afraid of them? That’s a coward’s talk.”

Crow only glared back. “Unchain him.”

“You can’t be so-”

“Unchain him, I said.”

“Yer father would never-”

“My father is not here!” Crow snarled, temper fraying. His fingers twitched with the desire to wrap around Hastur’s stupid throat. Instead he yanked the keys from the old man’s hands and swiftly unlocked the manacles holding Azra in place. He wrapped an arm around him as the second manacle came free, carefully bearing his weight and easing him down to lay on the ground. “I am the master of this tower, and when I give you an order, you obey it, do you understand me?”

“Yessir. I’ll remember that,” Hastur said, coldly.

Crow wasn’t paying attention. He had eyes only for Azra, and the enormous purpling bruise on his head. His kind, familiar face was still – too still and too pale, all the sunlight pressed out of him. He had been stripped of all his outer finery and wore only a white shirt and black breeches, and his favourite brown riding boots. Crow had never seen him in so little clothing, or so disheveled. It was nearly as jarring as the rest.

What did you do? Just casually walk in here without a care in the world? What were you thinking? What are you doing here at all?

Azra’s carefully polished boots were scraped and smudged, Crow noted numbly. Azra would hate that.

He wanted to smooth back the disheveled white hair, examine him closely, but he was sharply aware of Hastur’s eyes on him, burning into his back. Instead Crow jostled him gently, but Azra didn’t stir. The bruise had spread all the way back along the prince’s scalp, Crow realised in horror, under the hair, and a huge livid lump was still growing on his head. He was breathing, but shallowly, and his usually rosy cheeks were ashen. He’d seen enough injuries to know that was bad.

He trusted you.

The thought smote him like a blow to his own head. Azra hadn’t known that he had a manservant; Crow had never mentioned Hastur, much how he had never mentioned any of the other ugly things, and Azra had fully trusted that he had nothing to fear from him. He’d probably thought he would be safe once inside the thorny hedge. The hedge...that he had watched Crow enter just last week. The hedge Crow had inadvertently given him the password to, in his bloody showing off. Azra had trusted Crow enough to walk right up to his house, the way you would for any other normal friend, and this is what he got for it. 

This is my fault.

“I’m so sorry,” he mouthed, inaudibly, eyes stinging.  I should have told you, warned you. I am so, so stupid.

He looked down at Azra, feeling sick and helpless. Sorcerers broke things; they didn’t fix them. Sure, he could stitch a cut in a trice, or mix up an antidote, or some willowbark tea, but this…this was something entirely beyond him. The fact that he wasn’t waking up, even now…it didn’t bode well. Even if he had trusted the town physician, there was no town physician in this little part of the world with the skills to treat something like this. Or one who would keep this quiet. If Azra died….

The very thought galvanized him. 

No.

He looked up, bird-quick. “What did you do with his horse?” he asked Hastur. His voice came out cool, detached. Calm.

“Tied to the post by the garden.” The black eyes were fixed on him, gaze sharp. Too sharp.

Crow gave a curt nod, crouched down, and with a creaking of knees and a mighty effort of will that he hadn’t even known he possessed, heaved Azra up off the ground and over his shoulders. Azra was not light, and he staggered a little, but he managed to not fall over.

Time for some damage control. Stupid, he’d been stupid to let his temper get the best of him. Why was he always so stupid? “Ahem. What I meant earlier was, we can’t kill him here. I’m going to dump him over the Wall and let him die there, so no one can trace it to us.”

“Fine.” Hastur did not stop glaring. “If you think that’s best, sir.”

“Put his things in the usual place. I will be back late.” Crow said shortly. He turned and without further ado stomped back up the stairs, carrying Azra with him.

He staggered out the basement doors with Azra over his shoulders, into the cool evening air. The sun had set, and now the moon rose high above them like a large silver galleon. The ravens were asleep but nightjars had come out, chirruping and calling out to one another, mingling with the sounds of wind rustling through the nearby trees. One alighted on the green-glowing hedge and stared at him as he staggered past.

He found Serafina perfectly unharmed, tied as Hastur had promised to a stake driven into the ground by the back garden. To his enormous relief, the white mare had not eaten any of the poisonous plants there. Smarter than most people, she was.

She shied away with ears flattened to her skull when he approached, but calmed somewhat once she smelled him, then more so when she smelled Azra.

“That’s it, relax,” Crow whispered nervously, edging closer, straining under the prince’s deadweight. “Nice horse. Nice, big, dangerous horse. You know me, right?” The huge animal loomed over him and stood stamping her iron-shod feet, staring at him with untrusting eyes that showed white around the edges, far from at ease, but she allowed him to take her reins. “Good, good. You and me, today we become friends.”

Serafina did not deign to reply.

Sweating and groaning, swearing under his breath, Crow somehow managed to heave the much heavier Azra facedown over the enormous horse’s back like a sack of potatoes. It was the most impressive physical achievement of his life, and several mysterious (probably important) things in his own back and shoulders popped loudly, and he was wheezing by the end of it, but he did it. He wasted no time in putting his foot in the stirrup and swinging himself up into the saddle after him. He did it about as gracefully as a man climbing a wet haystack, but he managed. Then came the laborious process of shifting Azra upright without dropping him on the ground. By the time he finally got them both situated, with the unconscious prince sitting in front of him and hanging limply forward in his arms, Crow was covered in sweat and gasping for air, a complete wreck. The gilded saddle was not built for two, and it was by no means comfortable or ideal. But at least they were on the damned horse.

Serafina to her credit had stood calmly still throughout the whole awkward ordeal, apparently sensing the urgency, or possibly just taking pity on him. Steady as a rock, indeed.

“Good girl.” Crow dragged his sleeve across his damp forehead and gathered up the reins with a sweaty hand. This should be very interesting. He could count on one hand the number of times he had ridden, and it had not always gone smoothly. With luck, he would not fall off again and kill them both. He used that immediate anxiety to ignore the larger, searing worry in his gut, the one that was whispering that Azra had been unconscious for hours now, with no sign of waking. That was very bad. He was still breathing, at least.

The thought was enough to solidify his resolve. “Don’t you dare die on me, Your Holiness, you hear me?” he muttered in his ear. The prince might as well have been a rag doll. Crow tightened his arm around Azra’s chest and kicked the white mare into motion, and the three of them carefully exited the dark Rookery grounds. The wall of green-glowing thorns parted for him as he approached and closed up again after him, then they were truly on their way. He kept Serafina’s head pointed Northwest, into the dark tree line of the Wood, and slowly picked up speed.

It was time to go see a witch.

Chapter Text

Everything looked strange and unfamiliar in the dark, and Crow was starting to worry that he had gone the wrong direction. It was hard to tell. After twenty minutes or so on horseback at a teeth-rattling, ball-jarring jog (with Azra clamped against him for dear life) he was feeling rather green and not at his sharpest. He slowed to a walk and looked around at the unchanging forest, grinding his jaw in frustration. Curse it. They had to be close, but he was turned around, no doubt about it. He hadn’t wanted to use magic and risk losing his night vision, but it looked like that decision had been made for him.  

A tug of the reins pulled Serafina to a full halt, and he just sat there for a moment, breathing in and out with his eyes shut. He pictured the place he was looking for in every tiny, crystal-clear detail, building it in his mind until it was as real as Serafina, until he could nearly reach out and touch it. Pinching one thumb and forefinger together before his face, he conjured a small gold spark. He held it tight as he again fixed his mind’s eye on that image and let the tension build, focused, focused, archer-steady...  and with an exhaled word let it go.  

The spark leapt forward out of his hand. It hovered briefly before them, wavering, then shot to his left and zipped off through the trees like a maddened firefly.  

That way, then. Blinking away the gold afterimages flashing across his vision, Crow nudged Serafina in the direction the spark had gone, trusting her to be able to see better than he could.  

The pathfinding spell was limited to places he had already been, as it simply followed the buried memory, but it was reliable. Imagination was one of his strengths. He had to cast it again when another few minutes of walking revealed nothing, and then once more, until finally – there. He could have laughed in relief. Looming up ahead was the great twisted oak tree that meant he was drawing close. No sooner had he seen it than the dense forest abruptly opened up before him into a small moonlit clearing, the same clearing he had envisioned so carefully a few minutes earlier. The burbling glimmer of silver on the far side was, Crow knew, a narrow and fast-moving stream. Tucked into the bend of that stream was his destination: a little cottage, with round latticed windows and a peaked thatched roof.  It had a light on. 

He pulled up next to the cottage and dismounted, if you could call it that. His legs were a rubbery mess; he’d forgotten how many unusual muscles riding used, and did not appreciate the reminder. Once he was certain he wouldn’t collapse like a badly-baked soufflé he hauled the raglike Azra off the horse and heaved him over his shoulder once again.  

Once he finished sweating and swearing and cursing luck and life and horses in general, he looped Serafina’s reins over a nearby tree branch. 

“Stay,” he ordered.  

Serafina eyed him and stomped a dinner-plate hoof, baleful. 

“This isn’t my fault, I didn’t do this to him!” he insisted, though he felt a stab of searing guilt all the same. 

Serafina looked unconvinced as well.  

Crow turned with a growl and staggered his way down the short, tidy cobblestone path lined with oversized spotted toadstools. He could tell it was lined with toadstools because they were all glowing a dim, ghostly blue, illuminating the path just enough so that it was easy to see. As he drew nearer he could make out the cottage’s elaborately-carved wooden door, and window boxes overflowing with plants: strangely tangled vines and flowers of varieties that he had never seen anywhere else, some of which were glowing just like the toadstools. On any other occasion he would have been fascinated, but tonight he was busy.  

A rough wooden sign had been hammered into the loose earth next to the door. Tidy hand-painted white letters read:  

And below that, in capital letters that had clearly been painted and scratched out and repainted several times:  

NEUTRAL GROUND   

Anathema was the only hedgewitch he’d ever met; the only one in this part of Apollyon that made herself known. He’d been here only a handful times over the years, for the occasional unusual antidote ingredient he didn’t grow himself. He liked Anathema well enough. She didn’t bluster, or cringe, or simper, or any of the endlessly irritating ways people reacted to him. She was as sensible and to the point as he could ask for.  

She was also considered not respectable company to keep, like all hedgewitches. For a sorcerer to solicit one of them for help, from the inferior magic class, was almost as frowned upon as fraternizing with Northlanders, but despite that both sides of the Wall utilized their services fairly regularly on the sly. 

Hedgewitches were odd creatures. Fiercely independent and secretive, exclusively female, notoriously eccentric, with strange abilities that didn’t quite fit into the regular scope of things. They lived quiet lives and started no quarrels, but you sure as the sunrise didn’t want one angry with you. Even sorcerers were wary of them (though the Council hated that and would never admit it aloud). Strange things happened to people who antagonized hedgewitches, most of it nonlethal but all of it extremely, memorably, and often publicly unpleasant. The kind of things that tended to get written down in history books, in large print.  

There had been an Empyrion king fifty years ago who took a hedgewitch as a mistress, then had her imprisoned when he tired of her charms. She had simply vanished from her cell one night, and the king in question suffered from uncontrollable bowels for the rest of his life. There was a tax collector who tried to blackmail one (with what exactly was never made public); it was whispered that he was never able to, er, perform again, not until he apologized before the entire town. And of course every man, woman, and child on both sides of the Wall knew the story of Mad Agnes, who when arrested on trumped up charges had gone smiling and unresisting to her death for reasons unknown. One hundred years later her village was still a large, gaping crater three miles to the Southwest of Crow’s tower, and not a soul knew how she did it.  

Those sorts of things tended to create a healthy level of caution, if not quite respect.   

There was also the awkward fact that hedgewitches looked entirely normal and could be absolutely any woman. It was hard to guard yourself against that which you couldn’t see. Not all hedgewitches were considerate enough to mark themselves out with a sign. 

They didn’t inspire the instinctive terror that sorcerers did, due to their lack of coups and their famous reputation for healing, but no one quite knew what to make of them. Hence, not respectable.  

Luckily, respectability was the absolute last of Crow’s worries. A hedgewitch was the only person who could be trusted to keep her mouth shut and not ask too many questions.  

There was a big metal knocker on the door, wrought in the shape of a grinning cat, the brass ring held in its toothy maw. Crow ignored it and hammered on the wood with one fist. “Open up!” he yelled.  

Before he could knock again, the door was yanked open to reveal an irate young woman - or what looked like a young woman, anyway. Hedgewitches lived a very long time, and this one hadn’t visibly aged in the decades she’d been here. She looked about twenty, but she had to be at least thrice that, and carried herself with the assurance of someone much older. Long raven-dark hair without a speck of grey tumbled to below her slender waist, tied back into a tail, and she was wearing a night robe that seemed to have been sewn together from various patches of satin of all different colours and patterns. Fluffy white slippers peeked out from underneath. 

Despite the late hour she didn’t look remotely sleepy.  She glared fiercely at him through perfectly round, thick black spectacles. 

“Don’t you know what hour it is? Business is closed,” she snapped. 

“Too bad!” Crow snapped in return, equally fierce. He muscled past her and pushed his way into the cottage, ignoring her outraged exclamation. “This man is hurt and probably dying. It can’t wait.”  

“Oh. Well, in that case…” The hedgewitch shut the door with a sigh and followed him. 

It was a small house, made smaller by the potted plants that crowded every unused surface. Crow had never actually been inside before. One wall was entirely taken up by shelves and shelves of varying sized bottles, some full, some empty. The opposite wall was one enormous bookshelf with books of all colours crammed side by side. Bunches of dried herbs with neat little handwritten labels hung everywhere from the ceiling, some wrapped in netting and others simply tied round with twine. A large glass terrarium in one corner held a number of what looked like small toads - except that he was pretty certain toads didn’t usually glow orange. The air smelled thickly of old paper and sage and animal musk. 

Anathema was tilting her head at Azra, frowning as she got a closer look at him. “That,” she said slowly, “looks like a Northlander.”  

Lucky guess. “Yes, a prince. He was injured on my lands, and I need you to keep him from dying, or there’s going to be one hell of a- a diplomatic incident.” Crow winced.  

“A diplomatic incident, hm?” she said skeptically. She was looking at Crow oddly now, almost squinting, and he fixed her with his best cold stare in return. She finally arched an eyebrow and shrugged, and one corner of her full mouth quirked upwards. “Very well, if you insist. Hurry and put him down over there.” She gestured to a long, well-scrubbed wooden worktable that bore the telltale stains and charred black marks of a prolific potion maker. 

Together they managed to get the limp prince onto the table and lay him out on his back, arms at his sides. Crow stared down into his face, trying not to reveal just how sickeningly frightened he was, how his stomach was churning. Azra’s lips were tinged an unhealthy grey, and his rounded face was chalk-pale. He lay deathly still. He looked mostly dead already. Was it his imagination, Crow thought anxiously, or was he breathing shallower than before?  

He couldn’t die. He couldn’t.  

“If he dies from an incident on my land, those damned Northlanders will raze my tower to the ground. And probably half the forest with it. Surely you can understand that.” He didn’t know why he was trying to convince her of anything. He was barely aware of what he was saying. His hands were damp with sweat, and he clenched them into fists below the table to stop them shaking.  

“Oh, yes,” Anathema said absently. “I have sorcerers pounding frantically on my door at night looking to avoid diplomatic incidents all the time.”  

Crow looked sharply up at the deadpan tone, but she wasn’t even looking at hm. She was feeling along Azra’s skull with deft, slender fingers, peering closely through those thick spectacles. “There’s a fracture here. Nasty work. What did you hit him with?”  

“I didn’t hit him with anything,” he snarled. “It was someone else.” 

“I see,” Anathema muttered, voice wry. She peeled back an eyelid and examined his unseeing eyes. “How long ago?”  

“I don’t know exactly. Hours.” Crow swallowed. 

“Hmph.” She made a disapproving sound through her nose, and straightened, lips pressed together into a flat line. “Well, we will have to be quick. You’re correct that he’s dying. You’ve left it to the last, and he’s bleeding into his brain.”  

She walked calmly but swiftly to the bookshelf wall and pulled down a dusty green leather book, muttering to herself, while Crow was focusing on not throwing up. The words bleeding into his brain were ricocheting around in his own brain. “Can you save him?” he choked.  

“If we hurry.” Anathema flipped quickly through the book until she found the page she wanted. “Here we are.”  

She carried the book over to a separate, smaller worktable, where several small cauldrons, large glass vials, and assorted tools were already laid neatly out. “You,” she said, crooking an imperious finger at Crow. “You’re helping for this one.” 

He walked over, still feeling queasy. “Don’t you have anything on hand you can give him? A- a cure-all, or something?” 

She shook her head, mouth grim as she sorted out her tools. “I’m no miracle worker. This is no simple cough where a posset will do. Each major healing has to be brewed specific to the person and injury, and used immediately. And besides, he’s not awake to drink anything. There’s no generic miracle pill I can just shove down his unconscious throat.” 

Crow supposed that had been too much to hope for. 

“Light that.” She indicated the brazier, and carefully set a small copper pot over it. “Not too hot, just enough to boil.” 

He wiped his sweaty hand on his cloak, then pointed at the brazier. Flames immediately leapt up underneath.  

Anathema uncorked a stone jug of some clear liquid and poured it into the pot, filling it about halfway, then dropped in a blond hair that she must have taken from Azra’s head, and added a dash of powdered blue substance from a small jar on the nearby shelf. She stirred it precisely four times with a slim glass rod, murmuring all the while, and the clear liquid shifted to pale purple.  

“Now, increase the heat.”  

He did, and very soon the mixture was bubbling merrily.  

Anathema pulled a small amulet on a gold chain from her robe pocket, then an empty vial, and finally a good sized serrated knife.  

Crow blinked. “Do you just carry those things around with you all the time?”  

“Shush.” She stepped towards him, gesturing with the knife. “Give me your hand.” 

He eyed her. “Why?”  

“I need blood.”    

“What?”  

“Don’t squeak like some farmer who thinks I’m trying to steal his soul.” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “I only need a tiny bit for the spell. Saving a life requires essence, and the person casting can’t be the one to provide it. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little cut.”  

“Course not,” Crow muttered. “Fine. Here.”  

She took his outstretched left hand and flipped it over, and with a single precise motion drew a very small, shallow cut across the back of his hand with the knife, parallel to his scar. Several crimson drops beaded up, and she collected these on the edge of the blade. “That’s plenty.” She scraped the blood into the boiling pot, and a puff of aromatic steam and purple sparks went up.  

Crow watched in fascination. He’d never seen a healing this complex before, and never with blood. All of his own healings had mostly involved stitches and time. He had no idea what the hell she was doing, but she looked confident enough. 

She continued stirring with the glass rod, watching the boiling mixture intently. She absently held out one hand.  

“What? What do you need?” Crow twisted around to look at the table next to him, jostling it, and one of the flasks tipped over and fell off the table- directly into Anathema’s outstretched hand. She caught it without looking and replaced it.  

Uh. Crow backed a few steps away and watched her work from a deliberate distance. His stomach was tied in knots, and he had to force himself not to hover. “Will he still be…himself?”  

“Oh yes. There should be no lasting damage.”  

“ Should be?”  

“Yes, if you be quiet and let me work!” She spoke with a brisk tension that Crow recognized as tightly controlled focus, and he shut his mouth.  

A slight weight bumped against his leg. Crow flinched and looked down to find a sleek black cat with startling green eyes staring up at him. Its gaze was strangely intent, almost human.  

Anathema briefly glanced over. “My familiar. Don’t worry, he’s friendly.”  

Using tongs and a little metal cup, she carefully decanted a measure of the now shimmering blue liquid into one of the many empty vials from the shelf. She held it up to the light and examined it briefly, and gave a quick nod.  “Here we go.”  

She walked over, and without preamble, pried open Azra’s mouth and dumped the potion inside.  

Brilliant light flared to life, blazing through his parted lips like he had swallowed a star. Anathema dangled the gold amulet from one hand over his throat, watching closely, humming tunelessly under her breath. The light brightened, and she slowly moved the amulet towards the livid bruising. The light followed obediently, slowly traveling up into his head where it sat unmoving, shining through his skull like flame through cloudy glass. Crow could see the vague outline of bones, flickering.  

The hedgewitch snapped her fingers and muttered something. All at once the light winked out, and as it did Azra’s eyes flew open wide. He gasped loudly and flailed once, a jerky, full body motion eerily like one of Father’s reanimating corpses. It brought back vivid unpleasant memories and nearly made Crow leap out of his skin; he did leap backwards, and crashed into the wall full of empty potion bottles, breaking at least one from the sound of it. By the time he had righted himself the prince lay motionless on the table once again, eyes closed, as still as ever. 

“Shit! What the hell was that?!”  

“Reflex,” Anathema replied calmly, stoppering the empty vial. “Head injuries are odd.”  

“Odd. Right.” Crow stared warily down at the prone figure. Azra seemed as unconscious as ever. “So…that was normal? Did it work?”  

“Yes. Look, his colour’s back already.”  

It was. The greyish tone had been replaced by Azra’s normal porcelain, and his lips and cheeks were tinted healthy pink once again. His broad chest rose in deep, even breaths. 

“Once he wakes he’ll be good as new, albeit groggy.” All the sharpness had left Anathema’s tone, and she sank down onto a nearby rocking chair as if the energy had run out of her. The black cat immediately leapt up into her lap, and she sighed and ran a hand over its back with a weary gesture. “His brains have had a good rattling, but he just needs to rest.” 

Crow stared at her. The Council always spoke of hedgewitches in general and healing arts in particular as something weak and useless, only for the soft-minded, but that was sharply at odds with what he’d seen here. It was one thing to know that the Council didn’t know what they were talking about…but it was something else entirely to see a hedgewitch wipe away a deadly head injury with the same bored competence of someone cleaning dirt off a table.

“Uh. Well. Good, then.” He dragged in a deep breath, feeling lightheaded, and clutched at the table. The room had gone a bit overly bright. “Good, good. And when should he wake?” 

“Within an hour, I imagine.”  

“I see. Right.” There was a tinny high-pitched ringing in his ears. See, Azra was going to be fine, no need to fear after all. Everything was fine. Curse it, there was no call for his knees to have gone all watery like that, or for the room to be fading to black. He set a shaky hand on Azra’s ankle to steady himself.  

“Tsk. He is in trouble, isn’t he, Newt?” Anathema commented.  

Crow looked up to find the hedgewitch just watching him from her seat, head propped on her hand, rocking and absently stroking the cat in her lap.  

“What?” Crow asked.  

“I was talking to him,” she said, nodding to the black cat. The cat gave a short meow that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.  

“Uh…” Crow looked dubiously at them both. The animal was staring at him with an uncomfortable amount of intelligence. “You named your cat Newt?” 

“He named himself. Do you mind fixing that?” Anathema asked, nodding to the table.  

Crow looked uncomprehendingly down, and saw to his great embarrassment that his hand had left a charred print in the wood where he gripped the table. “Oh. Sorry.” He muttered a quick mending cantrip, and the mark faded. Ugh. He hadn’t let himself slip that badly in years. He took a deep breath through his mouth and let it out slowly through his nose, making sure all of his power was tucked neatly inside his skin. Don’t lose your head.   

“Well,” Anathema said, pushing herself up out of her chair with a groan. “I don’t mean to cut the evening short, but your prince isn’t the only one who needs to rest. And it turns out I’ve another customer incoming in about…” She glanced at the large pendulum clock on the wall. It had far too many hands, and odd symbols instead of numbers, but it apparently made sense to her. “…half an hour, so I would recommend you be far from here by then.”  

“We’re not- he’s not my prince,” Crow mumbled. “But- wait, where the hell am I supposed to take him?” he demanded. 

She and the black cat exchanged a look, actually glanced at each other, then looked at him in unison. “Just take him somewhere to let him sleep it off.  Like I said, it’s only an hour or so.”  

“Won’t moving him hurt him?”  

“No, not unless you drop him on his head.”  

“Fine,” he muttered, and bit his lip. “You’re certain he’ll be alright?” The question just leapt out of him. 

Anathema’s face softened as she smiled up at him, and for the first time she truly looked like a young woman. “I promise.” She patted a reassuring hand on his arm. “He’ll be just fine. The majority of the healing is already done, now it’s restoring his body’s vitality, that sort of thing. He’ll be a bit fuddled for a couple hours when he wakes up, but nothing worse than that. He just needs somewhere to sit and let it happen, like recovering from any illness. Keep him warm, let him rest. And then a good meal.” 

“That should be easy enough…”  

She was looking at him with far too much understanding for his taste.  

With a vast internal sigh Crow went to the table, and with Anathema’s help heaved Azra over his shoulders once again, arranging the prince’s limp arm around his neck. He was getting the hang of it by now. At this rate he was going to be several inches shorter by the time the night was done.  

He made it to the door, struggling under Azra’s weight, but as he crossed the threshold the hedgewitch put a restraining hand on his arm.  

“Ahem. There is the matter of my fee.”  

“Ah. Right, of course.” Crow’s stomach plummeted. He had completely forgotten about money. He hadn’t brought any with him, and had no idea if he would have had enough even so. “Er…how much?”  

“Well, usually I charge premium to the gentry for this sort of thing...” Anathema gave him a significant look through her spectacles.   

“I- Wait, what sort of thing? What do you think this is?”  

“But I’ll tell you what,” she continued, ignoring the question. “It’s on the house, just this once. In the interest of diplomacy, hm?” She flashed a wide grin, and shut the door firmly in his face.  

Crow stood there with the grinning feline door knocker only inches from the tip of his nose, feeling distinctly out of sorts. After another baffled moment or two he turned and began staggering back down the toadstool-lined road towards the waiting white horse.  

Witches, he thought irritably, as Azra’s boot thumped painfully against his thigh. Almost as frustrating as Princes.  

Chapter Text

Where could he go? Certainly not back to the tower, or anywhere near, not with Hastur there and angry as a kicked cat.  

After a short deliberation Crow decided that his best bet was to simply find a good place in the forest and wait it out. He gingerly urged the white mare back along the moonlit road, keeping an eye out for a handy spot. Thank fortune the moon was out tonight, otherwise this would have been much harder.

They finally passed through a small clearing that seemed suitable as anywhere, so Crow stopped and dismounted. 

Despite its name, the Waking Wood was not actually haunted, but it was spooky after dark. That was fine. Sorcerers didn’t mind spooky, no. Embraced it, in fact. Big spooky fan, him. He didn’t even mind the little green and yellow lamplike eyes he kept glimpsing through the undergrowth, glinting and then flitting away.  

“Nice, creepy dark forest,” he muttered through clenched teeth, as he heaved the prince off the horse and over his shoulder again, bones creaking, for what he fervently hoped was the last time. “Nice possible murder-creatures. A great place, really. I should spend more time out here at night.” At least there were no wolves this far South. 

The autumn air was cold. Each laboured breath produced clouds of frosty white, and Crow realised that they would need a fire.  

He started to lay Azra down on the ground, but halted when he felt the wet squish of the forest floor under his boot. Right, it had rained earlier. He looked around, but there were no dry places to be found, only soggy freezing mud in all directions. Brilliant. He could raze the place with fire, he supposed, and dry it out that way, but somehow he didn’t think breathing a lot of stinking smoke would be an improvement. And besides, it would only dry out the top layer of mud.  

After another aimless moment of thought, for lack of any better ideas Crow simply sat down on a moss-covered fallen tree trunk with a groan and heaved Azra’s unwieldy limp form over to sit in his lap. He nearly dropped him into the mud several times in the process and was forced to clutch him tightly to keep him upright, holding him carefully safe against his chest. “I’ve got you,” he muttered. “I won’t let you fall.” No answer. Obviously.  

One hand now free, he tossed some damp fallen branches into a pile and lit it with a flick of his fingers. It hissed and sputtered and popped from the wet, resisting the flames for a good while, but sorcerer fire was as stubborn as its conjuror and this one had stubborn to spare. The wood finally caught, and heat washed over them. Crow sighed and adjusted Azra against him to sit more comfortably, resting him upright with blond head lolling on his shoulder. After a moment's hesitation he wrapped his cloak over him too, tucking it around them both for warmth. A quick basic spell allowed him to radiate heat from his own body, though he wouldn’t be able to maintain that for too long before running dry. “Better, hm?” he murmured to the unresponsive prince. It was very odd to have Azra so here and yet not here at all. “Fine, ignore me then.” He sighed and rested his cheek against Azra’s forehead, abruptly exhausted. So many times imagining something like this... Life really did have a twisted sense of humour.   

Azra was breathing easily now, he noted in relief, deep and steady breaths that felt very reassuringly healthy. It allowed him to breathe easier as well.  

Now…there was nothing to do but wait. It shouldn’t be long. An hour, maybe, the hedgewitch had said.  Not long at all. He could certainly occupy his mind for an hour, and not think of…anything.  

Crow sat there on the log and held him like that, staring fixedly into the crackling fire as damp seeped through his breeches from the slimy moss, focusing as hard as he could on how stupid he must look. How unutterably mad this entire thing was, sitting here on this damned log cradling his unconscious hereditary enemy in some forsaken patch of forest in the middle of the bloody night.  

And definitely not thinking about how warm and soft and comfortable Azra felt in his arms, the way they fit together, how each sleeping exhale fanned his skin. How his closeness filled him with a low thrumming that had nothing at all to do with sorcerer magic. The way the prince’s curly head fit so perfectly on his shoulder, breathing against his neck with forehead gently leaning on his cheek. The overpowering urge to turn his chin just a couple inches and press his lips to that forehead, the longing to stroke his face and bury his fingers in those fluffy curls, to rock him and make desperate promises about keeping him safe. How despite the cold damp and sore muscles and a sharp nub of the log digging painfully into his backside...he was so very, foolishly happy.  

No.  

Crow set his jaw, clutched Azra a little tighter, and kept his eyes firmly on the leaping orange flames.  

Better not think about any of that.  

He must have dozed off, tired and relieved as he was, because next thing he knew he was jarring awake as his back hit the ground with a wet squelch.   

He flailed, tangled up in his cloak, but with Azra’s deadweight bearing him down like a stone he was essentially immobilized.   

And then came the most lovely, melodious sound in all the world: Azra’s voice, in a startled and confused exclamation. “Wh- what the-?”  

Joy was quickly followed by embarrassment. Oh, of course Azra had chosen right this particular moment to wake up. Didn't that just figure. Crow flailed harder and shoved him off him, filled with a sudden blind panic. He scrabbled around with all the grace of an overturned beetle until he managed to get his arms free and push himself up into a sitting position.  

Azra was sitting there in front of him looking around, blinking dazedly.  

Crow experienced a flash of gratitude that he had fallen backwards. It would have been just his luck to pitch them forwards and headfirst into the fire. 

“Crow? What’s going on?” Azra looked down at his hands, which were covered in gloopy mud. All of him was covered in mud. His usually immaculate hair had been mussed in a couple different directions, his shirt was more brown than white, he had a big streak of mud on one cheek, and he was wonderfully, adorably, gorgeously, alive. He took in the fire and the woods around them, open-mouthed, dirt-smudged face the picture of open bewilderment. “Wha- Where on earth are we?” 

“Uhhhhhh…” Cold mud was soaking through Crow’s backside and sleeves. His hands had sunk to the wrists in the soggy earth, and he yanked them free with an unappealing wet splurt. He swiped them frantically clean on his cloak. “Well, um, we’re in the Wood.” Brilliant. A paragon of eloquence, that’s you. “Here, come sit.” He scrambled into a kneeling position and took Azra’s arm, helped the groggy prince up to sit on the log, steadying him as he swayed. “Careful.” He settled in next to him, holding him by the shoulders. “You were badly hurt, a blow to the head. How do you feel? Are you in any pain?”  

“Pain? No,” Azra said slowly, and shivered. He put a hand on Crow’s arm to steady himself, and kept it there.. “Just… cold. Wet. A bit dizzy. I was hurt? What happened?”  

“Here.” Crow hastily shrugged out of his black cloak and wrapped it around Azra’s shoulders. “I was going to ask you what happened. Apparently you showed up at my tower, and my manservant cracked you over the head. What’s the last thing you remember?” 

Azra put a hand to his forehead, frowning in concentration. “Only...I was at your tower, and…then there was this old man…” His eyes widened. “A completely terrifying old man!”  

Crow laughed in lightheaded relief. “I couldn’t agree more. Well, the old man apparently has a stronger arm than I ever gave him credit for. You were dying, so I brought you out here. To a hedgewitch healer.” He said this with as much nonchalance as possible, but it was hard to pull off nonchalant while crouching in the middle of a cold forest in the dead of night, with his arse covered in mud. It was even harder to care too much about that, though, with joyful relief still running addled circles in his brain.

“First things first. Let me see your head.” Crow conjured a spark of white fire in his palm and held it close to Azra’s face, anxiously examining. His blue eyes were wide and dazed, but the pupils were a normal size and contracted properly when the light hit them. Crow put a hand against his cheek to hold his head still and brushed back the blond hair, firmly ignoring how nice it felt under his hand. There was no lump, no bruise, nothing but clear pink skin. He exhaled, and felt his anxiety ease. Azra was fine, he was fine, he was not going to die after all… “Look at that. Seems the witch knew her business.”  

Crow glanced down to find Azra just watching him quietly, eyes fixed on his face. He suddenly realised how close he was leaning, mere inches away, and cupping Azra’s cheek to boot. He drew back with heart thudding and closed his fingers over the flame, extinguishing it. The dark at least afforded him a bit more cover. Their knees were still pressed against each other where they sat, but he didn’t see how he could scoot away without drawing awkward attention to it. And he did not want to scoot away.  

“I don’t know what to say. I…I….” Azra blinked, the dazed expression fading, and peered closer at him. His brow twitched in concern. “Good heavens, Crow. Are you alright? You look run ragged.” His voice was a little stronger now.  

“Thanks.” Crow stretched and cracked his neck a few times for show. “Natural side effect of hauling your royal arse all over the forest all night.” 

“Oh dear. I’m so sorry!” Azra looked horrified. “Wait, aren’t you cold? It’s freezing, surely you need your cloak.” He started to remove it, but Crow shook his head and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. 

“No, m’fine, really, keep it. Sorcerers run hot. You’re the one that’s healing and needs to stay warm. Witchy physician's orders.”  

“A hedgewitch," Azra said wistfully. "And to think I was asleep for that. Well then, at least we can share the cloak. It’s plenty big enough.” Without waiting for an answer Azra draped half of the cloak over Crow’s shoulders too, while Crow held his breath and tried not to look too happy about it. “Better?”  

“Yeah, thanks.” It really wasn't that large a cloak. Keeping the edges pulled closed required Crow to move closer on their log. He did so, and renewed the heat radiating spell. Azra sighed and leaned slightly against him. “But what were you doing at my tower in the first place? You’re supposed to still be prancing around at all the Equinox celebrations for another day or two!” 

“Oh.” Azra looked down. He flushed, dark enough to be seen even in the half-light of the fire. “Well. I...I didn’t want to wait another whole week to come back, not when we don't even know how much longer- well. So I- I may have performed especially badly at the sword fighting part of the tournament. Much worse than usual, I’m afraid. I may have tripped and fallen in front of some people that my brothers were very much hoping to impress.”  

“Did you now?” Crow asked, straight-faced.  

Azra nodded seriously, but his eyes twinkled. “Gabriel was quite embarrassed, livid really, and was more than happy to let me leave and go back on guard duty early."

"Why didn't you just send a message?" Crow asked gently, trying to not to sound accusing. 

Azra fidgeted aimlessly for a moment or two, then burst out, "Oh, blast it, because- because I wanted to surprise you the way you surprised me at the masque, alright? I had the idea to just…show up at your tower and suggest we have dinner, or go out for drinks. I assumed you would answer the door; it never occurred to me that you might have servants.” He sighed wretchedly and shook his head in disgust, but quickly stopped as he winced. “I thought I was being so terribly clever, getting through the hedge. Instead I’ve made a complete disaster of things, as usual. I feel…very foolish.” He shut his eyes as if wearied by his speech. "And tired." 

Crow frowned at him in concern. “Go easy. Does your head hurt?"

"No...not exactly. It just feels a bit...all muddled up. Dozy. Like I've had one too many swallows of that raspberry mead we tried last month." 

Crow smirked. "Heh. Yeah, the hedgewitch said that would happen. Once you feel up to it I’ll help you get back to your inn; all you need is some food and sleep. And don’t blame yourself. You had no way of knowing. It’s my own fault; I never mentioned that anyone else lives in the tower; I should have warned you. Here, let me...” He used the edge of his side of the cloak to clean the worst of the mud from Azra’s hands, then a quick cleaning cantrip to remove the residue. Another few well-placed spells cleaned the rest of their clothes and left them dry, too.  

“Thank you. And thank you so much for making sure no harm came to her.” Azra nodded to Serafina standing just outside the circle of light.  

Crow shrugged. “Oh, that. Pfft. I’d never let someone hurt her. For an enormous hellbeast, she isn’t so bad.”  

Azra beamed unexpectedly at him, absurdly happy for someone in his condition, and it would have been worth it for that alone. Crow grinned back, and added, “But don’t quote me on that.”  

“I make no promises. I can’t believe you rode a horse! I would have liked to see that.” Azra’s grin was mischievous now, and that really shouldn’t have made him want to kiss him so badly.  

Crow smirked, glad that it was probably too dark to see him blush. “Too bad. You only get the rescue, a show isn’t included. If you want to see me do stupid things you’re going to have to stay conscious.” 

“I suppose that’s fair,” Azra said, still smiling happily at him. A moment later he shivered.  

Crow frowned and touched his wrist under the cloak. “Shit. You’re still cold as ice. C’mere.” He let go of the cloak and covered one of Azra's now-clean hands with both of his own. His heart immediately began to crash drunkenly around inside his chest, but he did his best to ignore it and tried to focus. “Can’t have you getting frostbite. Can you even feel your fingers?” he asked.  

“Not very well,” Azra admitted.  

Nothing to see here. All completely normal, sitting here bundled up together and holding his hand...   

Crow carefully added a drop of magic, and let heat suffuse and radiate from his own palms. 

“Is this better?” 

“Getting there, yes, but still fairly numb. Goodness, that feels wonderful; keep doing that.”  

“Dark magic has its benefits.” Crow took hold of Azra’s other hand and turned it palm up, smoothing his own hand over it, slowly warming between the cold fingers and clasping each one individually. Soaking heat in, he told himself.  

A less practical part of his mind was committing the feel of his skin to memory, storing it away. Azra’s hand was broad and silky-soft, with the occasional sword callus on the palm that not even regular lotion treatments could erase. And then there were calluses that were definitely not from a weapon of any kind. Calluses on the second and third fingers of his right hand that could only have come from holding a quill. Those calluses made Crow smile to himself.  

“Sooo. What I’m hearing you say,” he drawled, with a glance up at Azra’s face, “was that you missed me already, hm?”  

Azra flushed again, but gave him an arch look. “Maybe just a little. You’re preferable to sword fighting.”  

“Naturally.”  

“And your hands are quite warm. Actually, would you mind also...” Azra gave an awkward laugh. “It’s rather silly, but my ears are frozen solid. Could you…”  

Crow grinned and cupped the sides of his head with both warm hands, and Azra sighed in relief, closing his eyes with a blissful expression. “Oh, that’s lovely. You have no idea how nice that feels.”  

Can’t imagine it feeling much nicer. He gulped. “Glad to be of service.”  

Azra smiled without opening his eyes, and Crow took the chance to hungrily take in every detail of his face. The familiar creases around the eyes, the lift of his nose. Every inch as alive and beautiful as could be, even- especially disheveled and streaked with mud. Not flawless, but perfect.  

After a few minutes of this he returned to warming his hands, taking the other one this time.  

Azra wasn’t wearing any of his rings, Crow realised. “I have all your jewelry and fancy clothes back at the tower, by the way. The sword, too. Hastur got a bit overenthusiastic. I’ll give that all back when I see you next.”

"Oh." Azra had been quietly watching him, a soft smile on his lips, but now looked down at himself in vague surprise. "My goodness. I seem to be in a state of undress. I hadn't even noticed." 

Crow laughed. "Well, if I needed further proof that you weren't feeling well..."

The hand was warm as his own by now, but Azra didn’t say anything, so Crow just kept on rubbing. If this was the last chance he ever had to hold his hand, he was going to make the most of it. 

“Crow, I...” Azra was looking down at their enfolded hands, his expression turned distant and inward. “I wish…more than anything…” 

Crow looked at him uncertainly. Something in the tone made his heart start beating faster again. It was quiet for another long moment, save for the crackle of fire and hoot of a distant owl. 

“…I’m going to miss you very much,” Azra said quietly at last. "You've been...I..." He mouthed silently for a moment, then shook his head (wince) and said, "Your friendship has meant the world to me these last few months, I hope you know that. And thank you especially for saving me tonight. It’s more than anyone else has ever done for me before. I owe you more than I can possibly say.” 

“Pffft.” Crow squeezed his hand encouragingly. He didn't have a response to the first part, nothing he trusted himself to say without pouring out an entire ocean's worth of feeling, so he skirted around the edge of it. “Now that is being silly. You don't owe me a thing, did you really think I'd just let you die?"

Azra smiled and gave his hand a gentle squeeze in return. "I suppose not."

"Too right." Crow cleared his throat nervously and continued, nearly stammering, "You should know that I- I'll always be there, whenever you need me. Even if you can't come down here anymore, later...after... If there's anything you need just send me a message, and wherever you are, I'll come to you.” The words just poured out, more truth than he'd intended.

That was the trouble with an ocean of feeling- even the edges were bound to get his feet wet. But it was better than what he wanted to say, which was that Everything about you means the world to me. And my world is going to crumble a little when you're gone.  

Azra was gazing at him with such open tenderness, and something else that Crow couldn't identify. His fingers laced through and curled around Crow’s own, holding him in place. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, softly, and laid his other hand atop the pile as well. “Truly. You’re absolutely wonderful. And I promise I won’t force you to make a habit of rescuing me.” He lifted Crow's hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of them, not a quick courtly kiss this time, but something slow and deliberate. 

Gulp. This is fine. Crow somehow managed to grin instead of falling over. “Eh, I don’t mind keeping you out of trouble, angel. You’re better company than the ravens, at least.”  

“Goodness. That’s high praise indeed.” Azra smiled in full again, that damned sunlit smile, and Crow laughed. He tried to ignore the familiar lurch in his chest, the feeling that all his innards had suddenly taken flight like a flock of birds. He glanced away, kicking himself, then looked back.  

Azra was just sitting there holding his hands and smiling at him, one fingertip lightly resting on the delicate inside of his wrist. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, so dangerously close with face half-illuminated by the fire, looking just like he had on that balcony at the masque. All the relief, all the longing, all the half-formed things Crow had been thinking that night...that ocean of feeling welled up through the cracks again, splitting them open wider, and he abruptly couldn’t speak for the painful, joyful weight of it. The gentle warmth in Azra’s eyes was enough to drive the breath from him. The golden curve of his mouth in the firelight was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. 

“Azra…” Crow trailed off and swallowed, not knowing what he had even meant to say. He found himself reaching up to brush the streak of mud off Azra’s face with a thumb. Once his hand touched him he couldn’t seem to remove it. His stomach felt suddenly strange and weak.  

Crow just sat there staring helplessly into Azra’s eyes with fingers pressed trembling to his cheek… 

...and leaned across the last infinite piece of space, and kissed him.  

Once, as a young man, he had been trying to capture a lightning bolt just to see if he could: leaning far out the top window of the tower, jar in hand, as clouds churned and thunder cracked overhead. Suddenly the brilliant light struck, stretching down from the sky in a silver thread and striking the jar with a frisson of delighted energy that set every hair on his body on end. It had also burned off his eyebrows and set his clothes aflame, but had been accompanied by a surge of pure, searing exhilaration.  

It felt like that.  

This was…better.  

His entire body flushed hot. The campfire went up in a crackle and blaze, gold sparks spiraling into the cold air.  

Azra’s lips were lily-soft, and his cheek equally so where Crow’s long nose pressed into it. The world constricted in an instant to just those lips and the dimple of his cheek, the warm wrap of the cloak around them both. He could smell him, vividly, all green grass and crisp fresh air and parchment. And…Azra was leaning in, making a soft mm against his mouth as one warm hand came up to cup his face in turn. Crow sighed and leaned in as well, reached for him- 

But then Azra flinched.  

Flinched, and jerked back with a sharp indrawn breath. He turned back towards the fire, eyes dazed and stricken, mouth working silently. His hands had clenched on his knees. “I- I think,” he whispered, and swallowed. “I think…I need to go.” 

Crow swallowed, heart pounding. “Uh…” He had no words. He could still feel the press of his lips and that lightning-bright shock in his blood. 

Azra stood abruptly, cloak falling away from his shoulders, and stood there unsteadily looking anywhere but at him as Crow watched silent, breathless.  

“I-” Azra licked his lips, eyes still stunned. “I think I must be…”  

Crow found his voice. “Sorry,” he began, “I’m sorry…” but he had no idea what to say. His mind was as empty as a blank page. He felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head.  

“No, no…” Azra began. He put a hand to his forehead. “No, its not…” He opened his mouth, then abruptly wheeled and hurried off into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight. There was a creak of leather and jingle of tack, and a moment later the white mare tore past down the path in a flurry of hooves, dangerously fast for the darkness.  

Crow just sat there staring into the fire, feeling bereft. There was a searing pain in his chest unlike anything he had ever felt before. After a few interminable cold minutes he extinguished the flames with a gesture, pushed himself slowly to his feet, and numbly pulled his homing amulet from beneath his shirt.  

He was of a mind to get very drunk.  

Chapter Text

Crow spent the next week in the sort of misery that can only be self-induced.  

Once he reappeared back at the Rookery, he stomped straight upstairs and did indeed get roaring, blindingly drunk that night. And the following morning, and throughout that day. Through great force of will he managed to stay absolutely stagger-off-his-feet sloshed for nearly twenty four hours straight. It probably would have been longer, but he ran out of wine. Then the following hangover was so spectacular that for another full day he was too ill to think about what had happened.  

But the fog could not last forever.  

When the next sober day dawned and he was finally able to drag himself upright again, he found to his dismay that the events- fine, his own actions! - in the Wood had stripped away some kind of emotional barrier. The cracks were stretched wide, the damned levee was breached, and no amount of growling would hold the waters back again. That one stupid, reckless kiss had tugged something free in himself, and like a loose thread caught on a splinter it only unraveled further as the day went on, taking his sanity with it.  

Stupid, Crow thought furiously, as he scrubbed at his hair in the bath, trying to rid himself of the stink of sour wine. Stupid stupid stupid… What the hell was I thinking? To kiss him and make it look as if- as if he thought Azra owed him something. Violating his trust, taking advantage of him when he was still groggy and compromised, still hurt, like some kind of…some kind of… ugh. Scoundrel. Villain. Scalawag. Crow groaned in agony and scrubbed until his scalp burned, trying to wash the memory away with soap. It didn’t work.  

Stupid doesn’t even begin to describe it, he brooded later as he slumped against the windowsill. Even under different circumstances, what exactly had he expected Azra to say? ‘ Oh, Crow, I know I’m betrothed, and supposed to kill you on sight, and even coming near your life almost just got me killed, but I find you so devastatingly attractive that I’d like to lose everything for you. Care for a snog??’ He gave a disgusted groan and chucked another rock down at the hedge with all his might. The basket next to him was nearly empty, and all the ravens were keeping their distance for once. 

Was he addicted to pain, to be so impossibly stupid? To hope that any Northlander, or any mundane for that matter, could feel something for a sorcerer. The very joke of it. He had been lucky to even have his friendship, and now because he’d gone and crossed that line Azra would probably never want to see him again. The thought made his eyes burn. Which was stupid. Crying was yet another thing that sorcerers simply did not do. Crow dragged a hand down his face and thumped his forehead against his desktop, upending his inkwell and ruining the apology letter he had been trying (and failing) to write all day. He’d had vague plans to try to find a messenger to carry it up to the Fells, but the words refused to come.  

There had been no letter from Azra, either, in those three days. No little white pigeon flapping its way into his room, no gold-sealed scroll.  

They were barely friends anyway, probably, he reflected at dinner, as he picked morosely at his food. Rearranging the plain boiled potatoes around on his plate and grinding them into a white paste with his fork. So stupid of him to read so much into a few friendly moments, spinning a simple hand kiss into something more in his mind. Azra was kind to everyone, it was just who he was. Azra had been kind to him before he even knew him, after all, from that very first fateful day at the Wall... and he’d not recoiled from his scars, had always treated him like a human being... But kindness was all it had been. 

And even if Azra could ever see a sorcerer like something more- well, it was obvious that he couldn’t. Didn’t. His immediate repulsed flight was definitive proof of that. Whatever trust Azra may have had in him before, Crow had obviously shattered it. Leave it to him to ruin the one bright spot in his life. 

This is what happens when you aren’t careful enough. You burn things down.   

Crow mashed the hapless potatoes with enough force to rattle the table and shoved the plate away. After a moment he stood and slumped his way off to bed, leaving dinner cold and untouched.  

And it didn’t matter either way, he thought, twisting the covers in his hands until the seams began to split. Because it would be insane, obviously. A sorcerer and a Northlander, and a royal no less? Ha. Unthinkable. Impossible. Hilarious. Both the Council and the Kings would pitch a collective fit large enough to be seen from across the sea. And that was that. He’d dodged an arrow, really.  

But as Crow lay awake in bed at night staring at the canopy ceiling, once there was nothing more to do, nothing more to distract him or to rage at, the heaviness in his chest became too much to bear. During those dark, breathless hours he couldn’t help but comfort himself by imagining that moment in the forest again. And this time...that Azra had not flinched away. He couldn’t help but remember how he had felt in his arms, imagine what it would feel like to hold him in earnest, fully conscious this time, and kiss him again, and…more… though now more than ever such imagining left him frustrated and furious with himself, pummeling his pillow and sleeplessly trying to throttle his imagination. Trying with grit teeth to ignore the traitorous reaction of his own stupid, stupid, inconvenient body, cruelly taunting him with wildly optimistic suggestions that could never be fulfilled. He clenched his hands into his hair above his head, keeping them firmly away from the throbbing lower half of him. He stubbornly refused to touch himself. He didn’t deserve it. At any rate the hands he wanted – did not want – weren’t his own, and he had done enough stupid things already.  

Sleep was no escape either, when he did find it, as he only re-lived the scene by the fire again there, too. And there he had no self-restraint, no willpower. He was a captive audience to his dreams, tasting joy and waking with a start to cold unconsummated reality, over and over again. Haunted by the ghost of touches that he had never actually experienced. It left him groggy and terribly depressed.  

The next day dragged by, and Azra did not write.  

By evening of the fourth day Crow decided that sobriety was overrated. He made his way up to the Painted Jezebel and spent an evening hunched over a bottle of expensive brandy, drunkenly bemoaning life in general to the room at large and growling at anyone who dared come close. Everyone kept a wide berth from the drunk crazy man wearing the glasses, so he mostly ended up talking to himself. And to Azra, of course. After four or five glasses reality started to smudge a bit, and Crow found himself muttering to him as if he was really there in his usual seat.  

Madame Tracy finally came over in a blur of green satin and flutter of magpie wings and pried him away from the table with gentle insistence. “Now, now, dearie,” she said firmly when he made irate noises of protest. “If you keep this up you’ll start saying things you shouldn’t. Let’s get you out of this seat.” She helped him stand, and said other things that sounded sympathetic while Sergeant chirruped, but everything was very fuzzy at that point and Crow couldn’t have said what they were. He waved off her offer of a place to sleep, grabbed his still half-full bottle with a surly grunt and staggered out the door.  

He had no memory of what happened next. He did remember waking up the next morning in one of the Painted Jezebel’s empty guest bedrooms, flailing, with the quilted bedding on fire. Thank fortune his glasses had stayed on at least.  

Tracy was very understanding. She accepted his explanation of an overturned candle without complaint, and even refused his offer to pay for the room. “It’s not my first go-round, luv,” she said, and smoothly handed him a porcelain cup of tea and a cold cloth for his aching head. Crow’s sour tongue and griping stomach really didn't want the tea, but it felt rude to refuse, considering. He sat hunched at the end of the bar and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible while he slurped away, glumly contemplating his life choices. At least the tea was hot and had plenty of sugar, and to his surprise it did a truly remarkable job of clearing both the headache and fog from his thoughts. Once he reached the dregs of the cup he felt almost completely normal, far better than he had any right to after his behaviour last night, not to mention half a bottle of brandy. He finally thanked Tracy, sheepishly, and slunk out of the tavern as quietly as he could. 

He would be fine, obviously. He had always been fine before, in twenty-two years of being on his own. This was just a return to the status quo, a return to his normal. He had his freedom back, that was all. His empty, empty freedom of being completely, utterly alone. 

And even if Azra did hold my hand and kiss me back for a second, Crow thought as he violently trimmed the non-thorny hedges outside the tower door that afternoon, Even if that wasn’t just a product of my imagination, it didn’t mean anything, because he was recovering from a deadly head injury, you bloody stupid lout.   

He grit his teeth and chopped the shears haphazardly with far too much force, leaving ragged melon-sized holes in the greenery. 

Who knew. Maybe people out there in the world did things like hold hands and kiss from mere friendship all the time. Or overwhelming gratitude. That was probably it. Azra had meant nothing by holding his hand, or kissing him back. A nice, friendly, platonic kiss.    

Crow flung the shears at the stone wall, narrowly missing skewering Hastur as he came around the tower with a watering can, the first time they’d run into each other all week. Hastur leapt back and glared. Before he could say anything Crow stomped back inside, leaving the sadly deformed hedge as it was.  

He would be fine. He hadn’t even meant to kiss Azra, no; he had just lost his head for a moment, what with the moonlight and the relief and exhaustion… that was all. Kissing Azra had been a- a malfunction, a second of temporary insanity. Too much moonlight could make anyone do daft things. Heady stuff, moonlight.  

But he was fine.  

He said as much to the painting of Father in the stairwell. He growled it to the possibly-sentient suit of armour in his Artifact room, and muttered it to himself as he very carefully dusted the screaming breadbox and still-glowing amulets and the now-slightly-louder humming book of poetry. He shouted it angrily to his dismayed orchids as he vindictively overwatered them. He grumbled it to the ravens that landed hopefully on the windowsill, looking in vain for snacks. He chanted it to himself as he slowly practiced a new cantrip designed to make lilies grow a new and particular shade of yellow…then realized what he was doing, lost control of the spell and accidentally set fire to his breeches and second-favourite pair of leather boots.  

He was fine. The kiss had meant nothing to him.  

Nothing.   

Nothing at all.  

Crow might have wallowed in uninterrupted misery indefinitely if not for that thing more inexorable than weather or hunger or even the heart: government.  

The evening of the fifth day found him lying draped facedown across his bed in only his breeches, trying to think of nothing, when the knock came at his bedroom door. “What,” he mumbled into the blankets.  

An incomprehensible mutter. Hastur had been even more surly than usual lately, small surprise.  

“What?”  

“Council here to see you,” came the irate growl from the other side of the door.  

Crow’s head popped up. “All of ‘em?” he asked stupidly.  

“No, just Lord Ligur.”

Ligur? Here? Brilliant. “Right. Uh. Be right down.” He dragged himself upright and reluctantly pulled on a crumpled shirt from the floor. A quick wash of heat left it smooth, another cantrip removed the more obvious stains. He glanced in the mirror, scratching at the scruff on his cheek, and winced. Shit. He finger combed his hair back a bit, then couldn’t muster the will to care further. He began his unenthusiastic trek down the many, many stairs. 

Ligur was lurking there in the entryway, dressed in a long black leather coat with gauntlet cuffs and matching short cape. That damned lizard of his clung to his shoulder as usual, with long tail coiled around his throat. Ligur's yellow eyes narrowed as Crow came down the stairs. For a moment he said nothing, only stared at him.

“Have you been ill?” he asked dubiously.  

“Uh. Kind of.” Crow coughed into his fist. “Yeah, an ague of some sort, I’ll be fine. Haven’t been myself for a bit. Changing weather, you know. I feel better already,” he said unconvincingly.  

“I see.” Ligur looked him over, frowning.  

Crow followed his gaze to find a smashed purple orchid clinging to the front of his breeches. He flicked it away and lifted his chin, trying to project a confident front. “What can I do for you?”  

“You have not responded to our messages.”  

“Messages?”  

There had been a couple of unopened black-sealed envelopes in the mail tray, now that he thought of it.  

“Right, the messages. Those messages. Mm. Yeah, I got them.”     

Lord Ligur glared at him. “When we send you a letter, we expect a reply, Crow. We are not in the habit of making house calls all the way out here. I would never have done so at all, except that cousin Hastur and I already had a visit planned." 

Sure you did, Crow thought. 

"We would hate to think that your behaviour had grown…shall we say…hmm… erratic," Ligur said ominously.  

Curse you, Hastur. Clearly a message had gone directly to the Council about his moment of supposed ‘cowardice’ with Azra. It was easy to see that Hastur was furious, and no doubt he'd been hoping for some kind of official censure. Crow entertained the mental picture of punting the interfering old spy out the top window of the tower. It cheered him up more than he had expected.  

“Like I said, I’ve been ill,” Crow said shortly. “Everyone is out of sorts when they’re ill. I’ve felt it coming on for weeks, maybe months. But it’s over now.” He swallowed, and rubbed briefly at his face. “Definitely over, without a doubt.” 

Ligur’s yellow eyes rested heavy on him, calculating, no doubt meant to be intimidating. Crow wasn’t worried. The Council wouldn’t confront him about the incident directly, not yet, not for something that no one else knew about and therefore had no impact on sorcerer reputation. Because that would mean admitting they received reports from Hastur, and they would lose their opportunity to pretend to be all-knowing. They much preferred to drop ominous hints. All part of their little game. Sorcerers were, at the end of the day, mostly talk.

“And would you say that you are now...returned to yourself? No more lapses in judgment?” Ligur asked slowly, narrow-eyed. Oh, the bastards thought they were so sneaky, didn’t they? Crow thought irritably, and fought the urge to roll his eyes. The entire lot of them were about as subtle as a loud fart.

“Yup. Yeah. Definitely back to myself. Everything exactly the way it used to be,” he said without emphasis. “Is that all?” 

Ligur grunted. "Yes. For now." He turned to leave with an unnecessary flare of his cape that nonetheless did look good. He paused, and cast a piercing look back over his shoulder. “Only remember that your first allegiance is to your own kind, Crow. You are a sorcerer, first and foremost."

Crow snorted. “Right," he muttered as he closed the door. "S’not the sort of thing I can forget.”  

It was a beautiful sunny day in the High Fells. The kind of clear, crisp seaside day that was perfect for walking, or riding, or doing just about anything, really. White sea birds wheeled through cloudless skies above the palace, cries echoing on the cool salty breeze. 

Prince Azra sat propped up in bed, exactly where he'd been for the past few days. There was a book in his lap, but it was closed. He just sat there staring into space and thinking. He’d been doing that a lot, too.  

His sumptuous bedroom, with its gold curtains and colourful woven carpets, with its tall arched windows that let in the bright sunshine, seemed dim today. The summer-blue of his satin coverlet was the more washed-out grey of a clouded sky. The rich leather books on their shelves were muted shades of brown. A faded room for a faded man.  

He realised distantly that Michael was still there, and looked up. "Sorry, what?" 

The tall prince stood at the foot of his bed, arms folded as he looked down his aquiline nose at him. “The servants say you’ve only picked at your meals. You aren’t dying, are you?”  

“No, of course not,” Azra replied dully. He plucked at a loose silk thread dangling from his shirt cuff. “But your concern is very touching, thank you.”  

Michael sniffed. “You’ve just been lying here for three days.”  

“Your grasp of the obvious remains unparalleled.”  

Michael’s brows twitched together, and he stared warily at Azra for a long moment. Perhaps the word ‘unparalleled’ was too much for him. It had four whole syllables, after all. 

“The physician says that your fever broke this morning,” Michael said at last, still frowning.   

Azra looked back down at his hands. “I suppose it did.”  

He’d tried to eat. Cook had fixed up some of his favourite things to tempt him, but guilt and sorrow and confusion had twisted his stomach into a solid lumpy knot. He could barely swallow. He’d tried to read, but the words sat inert on the page. Lifeless. He kept his glowstone tucked firmly out of sight in the side table drawer.  

Mostly he just lay there staring into space, and replayed that terrible night in his head.  Replayed what he had done.  

After jumping on Serafina he had only made it a couple minutes away before reason returned like a slap to the face, and he’d stopped dead. Then he’d turned her about and ridden frantically back the way he’d come, in a confused panic equal to the one that had sent him fleeing, not even knowing what he planned to say or do, only knowing that everything in his entire being cried out Wait! He’d searched for what seemed like hours, wet branches lashing at him out of the dark, still wearing only his thin shirt and breeches, but he’d been unable to find the clearing. No campfire. No beautiful red-headed sorcerer sitting there where he had left him. And why would there be? He’d left Crow, abandoned him, after everything he’d done for him, simply run off like an overwhelmed child without saying a word, without even making sure he was alright...  

How could I do that to him?   

By the time he’d finally given up he was disoriented, lost and chilled to the bone, teeth chattering far more than seemed warranted even by the cold.  

He barely remembered making it back to his inn, something he was certain he owed more to Serafina’s intelligence than any merit of his own. The journey through the Wood, through the gate and up to Tadfield was nothing but a long blur of cold misery in his mind. He’d awoken the next day in his inn room bed burning with fever, as one does after running half-dressed through the wet cold at night like a complete fool. The alarmed innkeeper had immediately sent word to the palace, and Azra had had no choice then but to accept the offered day-long carriage ride back to the Fells.  

He’d spent two days in bed at home before the fever broke. Now he wanted only to be left alone, to try to make sense of his thoughts, but there were servants constantly fluttering about, and one of his brothers poking their head in twice a day to ask if he had recovered yet, not out of brotherly concern, naturally, but because Gabriel wanted to discuss a wedding date. And more training, of course.   

The prospect did not motivate him to rise, or do much of anything. 

And oh…the wounded look on Crow’s face when he’d pulled away... it haunted him. Kept his eyes constantly stinging, and his throat closing up whenever he tried to take a bite of food. 

“Gabriel thinks that you might be shamming to get out of training,” Michael put in, rudely interrupting his thoughts again. 

Azra snorted, an undignified sound. “Does he now.”  

An unpleasant smirk twisted the side of Michael’s thin mouth. “I wouldn’t be surprised, either. I still don't know how you managed to fall ill after only a single day away. Perhaps the strain of leaving your books was too much for you.”   

“Perhaps you could all try minding your own damned business for a change,” Azra replied dully.  

A stunned silence. “...What?”  

“As I’ve said, I simply don’t feel well at all,” he continued, ignoring his brother’s astonished expression. “But I expect it will pass. These things always do.” 

It was true that the fever was gone now. Officially, there was not much wrong with him, by the physicians’ reckoning. He was simply…listless. No appetite. And he couldn’t very well say that his chest had been stuffed full of broken glass. He couldn’t say that he felt like the pages of his most fragile ancient books, so thin and brittle that the wrong touch would crumble him.  

Such fanciful descriptions would have only earned a scoff. So he said nothing. He only met Michael’s eyes disinterestedly, marveling at how easy it was, at how little it concerned him, and waited.  

Michael got bored first. He broke the stare and gave an irritated shrug that was clearly meant to convey indifference. “Very well. Let us know once you’re up and about again. Gabriel wants to speak with you regarding details for the wedding, and the announcement at the Tournament.”  

“Yes. So he’s said,” Azra replied in the same dull voice. “Five times now, I believe.”  

Michael stared at him. “What is the matter with you?” he demanded, losing patience at last.  

Azra looked up and frowned slightly, pursing his lips. “That...is a very good question,” he said honestly. “I suspect I am either coming to my senses or losing them entirely.” 

Michael gave him a final baffled look before shaking his head, turning on his heel and striding out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Azra alone.  

Alone.  

Azra resumed staring at his hands.

Four days. Four days since he had seen Crow, and now it was too late for...anything. The damage was done. He’d hurt his dearest friend and ruined everything. Surely Crow despised him and wouldn’t want to hear a word he had to say. Not after the shameful, cowardly way he had behaved, that was a certainty. And right on the heels of being such a useless old fool as to get himself nearly killed in the first place! Azra rubbed his eyes, groaning. He’d recklessly endangered them both, nearly revealed their secret, put Crow through what must have been a dreadful ordeal, and then buggered off without a word! Of course Crow would never want anything to do with him ever again. Who on earth would? Heavens knew he didn't want anything to do with himself.

He would send a letter, Azra resolved, the moment he was able to sneak off. He simply couldn’t leave things that way, even if Crow wouldn’t see him. Just one last letter to beg his forgiveness, to apologise for the way things had happened, and... to say goodbye. To tell him how much he had meant to him.

In a letter? Azra bit his lip and swallowed down a fresh lump that felt like it was made of thorns. He hadn’t envisioned it this way. He hadn’t envisioned it at all, to be frank, had avoided thinking of it at all costs, but...a letter was painfully inadequate. How could he convey something so large, so important, as what Crow meant to him in something as paltry as ink? How could he possibly put such complex feelings into words?

He certainly couldn’t write and tell Crow that…that his kiss had filled him with the most incredible, hopeful joy, so powerful that it was frightening. That it had spun his head round until he couldn’t tell up from down. That it had been the single most beautiful moment of his life…right up until it wasn’t. Because at the touch of his lips, Azra had realised that despite everything he had been desperately telling himself, he was not going to be alright. Not in the least. Not one bit. He’d realised it with such painful, razor-edged clarity that it had sent him running from that clearing as if it was a sword pointed at his heart. Because...

Because he loved Crow. Of course. He saw that now plain as the rising sun, and he couldn’t believe he had ever been able to convince himself otherwise. Dear beloved Crow, with his warm golden eyes and his wry smile that reached right down into him and squeezed his heart. Not just fondness, not just an infatuation – love. And oh, he had tried so hard to never feel that, for anyone, because he’d sensed that the horror of losing it would be more than he could bear.

And he’d been right. But he loved his beautiful, brave, red-headed sorcerer nevertheless, had begun to love him from the day they first met, and now what good was any of it when all that could do was tear him apart?

He swiped furiously at his suddenly smarting eyes.

And of course he couldn’t tell Crow any of this because…because…

Because none of that makes a difference, Azra thought with a rare, helpless fury, though he couldn’t have said who exactly he was angry at. Himself, most likely. His hands balled into fists under the covers, clutching at the sheets. He couldn’t catch his breath; his rib cage was a metal gauntlet squeezed tight.

Even if someone like Crow could truly ever want someone like him… no, it didn’t matter! It was far too late. Crow surely loathed him now. And the formal engagement announcement was less than two weeks off, and, and he couldn’t simply gallivant off into the sunset, just shirk every single responsibility he had ever had to his family and his kingdom! No, it was quite impossible. It simply wasn’t done.

Some people were simply not destined to be happy, or at least not very happy. Sometimes good enough had to suffice. Sometimes responsibility meant that you didn’t get everything you wanted. Some wishes were just that, and simply not meant to come true.

...That was what he had always told himself, wasn't it?

Azra swallowed that never-ending lump again, rubbing at his empty finger where his signet ring would normally be.

The trouble was that he had been happy. So shatteringly happy, so truly alive during those months with Crow, and it made the old arguments ring hollow as an empty room. It was one thing to resign himself to a loveless, sexless life, quite another to lose something once he actually had it dangled before him. And it was quite another to hurt Crow too in the process. That was something that had never occurred to him and had never dreamed he would have to contend with, but now after that night he could no longer tell himself he wouldn’t be doing just that. Oh, Crow's stricken face...

He'd tried to prepare himself for this all his life. But now that distant precipice was suddenly here, immediate, and oh...it was so much farther and more deadly a fall than he had ever imagined. And it was made all the worse because now he knew, precisely, what he would be losing.

For a brief, sunny time life had felt like one of his illustrated stories, full of bright vivid colour, where happy endings were a foregone conclusion. Where obligations weren’t set in stone. Which of course they were.

Weren’t they?

I wish…

Azra stared at his hands, but his thoughts refused to fall into any kind of orderly pattern. He was a maelstrom inside, just as he had been in the Wood, though this time he doubted it was the result of any head injury.

He was just tired. He was so, so tired. Tired of feeling inadequate, like a failure of a son and a worse Prince, tired of trying so hard to live up to what he was supposed to be, of feeling like a background character in his own story. Tired of trying to not feel what he felt. Tired of trying to be alright. 

It was abruptly too much. He sniffled and looked numbly down at the book in his lap. Another book of folktales, an old favourite for when he was feeling down, full of impossible victories and happy endings. It could always be counted on to lift his spirits. He smoothed a hand over the familiar cover, smiling weakly. The rough leather was comforting under his fingers; not one of his glossy first editions, but a spare secondhand version that he could carry around without fear of damaging it too badly. It had survived many journeys below the Wall, and its very imperfection was reassuring.

He would read a bit to settle his mind, then get some sleep, and then...

And when he woke up, he would still be here. And the next day. And the next. And every day, feeling exactly. Like. This.

The dim room went even more out of focus, and he rubbed hard at his eyes to clear it.

Actually, he didn’t feel like reading after all. He picked up the book with an unsteady hand to return it to his polished wooden night table. As he did so, the front cover fell open a bit, and a dried yellow daffodil slid out into his lap.

Azra froze, staring down at it. 

The daffodil lay there, a brilliant splotch of golden colour against his faded blue bedsheets, breathtakingly lovely and perfectly preserved.

He remembered, now. That rainy day, when he got back to his inn room he had carefully folded the fresh flower into a piece of spare writing paper, and pressed it between the pages of the book for safekeeping. There it had stayed completely forgotten until now.

And of course, he remembered Crow. Cradling the dormant bulb in his long graceful hands, coaxing the daffodil out with nothing more than a whispered word, the daffodil he had brought because of an offhand comment about a favourite flower. Grinning that rakish grin and full of that wonderful energy he always brought to his magic. A bonfire in a world of candles, brilliant and warm, like something out of a story but so very, very real…

Azra closed the book. He set it very slowly, gently back on the night table. Ever so carefully he reached out and picked up the daffodil, feeling his heart tremble as his fingers touched it. It seemed to shimmer with light in the gloaming, so much more real and vibrant than everything else around it. Like a fixed point in a world of shadows.

Both hands slowly lifted to cradle the flower against his chest, as if staunching a terrible wound. 

He remembered soft lips that tasted faintly of smoke. Devastating, shattering joy distilled into a single instant.

He remembered chocolate cake, and a dozen small magical repairs, and terrible scars.

He remembered warm hands cupped to his ice-cold face, concerned golden eyes leaning close. Feeling disoriented and confused…yet safer than he ever had in his life.

He remembered a candlelit balcony, and a hand atop his own in the dark.

“If things were different, I just might ask you to dance.”

Those memories were a beam of clear warm light through the winter frost, illuminating, thawing. He loved Crow. He loved him more than anything else in this world. And he was going to just...walk away from that? Without a single fight? 

I wish…

Azra pulled in a sharp, ragged breath. There was the most curious sensation in his chest- of ice finally giving way under pressure.

Did he really care more about being true to his family’s expectations than he cared about being true to himself, and by extension the one person who seemed to actually treasure him? Did his brothers' approval mean more to him than Crow’s?

Put like that, the answers smote him with their obviousness: No, no, and no, of course not. And if that was true...then what the actual devil was he doing?

I wish…

Why not? 

Well, because, he though anxiously, swallowing, of course I  can't, because…because…

...because then all the time he had spent accepting his fate would have been for naught. If he indeed had a choice after all, if it was not in fact a sin to do so, it would mean that he could have chased happiness for all these years… and had simply chosen not to.

The harsh truth of that took his breath away, stunning.

That was what he was truly afraid of now, wasn’t it? To realise that he had suffered for nothing. To accept that he had wasted long years of his life forcing himself to be at peace. He was so very afraid of it, apparently, that he was preparing to throw good years after bad, in the desperate hope that it would somehow give more value to all the times in the past. 

He’d thought he was simply accepting an unpleasant truth, but in reality he had been avoiding one. 

Marrying Urielle wouldn’t give him back any of those years. All that was left was forward. But... he could choose what forward looked like.

The idea was shocking. He felt the usual instinctive surge of palm-sweating guilt at the very thought, and for the first time in his life examined that guilt with a critical eye. 

Crow had made difficult choices too, hadn't he? Crow had walked away from what people expected of him, had chosen his own happiness, and he was not wicked, or irresponsible, or any of the things Azra had been so afraid of becoming. But Azra saw now that he’d branded himself exactly that for even contemplating a life of his own. In trying so hard to do the right thing he’d been judging himself more harshly than he ever would anyone else.

And he’d let himself be convinced, by Father, but also by himself, that he didn’t deserve better. He’d believed it so deeply that he'd resigned himself to an irrevocable fate at a young age, then built up an entire Wall of excuses around his heart to justify it, brick by brick. That it was the only moral choice. That choosing a different path would make him selfish. That failing to live up to other people’s expectations would somehow make him some sort of...of...

Villain.

Sitting there in his bed, cradling that fragile piece of sunlight in his palm, Azra felt something deep within himself crack. Like a hardened crust around his spirit, a lifetime’s worth of fear and lies split and fell away, leaving something clean and smooth and diamond-clear behind.

The most remarkable sensation flooded through him. It was a rather new feeling, but he thought it just might be…courage.

“What matters most to me. What things are worth the trouble.”

Azra dropped the flower and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook, but whether laughing or crying even he couldn’t have said.

Much, much later, cold on the stroke of midnight, found him sitting at his little writing desk, illuminated by the steady light of his glowstone. His face was dry, and determined.

Before him on the desk lay a single piece of paper with only three lines written on it. It was the best he could do at the moment.

He hoped it would be enough.

Chapter Text

Crow stood at his desk, nervously rereading the letter for the dozenth time even though he knew the contents weren’t about to change.  

Not fifteen minutes earlier he'd been slumped in his chair before the fireplace with a silver goblet of wine in hand, brooding. Like he did best. When the little white pigeon fluttered in though the open window he'd dropped the wine and leapt to his feet, then nearly given the poor bird a heart spasm in his haste to get at the message tied to its leg. He’d made the mistake of immediately lunging at it, then spent a good few minutes chasing the thoroughly spooked animal around the room, trying to calm it down enough to let him take the letter. The pigeon now sat recovering on the perch, a few feathers short, cooing indignantly but otherwise no worse for wear. A professional to the core, that one.  

Crow shook a bit of spilled wine off his bare foot and turned his attention back to the letter. His fingers had left sweaty prints on the paper.

Six days since that disastrous night in the Wood. It was such an inexpressible relief, to finally have solid proof that Azra had arrived home in one piece, and taken no lasting damage from his misadventure. After nearly a week of silence Crow had worried…he had been so, so worried…  

And after all that, the contents of the letter were…slightly anticlimactic. It was also distressingly brief: 

My Dear Crow-   

Please forgive me for the terrible delay in writing, I've been completely unable to sneak away to the aviary without being waylaid.

As I recall I still owe you a lunch, so if it is not too much trouble would you please join me tomorrow, at the usual spot, at three o’clock? I would truly love to see you.  

Crow was trying very, very hard not to read too much into that last phrase. It seemed, at any rate, that Azra was willing to give him another chance. It was possible that things were not irrevocably ruined after all. Maybe he could explain, apologise. Tell him anything at all, just so long as he wouldn’t turn away from him in horror again.  

Or maybe Azra simply wanted to see him to say goodbye.  

Crow rubbed anxiously at his unshaven jaw, hearing the rasp of fingers over stubble.  

Tomorrow. Thank fortune not today, he was in no condition to be seen by anyone. A swift glance at his haggard reflection in the mirror confirmed that. He looked like he should be living in a hut in the Wood somewhere, eating squirrels raw and mumbling to himself. He gingerly sniffed at his shirt, and pulled a face. Urgh. Make that looked and smelled. A bloody fine specimen of a sorcerer, he was.  

Hastur, at least, was not around to witness his crisis any longer. He had left for his monthly Pandemonium Market run yesterday as usual, taking advantage of Ligur’s visit to snag an instant ride South via homing amulet with all the wares. It had been such a relief to watch him vanish; his presence had been even more oppressive than usual lately. At any rate the Market ran for two days and the old bat hated long carriage rides almost as much as Crow did, so he would not be back until day after tomorrow at the earliest. A welcome reprieve. 

Crow fumbled out a fresh sheet of parchment and a raven quill. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair to steady himself, then dipped into the glass inkwell and scribbled a reply:

Of course, glad to. I’ll bring the drinks.   

He had to magically wipe and re-write the short message twice, as in his anxiety he kept skittering the nib of the quill and blotting the paper with black ink. Then he re-read it several more times, trying to decide if it sounded too curt, or too...eager? Should he write more? No, it was simply beyond him at the moment. He gave up and carefully waved the finished product dry, rolled it up and affixed it to the leg of the still very affronted little pigeon.  

He stood at the window and watched the bird fly until it became a tiny dot on the horizon. When he could no longer discern it from the other distant birds, he went to his wardrobe and retrieved Azra’s neatly folded doublet, salvaged from the room where Hastur always stored their spoils. The deep blue velvet was soft under his fingers. He stroked it once, then carefully placed it in a leather bag and hung it by the strap over the side of his red and gold chair. He added the cravat, one of the outlandish patterned ones, and a gold belt knife set with sapphires. All the things Azra had been wearing that night. Finally, he walked slowly back to his desk and even more slowly opened the top drawer. He withdrew a black folded handkerchief and unfolded it to reveal Azra’s gold signet ring. It was too large for his smallest finger, but he slid it onto his ring finger and held it up to the light, admiring it.  

It was still light out, but he crawled into bed anyway and pulled the silk curtains shut. He lay there on his back, staring at nothing in the semi-dark and twisting Azra’s ring around and round on his finger.  

The next day dawned bright and early – extra early for him, since he finally fell asleep a scant hour before dawn and rose shortly after. He had a lot of pacing to get done, after all, and if he didn’t start now then he’d never finish in time.  

After a much-needed bath he spent a lot longer than usual in front of his full-length silver mirror, holding up this black shirt and that, trying to decide which one suited him best. Not that it mattered. Not that any clothes could make him look like anything other than a hollow-cheeked scarecrow of a man, a haphazard collection of limbs stuffed into a shirt. Not that something as paltry as clothes could make any difference, and yet… and yet… 

“What the hell is wrong with me,” he muttered to himself as he re-fastened his cloak for the dozenth time at a slightly more daring angle. “Ow!” His hands had fumbled the heavy pin, stabbing his forefinger and drawing blood. He growled and punched the wall, which most unfortunately was made of stone. “Pustulent...fucking...bollocks!” After leaping about shaking his hand he finally stuffed his bleeding finger into his mouth… then abruptly slumped down onto the unmade bed with a loud groan and buried his face in his hands.  

It was no good. He knew damned well what was wrong with him, of course, and a whole week of trying to convince himself otherwise had been completely useless.  

Curse it. Curse it and damn everything. Damn himself most of all. Why, oh why, did he have to fall for a prince? What kind of irate deity had he offended, to have such rotten luck? Why did Azra have to be so…himself, with a sunlit smile that sank its pretty claws right through his armour to leave him bleeding? Why did he, Crow, always have to go and ruin everything? 

This wasn’t supposed to happen.   

He stared bleakly at his pallid reflection in the mirror, at the soot-dark smudges under yellow eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. He hadn’t shaved in half a week, or eaten much in twice as long, and his cheekbones stood out stark against his face. The lines of his downturned mouth were carved deeper than usual.  

Pathetic. What a joke I am. How Father would laugh.   

He decided to forego the cloak. The way he was going he was likely to strangle himself with it by the time he arrived at Eden. He settled on a fine black silk shirt and high-waisted black breeches with the silver buttons, nice and simple clothes that were impossible to mess up, and focused instead on the rote process of getting ready. A comb helped put his tangled shoulder-length hair into something resembling order; a black leather cord kept it tied back from his face. There was nothing to be done for the undereye shadows, but he was able to at least scrape the three-day old stubble from his face with a razor. He nervously tucked his homing amulet under his shirt, steeled himself, and looked again into the mirror.  

He still looked too thin and haggard around the edges, and all the black only highlighted his unhealthy pallor, but he was clean shaven and neatly dressed. That was something. On impulse he grabbed his dark glasses and slid them over his eyes. There. That covered the shadows. He slapped his cheeks a couple times, trying to get some colour into them, but quickly gave it up as a lost cause. At this rate he’d have to slap himself insensible. The prospect was sounding more appealing by the minute.  

Drinks, he needed to get the drinks.  

He grabbed two silver goblets, and rifled briefly through his wine cabinet. It was an easy choice; he'd drunk nearly everything. He selected a bottle of ice cider from apples grown on the snow-covered slopes to the far East. Something nice and light and sweet that he’d been saving, that Azra would enjoy. A peace offering. He wrapped it all up in a soft cloth and stuffed it into the leather satchel along with Azra's clothes, padding it well so he didn’t end up with a sodden bag of broken glass. Figuring he was now as prepared as he would ever be, he gave his hands a final nervous swipe, checked his hair one last time, took a deep breath. Time to go. He turned and headed down the stairs with all the nimble vigor of a risen corpse. 

He felt a bit better once he stepped outside. At least the weather was nice, he thought, breathing deep and tilting his face up to the sky. There had been a rainstorm earlier, but now the skies were clear. It felt like weeks since he had seen the sun. The air was unseasonably warm but the breeze was crisp, full of the invigorating smells of damp earth and pine, and even a hint of woodsmoke. It made him feel a bit less like the recently-exhumed. He didn’t trust himself to safely work magic in his current state, so he set off on the short trek entirely under his own power.  

Autumn had arrived with a flourish, and the Wood was a riot of orange and gold and dark crimson around him as he walked. Red as his hair. Gold as his eyes. It was the one time of year that the world decked itself out in his colours, and he couldn’t help but hope it was a good omen as he walked through the trees. Fallen leaves crunched under his black leather boots and squirrels chattered among the branches; sun lanced through the trees in bright sparkling beams that looked solid enough to touch. The occasional jewel-toned bird flitted through the boughs above him, singing their disgustingly cheery little songs, broken by the occasional harsh crrraw of a raven winging overhead. 

It was beautiful day to have your heart broken, he had to give it that. 

Ugh. He dismissed the thought with a disgusted shake of his head and quickened his pace, rubbing Azra’s ring on his finger with his thumb. Don’t go feeling sorry for yourself. Just keep calm, apologise, save your friendship for whatever time you have left. Easy as blinking.   

If only he believed it.  

The Eden ruins were as lovely as ever, full of verdant living colour, especially with the bright trees all around. The marble was washed clean of dust from the recent rain, giving everything a freshly-polished shine. All the brand new fall-blooming flowers were thriving. Crow usually would have taken a moment to stop and admire everything, but he had no eyes for it today. 

He spotted Serafina first, as usual, saddled and standing at attention off to the side by the white pavilion. She was grazing idly at the bushes and only spared him a glance.  

And then- Azra. Crow’s battered heart tripped over itself at the sight despite all his firm resolution, and he had to remind himself to breathe. Azra was sitting perched on his usual chunk of crumbled white marble, blond head bent over a book in his lap, exactly as he had been the first time he ever found him here. A handful of late-summer blackberries lay on a napkin next to him. 

The prince wore a gold brocade doublet today, sleeveless, buttoned over a full-sleeved white silk shirt and plain dark brown breeches. One of his new cravats, patterned in cream and brown, was tied in a loose knot around his neck. No jewelry at all. Oddly casual, for him. He had even unbuttoned the top two holes of the shirt’s high collar, revealing just a hint of bare throat. Set into the framework of the autumn colours all around, bright sunlight enveloping him in a dappled gold aura that sparkled and shifted with the leaves above, he may as well have been a painting. He was almost too beautiful to be real.  

Azra looked quickly up as Crow walked into the clearing, breaking the illusion, and his round face lit with… gladness, enormous relief, but also an undercurrent of nervous tension. He put down his book and stood.  

Crow swallowed, heart thrilling like the stupid fool it was, and felt the familiar loosening in his chest, that irrational sense that everything in the world had been put right. He could abruptly breath again. His feet wanted to run towards him. 

He took firm hold of his heart and gave it a shake. Stop that. Keep yourself together. Calm. I am a placid, unchanging lake of calm. He couldn’t afford to lose his head. The very fact that Azra was here at all was an olive branch, and he wasn’t about to ruin things. Again. He adjusted his glasses and spoke before the quiet could gain any kind of weight.  

“I hope you’re thirsty.” He hoisted the satchel and tried what he hoped was a careless smile. “I’ve brought an excellent ice cider that your Lordship will no doubt appreciate, though it’s sweet enough that we might want to save it for dessert.” 

“Oh…how wonderful!” Azra brought his hands in front of him and rubbed them nervously together. “I had an entire spread prepared, venison pasties and fresh fruit.” He gestured to the leather bag sitting on the ground by his seat. “At this hour it’s more properly an early dinner than a lunch, so I saw no reason to stint ourselves.”  

“That sounds good to me.”  

They moved over into the familiar shade of the pavilion, where it was the least damp. Azra set down his bag of food but didn’t move to open it. Crow slowly removed the goblets and bottle of cider and set them down next to the bag, trying to pretend that he didn’t notice anything amiss.  

“Crow…” A tentative hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped. Calm, curse it. Lake of calm. A mirror-smooth, placid lake…full of sharks. Shit.   

“Sorry. Thank you so much for coming. I wasn’t sure- Are you alright?” Azra sounded concerned. So much for hiding what a wreck he was. Brilliant.  

“Oh, fine. Never better. How have you been?” Crow asked desperately. He forced himself to take a step away from that hand, though it hurt to do so. Ugh, it hurt to even look at him, so he didn’t. He’d hoped this would be easier, that he would be able to cram this thing firmly back into its box once he laid eyes on Azra again, but the opposite was proving true. The cracks had only widened; the only reason he didn’t fall apart was that all the shards were leaning precariously together. It felt like all his pathetic imaginings and hopes were branded right on his forehead.  

“It’s so good to see you,” Azra said quietly behind him. He didn’t try to touch him again, and it filled Crow with a mixture of relief and aching regret.  

“It’s good to see you too.” He let himself turn and look at him, and ugh, but that was a mistake. Because Azra was smiling, just a hopeful uncertain curve of his mouth that was enough to steal the air right out of his body again. “Um. How is your head feeling?” That question was easy enough; he’d been worried sick for a week.  

“Right as rain, thanks to you,” said Azra, smile warming, and this was getting into dangerous territory now, skirting perilously close to the thing that Crow was terrified to discuss. 

“Good, good,” he choked out. “You look well.”  

Although, Crow realised, that wasn’t entirely true. Close-up, looking carefully now, were those shadows under Azra’s blue eyes? And did he look a bit paler, a bit wan? Even possibly…a bit thinner? A pinprick of fresh worry lanced through his anxious fog. Maybe there had been some damage after all. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch Azra’s forehead, to check, but he wrapped them into a fist instead. Concern gave his voice some fresh confidence, and he raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure? No lingering side effects? Headaches, dizziness? Mad fits of poetry-writing?” He grinned, and Azra laughed, and for a fleet second things were almost normal.  

“No, no, I promise. I’m fit as a fiddle now.” Azra beamed, stealing his breath again. And why did he have to look like that, like nothing in the entire world could make him happier?  

“Good. I brought your clothes, the ones Hastur took from you that night. And that reminds me.” Crow pulled the signet ring off his finger and handed it to him. He felt suddenly embarrassed to be caught wearing it, but bulled ahead anyway. “I thought you might be missing this. And- uh, oh shit, I completely forgot about your sword, but I can bring that…another time.” He gulped.

“Oh, thank you so much!” Azra took it, and slid it onto his finger. “I can’t possibly tell you how grateful I am.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and bit his lip. 

Another awkward silence fell, stronger than before. A raven squawked in a tree nearby. The two men just stood there looking at each other, with unspoken things seething in the air between them.  

Crow swallowed. “So,” he said, with grit-teeth cheeriness. “Cider. Do you want to break into it now, or wait until after we eat?”  

“I’m fine saving it for afterwards. I brought a more unassuming wine that we can drink with our food.” Azra gestured to the other bottle by the bag. He took a deep breath. 

“Great.” Crow needed something to do with his hands, so he quickly picked up the wine bottle and began working at the wax seal. “I’m going to have some wine. Do you want some wine?” he asked. The damned cork would not come out. He started tugging frantically at it, desperate to avoid the silence that he felt crouching just around the corner, ready to pounce. His hands were shaking slightly, at least in part from lack of food. Shit. Breakfast would have probably been a wise choice. Or at least dinner last night.   

Azra backed away and gingerly sat down on the piece of fallen masonry that he always used as a chair, looking far from at ease. He fidgeted with his retrieved gold ring, twirling it around and round on his finger. He drew a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, folded his hands in his lap, then said quietly, “Actually, before anything else I need to talk to you. About the last time we saw each other.”  

Ah. Here it was. Crow’s stomach snapped into a clenched guilty ball, and if his hands had been strong enough to break glass the wine bottle would have exploded. He felt abruptly sick. 

"Right." He nodded and drew a breath to begin, to apologise- 

“I’m sorry,” Azra blurted out before he could speak. “Crow, I am so, so sorry. First and foremost I wanted to beg your forgiveness. I behaved absolutely horribly.”  

What? All the carefully planned words evaporated right out of Crow’s head. “Uhh.” His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He tried again. “No, no, there’s nothing to forgive.”  

“But of course there is.” Azra’s eyes were wide and distressed. “I panicked and just…ran off and left you there alone. Truly, I can’t believe I did that to you, I don’t know what came over me. It was a horrid, horribly cruel thing to do. I know there’s no excuse, but I wanted to at least explain-” 

“Really, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Crow finally used an unsticking spell to wrestle the stubborn cork free of the bottle with a loud pop, and poured a measure of pale wine into a hammered-silver goblet, throat tight. “I don’t blame you at all, there’s nothing to explain. Everything’s fine.” 

“Crow, really. I can tell you’re upset,” Azra said, with a note of very familiar exasperation now.  

“No. What? What makes you think that?”  

“Your cup is smoking.”  

Crow blinked, to see that his wine was indeed steaming. Shit. Get ahold of yourself. “Oh, that.” He stuffed the magic back down and took a casual sip - and promptly spat it back as the hot liquid scalded his tongue. He coughed and wiped his mouth, face and tongue burning. “No, I just like my wine hot, is all.” He winced and bit the inside of his cheek. Ugh. Fuck, could he be handling this any worse? He was just a tangled uncontrolled ball of hurt and embarrassment, blurting things out like a child.  

“If you say so.” Azra sounded unconvinced. “But… Crow, what I really wanted to say was that I-”  

“Look, Azra, wait.” Crow took another sip of too-hot wine and forced himself to swallow it down this time, pain and all, trying to soothe the rawness in his throat from speaking his name. Sweat had broken out on his palms, and he could feel his pulse tapping away in his neck. The hot wine sat in his empty stomach like a burning coal. “I do understand, really. You were still groggy and hurt, I knew that, the witch said you would be. I had no right to- to take advantage of you like that. I’m sorry I put you in that position. I never wanted to frighten you, or put pressure on you. You had every right to react like you did.” 

Azra’s eyes had widened in alarm. “Oh, no, that’s not-” 

“I know I shouldn’t have- I know it was stupid of me to-” 

“Oh, for heavens sakes, Anthony, you impossibly silly thing, will you please be quiet and let me finish? I certainly did not run because I was afraid of you, or angry that you kissed me!”  

Crow looked fully up at him, startled at the outburst. A dull, blotchy flush had crept up over Azra’s face, and his hands were clasped white-knuckled in his lap. Despite the indignant tone he looked terrified, and vulnerable, and Crow felt his heart seize. “You…weren’t?”  

“Of course not,” Azra said quietly, wretchedly. “I panicked because I realised that losing you was going to break my heart.”  

Crow stared.   

Azra flushed deep scarlet all the way down to his neck, and he took a deep, determined breath. “Because the truth is…what I came to- what I need to tell you is that.... I simply adore you. You’re the most wonderful, kind, beautiful person I’ve ever met, and more dear to my heart than I knew it was possible for someone to be. More than anything else in this world. You- you've become utterly precious to me.” 

Hallucinating. Crow was definitely hallucinating. Too little food and sleep could do that to a man. Or he had accidentally slipped himself some nightshade, or one of the other nasty ingredients from his outside garden. Or maybe Hastur had finally lost patience and simply decided to poison him. Because that was the only possible explanation for what he was hearing, or how his knees had gone all wobbly.  

“And you were right, at the Ball, that I do have a choice. It took me far too long to realise because I’ve been so afraid of…well. Many things. It doesn’t matter.” Azra shook his head and stared down at his clenching twisted fingers, speaking faster now. “But I finally realised that nothing in this world terrifies me half so much as losing you, and I simply can’t bear the idea of a future without you in it.” 

Crow opened his mouth, but his brain ran up a little white flag of surrender, and he just stood there holding his stupid goblet and gaping like a landed fish. His head was empty save for a vague sizzling sound. Oh, wait, the sizzling sound was coming from his cup. The steaming wine had begun to boil in time with his thundering heart, bubbling audibly.  

“And what I’m trying to say is that I’ve finally discovered what matters most to me, and it’s you. My heart is so full of you that there’s no room for anything else, because the simple truth is that when I look at you…I’m home.” Azra looked up at him then and smiled with a mouth that trembled, a ghost of that brilliant smile. He’d gone rather pale. “And I’d very much like to come home. Please. If that’s alright. If you’ll still have me.” He just sat there waiting, face open as one of his books, with anxious vulnerability written in every line of his body. It looked like he had stopped breathing. 

Crow just stared at him in the stretching silence, thunderstruck, descending quickly into full-blown panic. His feet were rooted to the earth. His voice had buggered off to wherever voices went when you needed them most. The wine was now boiling so hard that it was threatening to splash over the sides, and he would not have been at all surprised to find steam gushing out of his ears, because fuck knew there were no thoughts in there. He had never felt so desperate in his entire life, but he still couldn’t make a sound. A mockingbird warbled at the top of its lungs somewhere nearby, absurdly loud and cheerful in the quiet.  

“…Oh,” Azra said after a long minute, and swallowed with an audible click. The rest of the colour had slowly drained from his face, leaving him sickly white. He looked like he wished for nothing more than the earth to swallow him on the spot. “Well... Of course, I…I quite understand. You deserve better and- I don’t mean to babble on. But I needed to at least tell you in person, and let you know how sorry I am,” he said quietly, voice thick with hopeless misery. All the courage seemed to leave him at once, and he looked lost. “I- I’ll go, then. I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you.” He stood quickly, avoiding Crow’s eyes. His lips were pressed tightly together, and his face looked on the verge of crumpling. He was visibly fighting tears.  

NO!  

It was those tears that finally broke through Crow’s stunned paralysis, and he managed a strangled, useless, “Nnngk.”  

Emergency measures, then.  

The goblet dropped from nerveless fingers, sloshing boiling wine across the scattered wet leaves. 

His legs moved of their own accord, carrying him forward. In a blaze of mad courage that felt like the last flight of a dying star, he crossed the pavilion in two long strides, caught the startled prince’s face between his hands, and kissed him full on the mouth.  

Magic. 

Azra’s perfect soft lips were pressed to his. He tasted of berries, of sunlight after storms, and his face fit right into his hands as if it had always belonged there.  

And then Azra sighed “mmh,” a small sound of longing and relief.  

Then his wonderful, sword-callused hands were on Crow’s wrists, clutching him as he kissed him back, and oh, he was, Azra was kissing him back. He was kissing him over and over with one hand cupped to the back of Crow’s neck to hold him firmly in place, and something deep inside was tearing free and spreading its wings. Crow was on fire from the inside out, burning, burning...he could smell smoke… 

Then Azra reached for him, wrapped a strong arm around his waist and yanked him in close to kiss him like some theatrical paramour, and Crow felt himself shatter into a thousand perfect pieces.  

Time stopped. Their surroundings melted away. The only thing that existed was the movement of Azra’s impossibly sweet mouth, gentle and insistent all at once. His arms around his waist and shoulders, holding him tight and steady and warm. The anvil pound of their hearts between them as they clung to each other, the press of their bodies and the way they both kept adjusting their grips to hold one another closer. Soft white hair between Crow’s fingers. He kept one arm tight around Azra’s neck and let his other hand slip from his jaw to cradle his head and deepen the kiss. Magic and heat was singing through him and turning his blood to liquid light wherever Azra touched, warm tingly static flooding every inch of his body until it didn’t even feel like his own anymore… 

Crow finally kissed Azra one more time, slowly, and leaned their foreheads together with eyes closed. They were both panting softly. “Um. Please-” He had to stop, and swallow, and clear his throat. “Please don’t go,” he whispered. Wheezed, really, in part because Azra had him in a death-grip, squeezing the breath out of him and making his ribs creak. He didn’t care. He was wrapped in Azra’s arms, and he didn’t need air.  

“I won’t,” Azra breathed. He swallowed hard. “Please don’t leave either?”  

Crow shook his head, and held him tighter. “Never,” he wheezed hoarsely. “I promise.” 

“Oh.” Azra let out a choked little half-laugh, half-sob and buried his face against Crow’s shoulder. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much,” he burst out, voice muffled in his shirt. “I tried to come right back, truly I did, but I couldn’t find you. I’m so sorry.”  

“No, don’t be sorry, shh.” Crow held him and stroked the back of his head, ruffled that softness the way he’d always wanted to, and the joy of it made him dizzy. His thrumming heart felt too large for his chest. “It’s okay. I'm just glad you're here.” 

“I thought...” 

“I know. It’s okay, angel.”  

Azra lifted his head and sniffled, smiled at him with eyes that were watery and rimmed in red. “I thought that surely you’d never want to see me again.”  

“No! No, ‘course not, stop that. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Crow tightened his arms around him and rocked him a little. His eyes were stinging hard but his knees were steady, now. “Um…I may have thought you’d never want to see me again,” he admitted sheepishly.  

Azra giggled. The sound was so unexpected that Crow snickered too, a giddy release of raw emotion, and then they were both laughing as they held each other. Every time Crow nearly got himself under control, Azra would giggle again, and off they would go, laughing themselves breathless at nothing. It was completely ridiculous, and joyful, and there was comfort in it.  

“Oh my goodness,” Azra finally gasped, smiling and wiping tears out of his eyes. “I can’t believe how- You dear, wonderful, silly man. You didn’t do a single thing wrong; I was never angry with you. Just-” He cupped Crow’s face in soft hands and kissed him on the mouth, and then again, longer, with indrawn breath.  

The kisses swept through Crow in a fresh rush of heat, and his knees abruptly decided that yes, they’d really like to give out after all. He had to clutch at Azra’s doublet to stay upright. “Ngh...” he muttered into his shoulder. His entire body was tingling so hard that he was afraid it might come apart, like dust in the wind. 

“It’s alright.” Azra wrapped his arms back around him, pulled him against his chest and held him as if he weighed nothing. “It’s alright, dearest,” he murmured again. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”  

He did indeed. Those strong arms were secure and wonderful, and Crow had never felt more comfortable in all his life. He put an arm around Azra’s neck and laid his cheek on that solid shoulder, tucked his face against him. “Angel,” he sighed. 

Azra turned his head to press his nose to his cheek. “My Anthony,” he whispered. He swayed gently back and forth, and Crow felt a warm shiver from the top of his head down to the soles of his feet. He just hung there with booted toes dragging on the grass, breathing in that springtime smell, wrapped in the first hug he could ever remember receiving, while the cool autumn breeze swirled around them and ruffled their hair and clothes. One of Azra’s thumbs rubbed comforting little circles on his back.  

Well, this was it. The pinnacle of his existence. He may as well drop dead right now, because anything else in his life would be, by default, a step down.  

I love you.   

The words burst in on his consciousness like a shout, stomping down doors, breaking locks, and was all he could do not to gasp it aloud. And of course it had been there all along despite his useless efforts, deeply rooted like a flower, tendrils threaded all through his spirit and finally poking bright heads above the surface. 

Crow sighed with eyes shut, mouthing it silently at last, tasting the words. I love you.   

I love you. I love you. I love you. His expanded heart was full of it, brimming.  

Crow finally raised his head and looked at him again. “D’you…would you like to come see the tower? I know your last visit wasn’t exactly a success.” Azra snorted, and Crow laughed again. “But Hastur is gone far South until at least tomorrow afternoon, so it’s safe now. We can go have our lunch at a table for once. Relax a bit, talk things over. And I can finally give you the grand tour.” 

Azra sniffled again and beamed at him, eyes still over-bright. “Oh, that sounds lovely. It is a bit damp out here today. And I daresay it might be safer somewhere less out in the open.”  

“Yeah.” Crow glanced around at the forest. There was no one around, of course, except for the raven still perched in the nearby oak tree. “Who knows. Trees have ears. Birds have ears. Probably. Do they have ears? Must do. That’s how they hear other birds.” What the hell was he talking about? His thoughts were spinning senselessly around, and only Azra’s arms kept him grounded.  A tiny corner of his mind noted that he was no longer wearing his glasses; at some point he must have torn them off and flung them away so he could kiss Azra better.  

I love you.  

Azra pushed up on his toes and placed another soft kiss on Crow’s mouth. “Come on then. If I keep kissing you I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.” 

That was just fine with Crow. He could stay here kissing him until the sun set and the stars came out, and the entire Wood caved in around them for all he cared.  

Azra very reluctantly began to disentangle himself, but had to stop when Crow staggered. Apparently his muscles hadn’t quite caught up to the situation yet. An entire week’s worth of frenetic energy seemed to have deserted him all at once. Azra only laughed and hugged him close while Crow tried to remember how legs worked, and on the second try he finally got his feet securely under him. Azra put a supporting arm firmly around his waist and flashed a brilliant smile at Crow’s surprised expression. “I’m not letting go of you this time, my dear.”  

Crow grinned back, dazedly. “I’m not going anywhere,” he assured him. Ever again. He kept grinning as he tottered along with him towards Serafina, minus his glasses, significantly disheveled and too elated to care one bit.  

Chapter Text

The short ride back to the tower passed in a blur of sunlight and autumn colours. Crow didn’t notice much more than that because he was too preoccupied by his arms. Specifically, the fact that they were wrapped around Azra’s waist. Around. Azra’s. Waist.

What felt like only a minute later they were crossing through the wall of thorns, then they had pulled up before the tower and dismounted. Rather, Azra dismounted: when Crow awkwardly swung his leg over, he suddenly found a pair of broad hands on his waist, helping lift him down. And if those hands lingered a bit longer than necessary to make sure he was solid on his feet, he certainly wasn’t complaining.  

There was a little paddock and single covered stall in the very back, left over from the previous tower inhabitant, and while disused the fence was still solid enough. Crow waited patiently while Azra removed Serafina’s gold-and-leather tack and gave her a quick rub down, biting back a smile. Azra always fussed and muttered over every blot of dirt on the white horse’s coat the same way he fussed over blemishes on his own clothing. They finally filled the trough with fresh water from the pump and left the horse contentedly champing at the overgrown grass.  

Crow disengaged the tower door ward with a snap of his fingers. “Careful to never touch the handle unless I’m here,” he warned. “You’re lucky you only knocked last time. When it’s warded only I can open it without a nasty shock.”  

“I’ll keep that in mind for future.” Azra leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, and Crow nearly exploded in a puff of startled smoke.  

He opened the door, and together they stepped inside. The ground floor was just a simple round hallway of a room, echoingly empty, bare stone walls curving away on either side. In front of them stood the thick circular column that held the staircase.  

It had never looked quite so…inadequate, to his eyes before.  

“Well, uh.” Crow cleared his throat, and scuffed his foot on the floorboards. He thought of soaring gold and white turrets, and beautiful crystal mosaics, and felt himself blush. “It’s no shiny palace. But it’s home.” Cheeks burning, he glanced sidelong – and found Azra just gazing at him. At him, not the room. Without looking away, the prince reached down and found his hand, twined warm fingers through one another.  

Suddenly the place didn’t look so bad.  

“It’s lovely,” Azra said with a quiet smile that Crow felt all the way to his toes.  

Crow held his hand and led him up the spiral staircase, past the kitchen, the Artifact room, the garden. Round and round they went, up and up until they finally reached the top floor. Azra was winded by the time they got up there, and had to stop and breathe for a moment.  

“My goodness. You- hah - do this how many times a day? It’s a wonder there is anything- huff - left of you.”  

Crow chuckled and lit the lanterns with a whisper of magic, wincing as he took in the brightened room. Shit. Looking at it now with fresh eyes, he wished he’d had a chance to tidy up first. The signs of his miserable week were everywhere: bed unmade with rumpled covers, hangings askew, discarded clothes draped over everything from the morning’s attempts at fashion. He hadn’t changed his clothes all week, or there would have been dirty clothes too. Small favours. Empty wine bottles littered the floor. A plate with the congealed mystery remnants of a meal sat untouched on his desk. A far cry from his usual tidy habits.  

Crow would have been embarrassed all over again, but Azra’s hand was warm.  

He sighed instead and looked at him. “Look at that. You’ve entered the lair of the beast, and you’re still alive.”  

Azra rolled his eyes and jostled him with his shoulder. “Don’t be silly, it’s perfect.” He sounded like he meant it, too, wonder of wonders. He set down the bag of picnic items and looked curiously around, turning on the spot. “I didn’t expect- it looks menacing on the outside, but it’s so cosy in here!” Azra walked over to the window, where one shutter was slightly ajar, and poked curiously at the basket of throwing rocks before peering outside. “Oh! The vines are starting to come into flower.” He reached up and touched a dark purple clematis on a dangling tendril, smiling. “How lovely it will look when they cover the whole tower.”  

“Uh huh.” Crow decided not to mention that he had been magically suppressing the flowers every season for years. The purple blooms completely ruined the sinister ambiance; he would never live it down. 

“You have quite a spectacular view.” Azra was bent forward leaning on the sill now, gazing Northwards.  

The view was pretty spectacular from back here, too. Crow caught himself staring, and quickly turned away before it could turn into ogling. His face and hands felt dangerously hot. He sat down in his chair by the fireplace and stretched out his feet, leaning back, striving to look relaxed and unconcerned. He felt like he was one drop of surreality away from levitating right out of his seat. Maybe this whole thing was just the product of delirium, or alcohol. Maybe he’d drunkenly run home from the Jezebel after all, and he was actually lying unconscious somewhere in the forest with his face in a bog again. That would make a lot more sense. He dug his fingernails into the gold-painted wood armrests to ground himself, and was rewarded with a splinter. It felt pretty real. “Ah, the view gets old after a while. Especially with troublesome Heroes and Knights always popping in through there.” 

“I still can’t believe they climb this.” Azra peered down at the tower wall in fascination. “I can see the foot marks!”  

“Heh. Yeah.”  

“Hmph. Serves them right. Very impressive that you’ve managed to keep all of them out.” 

“All but one, apparently.” A corner of his mouth twitched up into a smirk.  

Azra grinned at him over his shoulder, and Crow’s heart leapt. It leapt hard enough to punch through his chest and eject out the window when Azra walked over and took both his hands, pressed his lips to the knuckles of each one. The prince cupped his cheek and smoothed a thumb across the hollow under his eye.  

“Oh my dear. You look so tired,” he said softly. “What have you done to yourself? Are you ill?” 

“Nah, m’fine.” Crow shut his eyes. Azra’s hand was cool and inviting. “Never felt better.”  

“Mm hmm. You promised to let me help, remember? You don’t need to pretend.” The hand stroked his cheek, and Crow put his own hand over it to keep it there, turned his head to press his face into the palm. It was soft. “Go on. When is the last time you ate a proper meal? Or drank something that wasn’t fermented?”   

Crow had to think about that for a moment, eyes still shut. “Nnh. I think I had something... yesterday,” he said at last. It hadn’t seemed very important at the time. Yesterday seemed a thousand years ago. 

“Just as I thought. Stay right there.” Azra went and retrieved the bag with their food, politely ignoring the empty wine bottles he had to step over, and brought with him as well the little table that Crow used for his meals. “Before anything else today, you need to eat,” he said firmly, setting the table in front of him and laying out meat pasties, and cheese and fruit, and the bottle of cider. “If you lose any more weight you may simply vanish.”  

Azra sat on the tufted foot rest right next to him and insisted on serving them both lunch. He also forced him to drink a cup of water before opening and chilling the cider. At first Crow ate automatically, but then found to his surprise that he was actually ravenously hungry for the first time in days. He was soon racing Azra to clean his plate, who seemed equally enthusiastic. The ice-cold sparkling cider was bracing against his fevered throat, full of crisp apples with notes of sweet toffee. 

By the time he cleaned the last buttery crumbs off his fingers he felt remarkably better. He even felt brave enough to reach out and (with a gulp) put his hand atop Azra’s on the table…and Azra did not pull away, but immediately turned his hand over and laced their fingers together again, palm to palm. For a moment Crow could only sit and look at him, feeling that bright crackle flow up his arm and down into his chest. Soaking in the disorienting wonder that was Azra sitting here in his room. 

Azra seemed content to just sit there too, holding his hand, gazing at him in turn with that quiet smile on his face. “Your colour’s improved. Do you feel better?” he asked.  

“Much,” Crow replied. And it was true. The floorboards were no longer tilting beneath him, and his hands no longer trembled.  

“Good. I daresay it was my turn to take care of you a little.” Azra reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair away from Crow’s face, and his smile turned gently teasing. “Since you clearly aren’t going to take proper care of yourself, hm?” His fingers stayed there, brushing lightly up and down his cheek. 

Crow closed his eyes again, and felt his mouth quirk up into an answering smile like always. “Oh really. And who was it that had to be dragged unconscious through a forest?”  

Azra ignored the jab with dignity. He scooted his seat closer until they sat knee to knee, took his left hand between both of his own and peered anxiously into his face. “Please tell me, truly, are you alright? Any other illness or injuries you haven’t mentioned?” He was examining Crow’s hand now. “These knuckles look bruised. Did you punch someone?” 

“No, that was just an accident,” Crow assured him. “Really,” he insisted at Azra’s skeptical glance. “I’ll tell you if there’s another attack, I swear. But I didn’t hit anything animate.” He swallowed, and reluctantly added, “It’s just…been a hard week.” The admission felt strange coming from his mouth.  

“I know.” Azra traced the white scar on Crow’s wrist with a forefinger. “It has. I’m sorry, my dear.”  

“Don’t be sorry. I know it’s complicated.” 

Azra shrugged, a nonchalant jerk of his shoulders that looked so odd on him that it made Crow grin. “Not so very complicated, as it turns out. I want to keep seeing you more than I want anything else. It really is quite simple when I look at it that way.” 

Crow opened his mouth to say something clever in response, but found that all the clever things had buggered off to wherever his voice had gone earlier, and been replaced by a big lump of thorns in his throat. It was all too much to absorb. He had to swallow, and take a slow breath, and bite the inside of his cheek. He picked up his half-full cup of cider and emptied it in a slow draught to give himself a minute.  

“So what now?” he asked quietly once he could speak again.  

“I…don’t quite know.” Azra straightened and blinked around at the room as if seeing it for the first time, abruptly at a loss. “I’m afraid that I may have been...rather reckless. I didn’t actually plan beyond getting here and seeing you. I didn’t even tell anyone that I was leaving the palace, or pack anything, or… I simply sent the letter yesterday morning and immediately left; we only arrived at the inn last night. To be entirely honest…I didn’t really expect this to go very well.” 

He looked and sounded so utterly baffled that Crow burst out laughing. That look was the same expression he’d been wearing internally for the last hour, and oh, it felt good to laugh. He’d not forgotten how after all. It loosened the cluster of overwhelmed nerves that had taken up residence in his chest.  

Azra smiled sheepishly, and shook his head. “I know. I’m afraid I’m not very good at...things like this. Daring ventures.”  

“I think you’re doing great.” Crow picked up Azra’s hand and kissed it, still grinning. Somehow it helped to know that Azra felt as dumbfounded as he did. “There isn’t really a precedent, is there?”  

“I suppose not.” Azra sighed, one of his big expressive ones, and looked at Crow with large anxious eyes. “What are we going to do? I mean, I know what I’m going to do, of course, that’s simply a given, but how...first I’ve got to go back and tell Gabriel if I don’t want things to descend into a complete nightmare, my goodness, and- and you’ve got to deal with your Council, and...” He trailed off, at a loss again. “What on earth are we going to do?” he asked again. 

The question probably should have made Crow anxious as well, or at minimum solemn, but he was too busy processing that “we” and all that it implied. It filled him with ecstatic warmth from head to toe; he couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot. And Azra looked so cute when he was worried and flustered, which was definitely the wrong thing to be thinking about at the moment, but Crow couldn’t help it. The prince was just sitting there looking at him wide-eyed, with white hair mussed up like that and his silly patterned cravat all askew...in short, he looked exactly as overwhelmed and unmoored as Crow felt, if not more so. Azra had done the far harder thing, really, that first shocking step. Crow knew something of what that was like, and he felt a rush of sympathy. 

He reached out and gently brushed Azra’s soft cheek with the back of two fingers, marveling at his own boldness. Azra’s worried expression relaxed as he closed his eyes with a quiet sigh. Crow straightened the cravat, something he’d itched to do hundreds of times but only allowed himself once before, then smoothed Azra’s hair down and took his hand again.  

“We’ll figure something out. Together,” he said. “You aren’t alone for this part.” 

Azra sighed again, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Yes, you’re right, of course we don't have to figure it all out right this moment. I don’t mean to fret and put a damper on things.”  

Crow squeezed his hand. “You aren’t dampening anything.”  

“Right now I just want to enjoy being with you.” 

“Me too. In that case, right now nothing else has to exist; no Kings or Councils, or complications, or any bloody sorcerers at all for that matter. Just like usual.” 

“Oh, that sounds lovely.” Azra's eyes sparkled. “Though I would like to keep one particular sorcerer, if you don’t mind.”  

“None outside this tower, then,” Crow amended.  

“Perfect. Just us.” Azra stood and took both his hands. “In that case, come sit with me.” 

Crow stood automatically too, reminding himself to breathe. “I thought we…already were…?” His thoughts stuttered as he realised their trajectory could only have one destination. “Uh…” 

“The bed is the only place large enough for both of us,” Azra said, very reasonably, and gave him an arch look. “I’m not trying to rob you of your virtue.”  

“Mhm.” Crow dragged his thoughts away from that appealing image with a shake of his head, and let himself be pulled unresisting across the room. “Well, the joke’s on you. Sorcerers don’t have any virtue. Ask anyone.” 

“I don’t pay mind to anyone, thank you.” Azra daintily removed his boots and sat down on the bed, then scooted over and patted the seat beside him. 

“‘Course you don’t.” Crow grinned and removed his own boots, then eased onto the mattress next to him. They settled in side by side against the headboard with matching sighs of relief, and Azra promptly took his hand again. He’d barely let go of him once since Eden. He was also sitting very close... and gazing at him like that all out in the open, the way Crow had always longed to be looked at… and it suddenly struck Crow like a fist to the nethers that Azra was actually sitting in his room, on his bed, the same bed where he’d always lain there thinking about him and, er... and now fresh nerves were sprinting hysterical circles through his guts, making sweat break out on the back of his neck. His temporary calm shattered as his heart started hammering. 

For fucks sake. Don’t be such a bloody coward!  

Dare he… was he allowed…? Crow lifted an arm that shook like it had palsy, pretended to stretch…and let it settle across Azra’s shoulders with a casual cough. He peeked sideways to check his reaction, and oh shit, he was smiling. Crow immediately felt himself turn red. He quickly dropped his gaze to safer ground, to Azra’s chest instead, the gears of his mind furiously straining to turn. “Um…” he began.  

A couple more buttons of the white shirt had slipped out of their holes at the throat, above the knotted cravat, revealing another couple inches of smooth pale skin down to the hollow of his collarbone. Crow stared. He wondered what it would feel like to press his lips to that hollow. He gulped, and felt sweat break out at his temples as well. His breeches felt very warm and tight.  

Azra was still just looking at him, so close, so beautiful, eyes locked on his face and smiling contentedly away. Rubbing Crow’s hand, trailing a thumb over the white scar. He seemed to be holding together just fine. He didn’t seem to be nothing but a mess of nerves and heart palpitations crammed into human form. How completely unfair.  

Crow lifted their entwined hands and kissed the back of Azra’s to give himself a second as he cast about for something to say. “I missed you,” he said quietly at last, and that was a good choice, it felt good to say. He’d never been able to admit that before. 

Azra’s entire face lit up, far more than seemed warranted. “Really?”  

That pulled a smile out of him again. “‘Course. Did you really think I wouldn’t?” 

“Oh…I don’t know.” Azra smiled sheepishly. “I was afraid you might be so angry you wouldn’t show at all, or turn me away if you did. It was dreadful.” He dropped his gaze. “I don’t suppose- Do you think you could possibly just…hold me for a moment?”  

The shy, hesitant request melted the worst of Crow’s nerves, right along with his heart. “I think I can manage that.” It was suddenly the most natural, simple thing in the world to pull Azra in close against his chest, a warm, soft armful that immediately started healing the remaining sore places in his spirit. Azra drew up his knees towards him and slid an arm around Crow’s waist, laid his head on his shoulder with a long sigh, and Crow thought he might simply explode. No one body could possibly contain this much happiness, it was going to crack him open again and pour out into the air in glittering streams. His throat felt thick. He shut his eyes and pressed his cheek into the fluffy blond hair. Azra’s soft body molded against his own perfectly, they fit into the circle of each other’s arms in a way that felt natural and right. He could stay here like this holding him forever and never need anything more, not even another kiss…though of course that was a blatant lie; he would love another kiss. Ached for one, in fact, burned for it, but he wasn’t about to dump all his desperation on the poor man and frighten him off. 

“And I would never have turned you away,” Crow said. Azra's hair was soft as a summer breeze and smelled like sunshine. “You might recall that you once threatened to stab me, by the Wall, and that didn’t chase me off either.”  

Azra chuckled, and shifted in a little closer to him. “I would never have actually stabbed you. Ruffian though you are.” 

“I know.” Crow grinned even though he couldn’t see it. “You’re really sure you’re alright? You had me worried.”  

Azra made a soft affirmative sound. “Mhm. I confess I was...rather ill, for a couple of days after, but-”  

“What?” Crow pulled back and looked at him in alarm. “Shit, I knew it, I just knew it. I’m going to kill Hastur.” He cupped Azra’s face and smoothed back his hair again, looking for any sign of that terrible lump. “I’m going to kill him and feed the bastard to my garden as fertilizer. It won’t be much of a change, he already looks like a corpse.” 

“Crow, it’s alright.” Azra put a hand on his wrist to calm him. “Truly, my dear, I’m fine now. I promise. There’s certainly no need to kill anyone.” He paused in thought for a second. “And besides, I’m certain he would only make your poor plants sick.” 

“True,” Crow growled. “Curse it all, I should never have let you out of my sight...the witch told me to keep you warm and let you rest, and I…I…”  

“For heavens sake, it wasn’t your fault that I went running off into the cold. And it was just a bit of fever, I recovered quickly. Really.”  

Crow quit pawing at Azra’s hair and took a deep, steadying breath. He had to let out the feeling somehow, so he pressed his lips briefly to the place where the injury had been. “Okay. Okay, if you’re sure you’re alright.”  

“I am,” Azra said firmly. “Do I look addled to you?”  

Crow managed a weak chuckle. “Well...not to put too fine a point on it...you’re here, aren’t you?”  

Azra’s smile beamed out at that, dazzling. “I am,” he agreed. His hand moved from Crow’s wrist to his jaw, thumb and forefinger touching the tip of his chin. Blue eyes slid down to linger on his mouth. "I am,” he said again, quieter, and leaned across the short space to kiss him.  

Magic.  

Azra’s fingers were soft under his chin, his lips new and wonderful, and Crow’s body was no longer obeying his commands. It apparently knew what to do all on its own, though, because he was surprised to find both of his arms wrapped firmly around Azra’s shoulders again.   

Azra pulled back a little without opening his eyes. “Mm. So that’s how it’s supposed to feel,” he said with a smile, and kissed him again, harder.  

Any thoughts Crow had managed to scrape together sputtered right out as tingles exploded somewhere behind his neck and raced madly up and down his spine. This time Azra’s entire hand was cupped under his chin to hold him there, and Crow could feel every single detail: the raised calluses on the soft fingers; the dampness of the palm betraying a nervousness matching his own; the cool metal of the familiar gold ring. He could feel other things too, things that were about to make sitting here extremely awkward considering he was wearing a tucked-in shirt that did not in any way cover the front of his body, but he didn’t have the mental capacity to even worry about it let alone do anything. All his focus was on kissing Azra as that ocean of feeling poured out of him in a neverending torrent. When the kiss finally ended, seconds or hours later, he was in serious danger of forgetting his own name. 

Azra clearly wasn’t unaffected either. He drew a shaky breath and let it out, looking at him through half-closed eyes, and brushed his thumb over Crow’s lips. “I wish I had kissed you like that last week,” he whispered. 

“Ngh,” Crow supplied wittily. Speech was beyond him at the moment. His entire consciousness seemed to have leapt down into his lower body and he was fully, uncomfortably hard, straining at his breeches; they felt like they were at risk of splitting open. It had to be ridiculously obvious, he could only hope that Azra didn’t look down.  

He swallowed and cleared his throat, trying to remember how tongues worked for things as plain as talk. “We...we can just pretend that you did,” he said huskily. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.” 

Azra grinned and leaned in to kiss him again- then faltered and pulled back. He looked suddenly unsure. “Oh, I- I do hope I’m not being too forward. I don’t mean to- is it alright if I kiss you?”  

Crow blinked uncomprehendingly at him, then huffed out a long breathless chuckle.  

Azra’s cheeks had gone pink, and his ears too.  “Well, it occurs to me that I’ve been quite bold and- and I didn’t mean to presume…”  

“Um…” Crow took brief stock of their situation. Their noses were touching. They were sitting locked snugly together with arms wrapped around each other's shoulders and waists. One of the prince’s legs had somehow become draped over his own, dangerously close to his flagrant erection. Crow flexed his left hand a bit and discovered that it had crept underneath the gold doublet, gripping a handful of the shirt.  

“I think it’s safe to presume just a little,” he replied frankly. 

“I only wanted to be certain...”  

“You can be. Certain. Yeah.”  

Azra was beaming now, and obviously trying to contain it, which only made him turn redder. “Oh. Well, good then.”  

Crow arched an eyebrow at him. “Besides. Do you think I, ah, invite just anyone up here?”  

Azra rolled his eyes. “Well, one never knows with scoundrels like you. You could have all manner of men stashed away in this place,” he teased.   

Crow snorted and spoke without thinking. “Heh. Oh yeah, all my nonexistent conquests. I keep ‘em downstairs along with the unicorns and pixies from your stories.”  

Azra chuckled and opened his mouth, then paused.  

Crow frowned. “What?”   

Azra was looking at him, lips still slightly parted in surprise, and Crow could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes.  

“Wait. Really?” Azra asked. 

“Really what?”  

“Do you mean you’ve never…with anyone?” It was clear that Azra was not referring to just kissing, and Crow was abruptly mortified.  

Brilliant, just bloody brilliant. “Euhhh. Well. I- not exactly. I mean...no,” he stammered. “I haven’t even kissed anyone else before.” He didn’t mean to say it. It just slipped out, the way embarrassing things always did around Azra, and he could have bitten off his tongue. This is it. This is how I finally die. He thought his face might burst into literal flame. He dropped his eyes and pulled back a little, wishing he knew a spell to shrivel away and disappear. “You know. Not a lot of opportunity around here. Um...” He bit the inside of his cheek and looked determinedly away. The embarrassment of a dozen Council scoldings flooded his memory. Their derision had always been bad enough; the thought of Azra looking at him that way too was unbearable. 

“No, no, please don’t be embarrassed, my dear.” Azra’s hand touched his chin, turning him back to face him. His eyes were wide and entreating, not a bit of mocking to be found. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean anything by it, it’s not a point against you. I was only surprised.” 

“It’s fine.” Crow managed a half-smile. “You’d hardly be the first to think there’s something wrong with me there.” 

“Who thinks that? Nothing is wrong with you, and certainly not for that!” Azra said with indignation that was too fierce to be anything but genuine. He hesitated, then said, “It’s never gone beyond kissing, for me, either.”  

It was Crow’s turn to look at him in surprise, embarrassment fading. “Really? You’ve...never been interested in any of the people at your court?” 

“Well,” Azra muttered, and dropped his gaze. “I’m afraid I’ve always been a bit of a- a laughingstock among the court. Especially the men. No one- The only people who ever… approached me were women, years ago.” He glanced up at him with a faint, wry smile. “I tried, when I was young. It took me a while to realise why I didn’t find any of it enjoyable. And by then….” He shook his head, and put a hand over Crow’s as if afraid he would decide to be elsewhere. “I knew I’d be married off regardless of if I cared for someone, so it felt safer to simply…lock that part of myself away as tight as I could. It felt safer to never risk wanting anyone. I thought that I could avoid being hurt.” 

Crow just tightened his arm around him, speechless. That soft, sad tone made his heart hurt, but saying that he wanted to strangle the courtiers in question, and punt King Gabriel flaming from the highest turret, didn’t seem appropriate.  

 Azra squeezed his hand in return. “And I convinced myself that I wasn’t missing anything. So when you kissed me last week, I…well. A lot of things happened. It was a bit of a shock.”  

“Yeah, I did get that impression,” Crow deadpanned, then smirked as Azra jostled him with his shoulder. “I had it easier, I guess. There was never anything for me to lock away before. I never met anyone else I was interested in.”  

Azra’s cheeks went adorably pink. “…Oh,” he finally said. “Really?”  

“Really.” Crow grinned, enjoying flustering him. “Apparently I have an extremely specific type. Specifically blond princes who can do card tricks.” 

The blush deepened. “Oh. W-well, there’s certainly no shame in having, er…. And I was only surprised because you seem-” Azra stopped, and flushed unexpectedly from pink to scarlet. 

“Wait, what? Seem what?” Crow demanded. 

“Oh, I-” Azra was well and truly flustered now. “Well. I just-  I always assumed-” He shrugged helplessly and made a couple of vague awkward gestures that seemed to take in all of Crow. “You always seemed the sort who… who would always have had, er…” He swallowed, and the last words came out in an embarrassed squeak: “…an excess of offers.”  

Crow stared incredulously at him, then burst out into a true belly laugh. “An excess of- oh yeah, got them lining up, me! Throwing themselves at me in the streets and tearing at my clothes!” He subsided into chuckles before it could turn into snorts, and shook his head, still grinning. “You’ve seen my scars. I’m a lawless scoundrel that people are terrified of, remember?”  

“Even so,” Azra said with lofty dignity, still flushed. “I just thought, regardless… or perhaps the other sorcerers… I can’t imagine that no one else has noticed how handsome and dashing you are. No one could possibly be that foolish.”

He said the last with complete confidence and not a hint of irony, and the most overwhelming affection swelled in Crow’s chest. When his throat finally unclenched he pulled Azra close and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “I’m flattered. Really I am. But even if I had ever been interested in any of them, people can’t get away from me fast enough. I’m sorry to disappoint you, angel.” 

Azra was smiling now. “Oh, don’t be silly. I’m not disappointed, not in the slightest. About any of it.” He was leaned into him under his arm, looking at him with eyes that were luminous in the soft light. “And you are sweet, and kind, and undeniably lovely. By all rights you should have had them lining up.” He took a deep, slow breath. Hesitantly, as if worried he would bolt, he very deliberately moved his hand to rest on Crow’s thigh. “You have one now, if you like.” 

Crow went still as a startled deer; a wash of prickling heat sweep him from head to toe. He swallowed hard with a mouth that had gone bone dry. “I, uhhh…” He stared down at the hand on his leg. He'd gone fully, visibly hard again under his breeches the moment Azra touched him, and it was scattering his wits like leaves in a windstorm. He was suddenly acutely aware of the beat of his own heart; there was a buzzing in his ears. Surely he had misunderstood. Azra couldn’t be offering…he couldn’t possibly want…  

Crow looked back up at him, into that storm-blue gaze, and forced himself to hold it this time. “Look, I… Like I said, I’ve never…been with anyone,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”  

“I haven’t been with anyone either,” Azra replied, even quieter. “And you could never disappoint me. I don’t want to miss another moment of you.” They were close enough to kiss again; their foreheads and noses were almost touching. Crow could feel the rising heat, Azra’s breath on his lips. Something tremulous and hopeful and painfully intimate shivered in the air between them. 

“But, of course-” Azra blushed furiously again and pulled his hand back. “Of course we don’t need to- I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to overstep, I- of course I’m perfectly happy just sitting here with you, if you prefer.” 

Crow knew damned well what he would prefer. He would prefer to tear off that ridiculous doublet and put his hands on him. He wanted to know what that soft chest felt like under those layers of fine clothes, wanted to see how the opposing shapes of their bodies fit against each other with nothing at all between them, wanted to see if his skin felt as good as it looked. He wanted to hear what sounds Azra would make when he touched him. He wanted it with a desperate yearning like nothing he’d ever felt.  

Crow inhaled slowly, and realised he could smell him again: parchment, and horse, and that delicate floral cologne… Disbelief finally gave way to pent up yearning. He would prefer to have Azra put those strong, gentle hands on him, touch him, tear open his clothes and…and…  

A thousand hopeless fantasies were crashing in all at once, overwhelming, months of ruthlessly crushed feelings flooding him. His heartbeat was a hammer forge in his throat, his wrists, his tight groin. As if in a dream he touched a hand to Azra’s cheek.  

“Your skin is hot,” whispered Azra, and swallowed hard. “Are you alright?” There was a tremor in his voice. He was looking at him in fragile uncertainty, and Crow realised with a shock that Azra was worried. Just like in Eden earlier, Azra was actually worried that Crow didn’t want him, or at least like that… 

“Oh, angel,” he sighed.  

He pulled Azra into his arms and let yearning have its way. 

With a twist of strength he pulled him across his lap, held him just as he had imagined in his dreams, and kissed him with all the aching desire of his heart.

“Crow,” Azra sighed between kisses. “Crow.” He’d grabbed him at the same time and his arms were everywhere, twined tight around him, hands clutching at his clothing and pulling him down. He kissed him with such abandon that they tipped over and slid down the headboard, into the pillows piled up beside them. Azra's lips were insistent, each kiss longer and fiercer than the one before. And it was real, it was right, it was good. It was good.  

Crow moaned into Azra’s mouth, unable to help himself. A tug of his finger pulled down the cravat, baring that tantalizing place at the base of his throat, and he ducked his head to finally, finally press his lips to that hollow. The skin was even softer than it looked, and slightly dampened with sweat. He could feel the heartbeat underneath. “Azra.” He breathed the name against him with a sigh of abject relief and tore away the rest of the patterned cravat, the loose knot giving easily under his fingers to make way for his mouth. He slid his hand back up into the blond hair to hold him steady and licked him, tasted the salt on his skin, kissed his way up the side of his throat and cupped his decidedly-not-chiseled jaw as he gazed speechless, dazzled, into his eyes. They shone wide and deep as a storm-tossed sea, he was drowning in them, drowning… 

Those eyes blinked at him, glassy and startled. “Oh my dear, d- don’t look at me like that,” Azra said. “I’m just-”  

“-Soft,” Crow murmured, interrupting, and kissed him again, slower, sucking gently on his lower lip. He sighed dreamily, and stroked his cheek with the back of his fingers. “Mm. So perfectly, beautifully soft. I know, angel. I know.”  

Azra just sat there, unmoving, staring back at him with wet lips slightly parted. His pupils were blown wide, leaving only a thin ring of blue. “…Oh,” he breathed.  

He grabbed fistfuls of Crow’s shirt with a very un-Azra-like growl: “Take this thing off.”  

“H-hulvad,” Crow gasped out, throwing a wild uncontrolled burst of magic into a spell of unraveling, undoing, and all the laces on both their shirts and breeches yanked undone; the endless little buttons running down the front of the gold doublet popped open. The silk fastenings holding the bed curtains nearest them untied as well, and they suddenly found themselves in shadow as half the drapes fell closed. Azra caught at his waist and pulled up his black shirt. There was a brief frantic struggle between them, a chaotic yanking at brocade and silk, and before Crow knew what was happening they were both shirtless.  

He’d imagined undressing Azra slowly, carefully peeling away those luxurious layers, but now without warning that bare chest was right there in front of him, more perfect than he could have ever imagined: unblemished ivory-pale skin covered with a fuzz of fine white-blond hair just like his forearms. It struck Crow dumb, and he froze in place. He felt ragged and unworthy to even look; he didn’t dare touch it. He had no idea what he was doing, and how could he… how could he even think of… 

And then- oh- Azra put those perfect, scholarly hands on his scarred chest. Soft-callused fingers touched him reverently, tenderly, as if he were something precious. Eyes soft with awe, Azra smoothed both hands up his body to rest on his shoulders, then up his neck, leaving trails of tingling fire in their wake. He cupped Crow’s face with gentle fingers tangled in his stupidly red, red hair, and smiled at him. “Lovely. My lovely sorcerer.”  

The perfect shattered pieces of himself spun, not broken after all, but simply more. Crow looked into Azra’s eyes and felt that familiar devastating lurch, the rearrangement of gravity as the entire earth tilted, and this time he finally let it tip him directly into a kiss.  

Hesitation vanished in a white-hot flood. Their kisses transmuted into something open-mouthed and panting, and the world became a series of bright, all consuming flashes: Azra’s broad hands on his back. Hot, ragged breaths against skin. Soft, sweet lips against his neck, teeth grazing the shockingly tender place just below his ear and making him shudder. Sensation after exquisite sensation pouring through him, culminating in the throbbing between his legs and putting every single fantasy to shame... Crow’s arms were full of Azra, nose full of his springtime scent and clean sweat as eager fingers found that soft white hair on his chest and followed its trail all the way down, over his impossibly soft stomach. And oh, but he had been so starved for this softness, this closeness his entire life, and never realised…he never realised… He moaned and reached hungrily for more, snaked an arm around and grasped at the thick muscles of Azra’s back, feeling them shift. The prince’s skin was cool silk under Crow’s burning hands, his entire body was gently curved, cushiony softness layered over the solid frame of a habitual rider and trained swordsman. Beautiful. Beautiful.  

Azra had gasped and gone liquid in his arms at the very first touch. He moaned and arched into his hands, shifted in his lap with an unfettered delight that simply demanded. Crow panted and thrust helplessly upwards with his hips, chasing relief with raw instinct, digging the throbbing tip of himself into that softness the way he had imagined so many times, and oh, fuck... His mouth and hands were greedy too, licking, clutching Azra tighter, exploring, following the exquisite line of his back down underneath his unbuttoned breeches to grasp his plump round flank with clawed fingers. He held on to that decadent handful as he sucked rose-coloured kisses onto Azra’s soft chest and drew his firm pink nipple gently into his mouth, sucked and lapped at it with his tongue; as he ravished him with his teeth. Things he’d dreamed of for months and was now trying, one after the other with reckless abandon. He tasted the sweet curve of his upturned throat as Azra tilted his chin to give him access; dragged lips across his salty skin; sank his teeth into the tongue-slicked spot between shoulder and neck (and at the unexpected guttural moan nearly came on the spot). He ran his hand up the inside of Azra’s beautifully broad thigh towards the almost obscenely tented area straining at the unbuttoned breeches, so hard that he could see the clear outline through the fabric - 

Oh.  

Crow halted, gasping, at the very top of the inner thigh, checked himself like a rampant horse. His head was spinning.  

“D’you want me to- is this- alright?” he huffed into Azra’s neck. And by alright he meant, is it alright that I am touching you? And are you sure you actually want me? And am I doing this right?   

Azra looked at him with glazed eyes, pupils so large that there was hardly any blue left. He was trembling, colour high in his cheeks and breath coming in little excited pants. “More than alright, my dear.” He shut his eyes, took Crow’s hand between his legs and slowly, slowly guided it up. He brought it to rest atop the very top of that hard peak, gently arranging his fingers around it. A soft gasp. “Please. Touch me.”  

Crow’s heart pounded so hard that he thought he might faint; the blood was molten heat in his veins. He looked down at his shaking hand as if it belonged to someone else, and slowly, surreally, began to stroke him.  

Azra keened, a desperate hungry whine that threatened to stop Crow’s heart right in its tracks. He gently bit Azra’s soft throat and kept stroking him from base to tip, reverently feeling out the shape of him under those breeches. The beautifully hard, long, undeniably aroused shape of him, barely contained, with a spot of darker fabric at the peak where damp had soaked through. He rubbed his thumb once over that warm, wet spot. Azra moaned and rocked his hips up, rutting the tip against his hand with little breathless whimpers of pleasure. Crow moaned too and did it again, moved with him, encouraging him, letting him take what he needed. 

“Oh,” Azra said, and put a hand over his. “Oh, it’s- it’s- more, more please.”  

Crow let out an involuntary sound in response, some cross between a moan and a gasp. He slid his tongue into Azra’s mouth and bore him further down into the pile of pillows, half on top of him, twined together with one arm tight around his shoulders. His other hand was a stranger’s now, no longer shaking, boldly pushing down the brown breeches and slipping inside. He stroked fingertips up the soft, delicate skin of the inner thighs, feeling them part to make room for his hand... then wrapped his long fingers around Azra’s warm, stiff cock.  

Azra gasped. Crow stared down at him, nose to nose, and coughed out a dizzy laugh at the wonder of it all. Azra laughed, too, an incredulous sound, and reached up to slide his fingers through Crow’s unbound hair. It hung loose around his face; at some point the leather tie had been torn away. 

“Like this, angel?” Crow murmured. “Do you want me to touch you like this?” Azra felt wonderful in his hand, silky soft yet hard as a bar of iron, thick and hot enough to feel warm even against his fevered skin. His head was still whirling like he had imbibed far too much wine; he felt more marvelously drunk than he ever had in his life.  

“Yes, like that,” Azra whispered, “Oh. Like that.” He grasped handfuls of red hair and guided their lips together into a kiss, gentle and sweet, tilting his hips up to push his cock a little harder into his hand, a clear offering… 

Crow pulled Azra close against him with a growl. He gripped him firmly and began stroking him from the base up, brushed the soft give of the slick head with his thumb, feeling him twitch and moan. Exploring the sensations together.  

“Beautiful, you’re so damned beautiful,” Crow breathed. “Does this feel good?”  

In response Azra whimpered, and thrust hard into his hand, and Crow realised he had been wrong before – this was the pinnacle of his existence, and this, and now this…  

Now he was turned inside out with his heart fully ablaze, a charred ruin. Now Azra was wrapped in his arms and making those hungry noises, that expression, the ones he saw all the time in his mind’s eye during lonely nights, but now it was real, it was true, he was making them for him. Crow tore his eyes briefly away from that glory to look down at  him in his hand, and the sight was enough to steal any breath he had left: gorgeously thick and flushed red with desire, growing more so with each stroke of his fist...

“Oh-” Azra went rigid and moaned deep in his throat. Blue eyes fluttered open and locked urgently onto his. “ Crow, I’m-” He wrapped both arms around his neck. “Mmh, I- I think I’m going to-” 

“It’s okay,” Crow breathed. “Let me feel you.” He sped up, stroking faster, concentrating on the tip.  

Azra stared up at him, lips softly parted, pulling harsh gulps of air as his brow twitched, as the muscles of his face slowly contorted. And then at once his eyes clenched shut and his spine bowed.  

“Oh, fuck.” Crow gasped and held him steady as Azra arched in his arms and let out an unrestrained cry that shivered into all the intimate nooks and crannies inside. Wet pulsed over Crow’s hand, hot and shocking, while Azra shook and buried his face against his neck, voice catching on gasps, moaning Anthony in a voice that sounded like a sob. His hips jerked involuntarily, thrusting into his palm. Crow cradled Azra close against himself and stroked him through it, long slow pulls that were easier now that his hand was slick, rocking him and shuddering in secondhand pleasure. “That’s it, my prince, my angel,” he whispered in his ear, and kissed him. “Mm. I’ve got you.” He kept rubbing gently until the shaking stopped. 

He would have been content to just stay here holding him forever, blissfully mindless, but a few moments later he felt a solid arm wrap around his waist, gripping tight.  Azra pushed himself up on the other arm, holding his weight easily. In one smooth motion he rolled them over to trade places, laying Crow flat on his back and staring intently down at him from his hands and knees, still panting.  

Crow shut his eyes and resisted the sudden self-conscious urge to cover himself. He was a desperately hard and leaking mess under his own unbuttoned breeches, erection stabbing ludicrously upwards with an exquisite throb that was nearly pain. And this was a private thing, something he had never dreamed he would want to let anyone see, never mind participate in, but right now he couldn’t imagine anything that he wanted more. He was still trembling, with pent-up desire and exhilaration, and he needed … had absolutely no idea how to ask...  

A hand touched him, rested heavy and full of tantalising promise on his lower stomach. The fingers shifted a little. “My dear, can I… Let me take care of that for you? Only if you want me to…”  

Crow did. Oh, how he did. The echo of Azra’s moans thundered through his blood, and he could still feel the bright shock of the prince’s orgasm; his hand was still sticky with it. He wanted to know how it felt to be touched like that.  

He nodded, and Azra’s soft hand slipped underneath his breeches to take firm hold of him.  

“Hnnrgh.” Crow let out an involuntary choked noise and clapped his hand over his mouth.  

“Oh!” Azra let go with a gasp and clapped his hand over his own mouth. “I’m so sorry, did I-?”  

“No no, m’fine,” Crow wheezed quickly, breathless. His voice was pitched an octave or so higher than usual. He kept his hand clamped over his mouth, speaking through his fingers. “It just…um…felt really really good.” He bit his lip and stared determinedly up at the canopy, feeling his face grow red-hot. Charming.  

Azra laughed, a pure, delighted sound that bubbled out of his chest and miraculously made Crow grin too despite his embarrassment. “Oh, good. That is the idea.” He lay down against him, moved one arm up so he could hold his head. He reached back down and stroked him gentler this time, trailed his open hand up the underside of his cock from base to tip, through the fresh beads of liquid there, and Crow lost his breath again.  

“Lovely,” Azra murmured. He stroked again with the slick pad of his thumb in a slow line, eyes locked on his face. “Like this? Does that feel good?” 

Crow just gaped up at him, mouthing silently. A nearly inaudible whine escaped. He couldn’t pull in any air, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Azra. His mind was buzzing like an entire hive of bees. Those fingers on him, in his most intimate of places were…were…  

“Yes,” Azra whispered. “I think so.” There was not a hint of teasing in either his face or voice now. He kissed him with impossible tenderness, and wrapped his hand fully around him.  

And Crow forgot how to be embarrassed. He forgot how to see, to breathe, to do anything at all, because Azra was touching him, pulling slowly but steadily up his taut cock in firm strokes. It was such mind-blowing ecstasy that he could only arch his back and whimper as he writhed in place. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t be still; his body had a mind of its own and it was in thrall to that hand.  

Azra laid his warm weight atop him, pressed him into the bed with a shift of his broad shoulders and held him down, just still enough to keep going. He was stroking him with confident motions now, faster, breathing growing heavy again, and it occurred to Crow in a sudden flash of insight that the way Azra was touching him right now might be the way he touched himself, when he was alone…  

“Is this alright, my dear?” Azra asked quietly. 

This is…this is… There were no human words for what this was. There was only blind need as Crow was stripped bare with wanting. He wanted to stay here just like this, gasping and moaning on the edge forever. He wanted to come, he wanted to come in Azra’s perfect soft hand, with those fingers wrapped all around him, to let him feel it. He wanted to grab him and have his way with him all over again, make him thrash and moan and cry out his name… 

It was too much. Before he could even groan a warning, the pleasure came together in a sudden dizzying rush, and Crow thought he might leave his body entirely. Heat suddenly flared white-hot and bright under his sternum, enough to burn anything touching him, and in a panic he flung the magic blindly outward into the simplest spell he knew. Every single lantern in the room blazed thrice as high for a moment before burning out with a pop and a sputter of purple flame. “Azra,” Crow gasped, and clutched at him; “Oh, fuck, angel, fuck, fuck-” and kept trying to mouth his name as disbelief was wrung out of him, as pleasure burned his thoughts to ash and pushed the air from his lungs in a drawn-out groan through grit teeth, as he came violently in his- his lover’s hand. Harder than he had ever come before in his life, making his vision go white and his ears ring, his stomach and thigh muscles contract. He could feel hot splashes of liquid hitting his own heaving chest. 

“Oh, darling,” Azra sighed against his throat, and kissed him. “You’re so beautiful.” He didn’t balk at the mess, only kept kissing and rubbing him until the frantic bucking of Crow’s hips quieted, until the breathless gasps turned to soft sighs. Then he laid his head in the crook of his shoulder and curled up against him without a word. He slid his hand out of Crow’s breeches and let it rest flat on his stomach.  

Crow could only lie there with limbs askew and stare unseeing up at the canopy ceiling. He had heard the term starry-eyed before, but he’d always assumed it was a figure of speech. He was reconsidering that, because he was fairly certain that if he held a mirror to his face right now, it would show sparks whirling in his eyes.  

‘Darling’ was still turning giddy cartwheels around in his head, too, igniting more sparks and setting the curtains on fire. 

He lifted his arms as though in a dream and wrapped them around Azra’s shoulders. “Um,” he croaked, suddenly remembering. “Shit, the fire, did I- You were touching my chest, did I burn you?”  

“No, not at all, shhhh.”  Azra stretched up and kissed his cheek. “I’m fine.”  

They lay there holding each other, content to let the minutes unfurl in languid silence as their sated bodies relaxed, as the sweat on their skin cooled. Crow felt heavy as the earth and feather-light at the same time, and happier than he could ever remember feeling in his entire life. No, not merely happy; far stronger and richer than that. It was joy. Joy like he hadn't thought was possible, expanding through him and crowding out a desperate loneliness he had never even realised was there.  

 He drifted.  

“What’s this, here?” Crow murmured drowsily, an undetermined time later.  

The unlit room was dim and quiet now, the purple sky inching past dusk. The ravens had gathered in the darkening trees outside and had started up their usual nightly chatter, flitting from trees to tower and back as they settled in.  

They’d pulled the blankets up over themselves to stave off the growing chill. Azra still lay against his chest, and Crow had his face buried in the cloud of blond curls, breathing in the essence of him while he walked slow patterns across his back with his fingers. Tracing shapes, even writing out things he wasn’t brave enough to say. Just an excuse to touch him, really, to keep his hands on him. He didn’t think he could ever get enough.  

Among the smooth skin he’d found a raised line on his left shoulder. “Is that a scar?” He followed it lightly with one fingertip, barely touching. 

“Mmhm.” Azra wiggled a little. “That tickles.” 

“Ticklish, is it? How interesting.” Crow poked him with a finger, and grinned to feel him squirm against him. That felt very pleasant, so he used both hands to scrabble his fingers up and down his sides.  

Azra gasped and jerked. “Ah! No, no- eep - oh you- stop that you wily- ah!” He was choking on giggles and trying to swat away his hands at the same time; Crow finally relented with a chuckle and wrapped his arms back around him in a hug. 

Azra collapsed atop him and just lay there, panting. “Scoundrel,” he murmured against his chest.  

“Mhm.” Crow resumed his gentle stroking as if nothing had happened. His fingers made soft dimples in the yielding flesh. “Fine. What’s the scar from?” 

“Oh. Nothing sinister. Just one of my old mementos from the training yard.”  

“The training yard. You mean…one of your brothers did that to you.” It wasn’t really a question. 

“Years ago. You know fighting isn’t really my strength.”  

Azra said it easily, dismissively, but Crow felt a new clench of protective anger. “Hm.” He scowled and kissed the top of Azra’s head. Should’ve set Michael’s entire outfit on fire at the Ball. And maybe his hair too, see how handsome he looked with all his stupid curled hair burned off.  

 After a moment of indulging in violent fantasies he sighed and released the anger, far too happy to hold on to it. He contented himself with holding Azra a little closer. At least here he could keep him safe. Just see any of those bastards try to hurt him, ever again. He’d burn every one of them to a smoking crisp.  

“Speaking of scars. How is your arm?” Azra reached up and ran his fingers over his bicep, feeling around. “Is it still painful?”   

“Nah. All better.” Crow smiled and pushed his nose back into the blond hair, nuzzling at it. “Your healing magic took care of that.”  

“Good. You have enough scars.” Azra kissed the crossbow bolt mark on his shoulder, then a dagger wound on his lower abdomen. “I’ve never actually wanted to fight anyone until I saw these.”  

“I know they’re ugly.” 

“No, don’t be silly, they aren’t.” Azra kept kissing each one, feeling them out with first his fingers and then his mouth. “They’re part of your story. Each one is a place where you might have died, but you didn’t. You survived. You’re marvelous.” His voice turned slightly hard. “Although they never should have happened at all. No one had the right to lay a hand on you, I won’t allow it ever again.”  

Those lips and fingers were extremely distracting, not to mention the idea of Azra leaping fire-eyed to his rescue. “Um. Well, you’re welcome to lay your hands on me any time you like.” 

Azra snorted, a very un-princely sound, and bit gently at the flesh of his chest. “Scoundrel.” He kept kissing the scars, one at a time, and Crow found himself wishing he had more of them.  

A second later he groaned as Azra reached up and ran his nails through his sweaty hair, from temple to back of the head. “Ohhhhh…” Gooseprickles sprang up all over his skin; Crow groaned again and let his eyes roll shut.  

Azra chuckled, a warm sound. “Oh, my. I think I’ve found your weakness.” He kept combing his fingers through, idly massaging his scalp.  

“Hnnngh. Think you found that…’while ago,” Crow muttered dozily into his hair. “S'a little lower down…”  

Azra chuckled again, then paused. “Are you…smelling my hair?”  

“Ehhh. Maybe.” Crow inhaled again, deeper now that he didn’t have to be sneaky about it. “Mmm. You smell good. Like cologne, plus books and horses and grass,” he said with relish.   

“Oh dear. I smell like horse?”  

“Mmhmn. Just a bit. Hard not to, after riding here.”  

Azra blew out a gusty sigh. “Drat. I hadn’t exactly hoped to present myself reeking of horse sweat.”  

“You don’t reek. You smell wonderful.”  

“You have an odd idea of wonderful.” Azra was smiling, that much was clear in his voice. He combed Crow's hair back from his face again, scratching above the ears this time. 

An odd kind of wonderful. That about sums this up, all right.   

There was another silence as Crow gathered his courage.  

“You know, if you’re looking to avoid more horse sweat, you could always stay here tonight. With me, if you want,” he finally said, quietly. “I know you need to go back and take care of things, but its already dark. No one will think to look for you here, at least, so you’ll be perfectly safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Ever. He turned his head to look at him, brushed a thumb along his lower lip. “Only if you want to-” 

“Yes.” Azra’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. He twisted a strand of red hair round his finger and let it slide free. “Yes. Of course I’ll stay. I can start the ride back first thing in the morning. The rest of the world can certainly wait for one night.”  

They can wait for a bloody eternity as far as I’m concerned. Crow couldn’t manage any more words, so he simply nodded. Azra kissed him, and Crow kissed him back, and it turned out that no words were needed after all.   

There were a few logistics see to. Azra made the trek downstairs, lantern in hand, to see to Serafina’s stabling for the night. Crow made good use of the alone time by wobbling noodle-legged to his washbasin and staring into the mirror, splashing water on his face and trying to convince himself he was awake.  

This has to be a dream. An extremely wonderful, very realistic dream. Or I’ve snapped at last and gone completely, pleasantly mad.   

He decided he was fine with that, and managed to conjure enough presence of mind to clean himself up and change his breeches, to rinse his teeth and stuff a couple mint leaves into his mouth to freshen his breath. On impulse he pulled out his battered mahogany box of colognes and ran a finger through the glass bottles, chewing absently. Might as well do this properly. It wouldn’t hurt to be a little more put together when Azra came back. If he came back. Assuming he hasn’t realised the error of his ways. Assuming he hasn’t jumped right onto that horse and galloped for the horizon.   

Crow shook the thought away and selected a bottle that smelled of baked apples, a custom scent blend that he brewed himself. Hopefully Azra would appreciate it. He hurriedly applied a dab to his throat and inner wrists, combed his hair, spat out the mint leaves.  

A light rain began to patter on the roof outside, and the air had grown truly cold. That wouldn’t do. He pulled the ajar window shutter fully closed, then tossed a couple pieces of wood into the fireplace and ignited them with a snap of his fingers. A hasty scrambling around the room managed to gather up the worst of the dirty dishes, empty wine bottles, and general debris, and he chucked the whole lot directly into the waste bin in the corner, dishes and all. Several quick cleaning spells removed the worst of the various spills. Better. Another finger snap extinguished the re-lit lanterns, leaving the room pleasantly lit only by the crackling flames in the hearth. Satisfied, he finally crawled back between the silk sheets, used a quick spell to send washes of heat radiating out through the entire bed, and settled in to wait.  

For a while the rain was the only sound. All was quiet, and as he rested there picking at the coverlet he could easily believe that it had all been a dream. There was no one else in the room at all. Everything looked normal.  

Distant footsteps on the stairs. The bedroom door opened.  

Azra bustled in, slightly damp and shivering. He was also quite out of breath, and had to stand bent over puffing with hands braced on his knees. “Dratted stairs,” he commented to no one in particular.  

He pulled off his shirt again (he hadn’t bothered with the doublet, for once), folded it twice, laid it carefully over the gold and red chair, and climbed back into the canopied bed. He began scooting over to be closer to Crow, then faltered, biting his lip. “Oh. Sorry, my dear, I don’t mean to crowd you. If you like I can stay over here, give you a bit of space while you sleep…” He let the sentence trail off hopefully, just hanging there. Goosebumps had sprung up all over his bare chest and arms, little pebbled textures that would feel amazing, Crow was sure, on his tongue. 

“No, are you kidding me? Get over here right now, you’re making me cold just looking at you.”  

Azra beamed and moved over until their bodies touched. Crow looked up at him, awed by the soft curves of his chest and belly, the untidy jumble of his rain dampened hair, all aglow from the light of the fireplace. Beautiful. He didn’t want to look away, so he didn’t. He just lay there, staring openly for once, and Azra’s face slowly blushed red. But he didn’t look away, either.  

Crow held out his arms, and Azra came to him, perfectly synchronized as though they’d practiced it. Azra curled up in his embrace, wrapped his wonderful strong arms all the way around him. Their bodies fit together like a key in a lock, like hands entwining, and Crow felt all the pieces of himself click together into a brand new whole. 

“Oh. You’re like a hot stove,” Azra sighed against his chest, and kissed it. He tilted his head up and kissed him on the mouth, too, slowly. “Mmmm. Is that apples I smell?” 

“Might be.”  

“Mm. You smell wonderful.” 

“Thanks,” Crow said modestly. “I tried.”  

Azra chuckled, and wriggled in closer against him with another blissful sigh, adjusting himself to press as much of their bodies together as possible. He smelled like rain now, of cold Northern wind and petrichor.  

Crow closed the bed curtains and tugged the satin covers up over them both, wrapping them in warmth. He draped his heated feet over Azra’s cold ones, prompting another sigh. “Comfortable?” he murmured, lips brushing his cheekbone as he spoke.  

“If I get any more comfortable I’m going to die.”  

Crow laughed, a near-silent exhale. “Please don’t die.”  

“I don’t think I even could, right now.” Azra’s voice was soft, and full of the same wonder Crow felt coursing through him. “It feels rather like…I’ve leapt off a cliff. And instead of plummeting to the ground I’ve inexplicably flown.” 

They said nothing more, but lay there clinging to each other, just listening to the falling rain. They were pressed so closely together that Crow could feel Azra’s heartbeat as if it was his own, as if his heart had somehow left his body to take up residence in the other man’s chest.  

At last Azra sighed deeply, an uncomplicated and utterly happy sound. His arms relaxed, and his body slowly went slack against him. It was not long before his breathing grew deep and even, fanning Crow’s collarbone with each exhale. 

Crow remained awake. He was afraid to fall asleep and miss a single instant of the peace that had come over him, a peace beyond anything he’d ever known was possible. Part of him was convinced that if he shut his eyes the entire thing would burst, and he’d wake up all alone. So instead he just lay there cuddling his miraculous prince, listening to the steadily increasing rain and stroking Azra’s cheek with his thumb.  

So this is what it’s like to have a lover.   

None of the boasting or bragging he had ever heard had spoken of feeling someone beside you falling softly asleep, of gentle kisses after pleasure that went so much deeper than skin. The warm touch of another human body. Of hearing their breathing and knowing that there was someone in the world who desired you, wanted to be near you. And how strange, how…dangerous, that that someone should be an Empyrion prince.  

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he could begin to think again of What Came Next. But that could wait. Tonight was for the here and now. Tonight was for holding, and feeling, for learning the sound and smell and touch of him, the rhythm of his breathing, the thrum of his heart. 

Azra shifted in his sleep and snuggled a little closer into his arms. Held safe and warm just like in the Wood, only this time he’d chosen to be here. It made all the difference in the world. 

“I’ve got you, my angel,” Crow whispered. He brushed his fingers through the soft white hair and tucked the blanket a bit higher around his shoulders. As he touched his lips to Azra’s forehead there was a funny click deep inside: like when he was trying to puzzle out a new plant spell and everything suddenly fell into place, and he could feel the rightness of the magic spark and shimmer in his blood. He lay there holding his sleeping Enemy against him, and found that for the first time he could ever remember…the world made sense.  

“I love you.”   

He mouthed it inaudibly to the dark, and his entire body relaxed. 

And for the first time in days, with the hum of rain in his ears and cheek pressed into Azra’s soft hair, he fell into a deep and untroubled sleep. 

Chapter Text

Crow woke to warmth, and softness, and the completely novel feeling of not being alone.

His eyes slowly opened. He was lying on his back, in his canopied bed with the black silk curtains drawn. Morning was only a single dull grey line in the fabric, barely visible, which meant that the sun wasn’t up yet.

And…Azra. Azra was curled against him in the warm dark with arm draped heavy across his middle. Crow felt him rather than saw him: felt the comforting weight of his body and the tickle of silky curls on his chin, the soft press of belly above where Azra’s breeches had slid down his hips. The roughness of his leg hair where one calf was bared and slung over his thigh. The prince’s cheek was still pillowed in the hollow of his shoulder, and he was breathing quietly against his chest.

For a moment Crow only lay there frozen, hardly daring to even breathe. It felt so real. He could even smell him… but he’d been fooled before. It couldn’t be true. Last night couldn’t have actually happened. He waited for the vision to dissolve into nothing, like every other pleasant, useless dream, and leave him with only cold sheets and empty yearning.

The dream persisted. Azra let out a faint whistling snore and pulled him closer. He had drooled a tiny spot of damp on his chest. Dream Azras never snored or drooled.

Crow shut his eyes and let out a silent huff of laughter. A disbelieving glow was radiating outward from his center in bright expanding ripples, and he realized he was grinning wide enough to break his face. He actually had Azra here in his bed, half-naked, asleep and making cute noises against his chest...

He cautiously turned and pressed his lips to the blond head, trying to fix the moment in his mind. No matter what happened later, whatever the consequences, right now this was real. This was worth any price he had to pay. This was.... wonderful. The bed was vast and deep, even softer than usual, his many pillows piled around them to create a little cocoon. Azra’s warm plump body was the softest pillow of all. After a night cuddled together the prince smelled like apples too, under the floral-and-paper smell that seemed to always cling to his skin. Crow wondered if he himself had started to smell like Azra in turn.

It was cosy and safe under their heap of blankets; the bed curtains made a solid barrier between them and the rest of the world. Just the two of them nestled here in the darkness with the achingly beautiful memories of their night together.

At least, achingly beautiful for him. He could only hope that Azra felt the same.

Before he had time to work up too much worry over that idea, Azra stirred.

Crow’s eyes snapped open, and as his vision adjusted he could just make out that Azra had turned his face up to look at him.

“Hi.” It came out as little more than a whisper. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Azra spoke in a near-whisper too, with a sleepy smile in his voice.

Crow didn’t say anything else right away; there was something wonderful about this perfect quiet. So he just lay there with his arm around Azra, feeling the weight of him, tracing the shadowy silhouette of his face with a finger and feeling out the familiar shapes. Marveling at the fortune that had allowed him to touch this exquisite man.

“Sleep well?” he finally asked softly.

“Mm hmm. Perfectly.” There was a warm, languid shifting against Crow in the dark, and the smell of parchment and apples. Soft lips kissed his neck. “My, this is different,” Azra murmured.

“I’ll say.” There was the faintest scrape of morning stubble on Azra’s face; Crow could feel it where he rubbed against him. Fastidious as Azra was, he had never before seen him with anything but a perfectly clean shave. This tiny, intimate new detail was…precious. Crow brushed his fingers back and forth along it, along the slight silky-rough skin of his jaw. “Mm. Any regrets?”

“Of course not.” Azra looked up at him in sudden concern. “Do you-?”

“No!” Crow said hastily. “No, it was wonderful, it was-” he stopped himself before he could say too much. “Nice. It was nice, I guess.” He snickered and hugged him tighter as Azra made an indignant noise. “I just…it feels like I’m still dreaming,” he admitted.

“Still? You’ve dreamed about this?”

“Er...well, yeah. Maybe once or twice.” Or dozens of times. But who’s counting?

“Mm. So have I. And if we are dreaming, I don’t want to wake up.” Azra kissed him gently on the mouth, and Crow had a small moment of mingled exhilaration and panic.

“Mmh, hold that thought, let me-” He stuck a hand blindly through the bed curtains to the night table, groping for the little wooden bowl where he kept mint leaves, thanking fortune that he always had some close at hand. There were few things he hated more than the sour taste of morning breath, and he wasn’t about to inflict it on someone else. He stuffed a leaf in his mouth and chewed quickly. Mint burst on his tongue, cool and a little bitter.

Azra chuckled and took one out of his hand for himself, too. “Such a gentleman.”

“Nnnghk,” Crow mumbled around the leaf. “M’not.” There was no graceful way to spit out a wad of chewed up leaf, so he swallowed it down instead. “I’m no gentleman, you take that ba-”

Gentle lips covered his and cut him off. Azra slung a leg over his thighs and rolled on top of him, straddling him, and any plans to speak again vanished as blood deserted Crow’s brain in a mad downward rush.

“Shhh, darling.” The smile was back in Azra’s hushed whisper. He held Crow’s face between both hands to keep it still, and with a soft, minty sigh began kissing him slowly, carefully. And…

And, wow…it turned out that there was a distinct difference between kissing and being kissed. Or maybe that was unique to being kissed by Azra, because Crow couldn’t imagine anyone else making it feel this good. His entire body went limp as his eyes rolled back; he surrendered to total bliss and gladly let Azra have his way with him. The prince kissed him with his entire attention and entire body, kissed him like…like he was the very last bite of chocolate cake. Like slow, rich sips of warm honeyed mead, potent and heady. Like nothing else mattered in the whole world. And while Azra was kissing him, nothing else did.

There was nothing else to think about, no room for nerves, only this tiny private world full of delight, and Azra’s weight atop him, his mouth, and the shimmering corridor of heat that had sprung up between them. The quickening pound of his heart. There was only the gentle give and take of lips, a swaying back and forth in the soft warm darkness that had Crow desperately hard in a matter of moments. He slid his arms around Azra’s perfect body, let his splayed hands rest heavy on that broad back and stroke down onto the ample curve of the larger man’s backside.

Azra moaned softly against his mouth, and that sound shivered down into Crow’s belly and dragged out an answering moan. And now there was a new tension in the way Azra shifted atop him, a curve of his spine and tilting of his hips as their tongues met, and oh, all at once Crow could feel him. The hard line of Azra’s erection digging into his stomach, pressing stiff and eager through the infuriatingly solid breeches that they both still wore. Crow felt the sudden hitch in the prince's breath, the keen shuddering exhale against his lips as a spark of hot electricity leapt between them.

Crow squeezed gently, a silent permission.

Without breaking the kiss Azra began rolling his erection into him, a gentle undulating motion. Their breathing was heavy now, no longer quiet. Azra dipped his head to brush his lips over Crow’s neck, each kiss a fresh pulse of heat that blended with the tight throb in Crow’s lower abdomen, a throbbing that grew with each little push of that hardness against him...

Azra lifted himself up on his knees and reached down between their bodies, fingers groping down Crow’s stomach…and that hot pressure abruptly became an insistent tingle.

“Um… shit, I- I’m close,” Crow whispered urgently, and his face flooded with heat. “If you- mmmm...” He threw his head back into the pillow and bit his lip as hard as he could, trying to hold off the inevitable.

“If I what, darling?” Azra breathed, still touching little kisses down his jaw, hot breath wafting against the delicate skin of his throat. “If I touch you like this?” He slid his hand under the unbuttoned front flap of Crow’s breeches, wrapped soft fingers around the base of his aching cock, and pulled in one long, slow, delicious motion.

Pleasure arced through him in a silent thunderclap. “I- ahh...” Crow let out a choked open-mouthed gasp as he came helplessly, filling Azra’s hand. He felt Azra gasp too, and it made him come harder, knowing that he liked it, that he wanted this…

Crow finally went limp again, panting, and lay there with head spinning and spinning. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. “Didn’t meant to lose control so fast...”

Azra chuckled and kissed him again, and Crow could feel the smile even in the dark. "I’m certainly not complaining.” He was just a shadow lying atop him, a shadow radiating triumphant smugness like a palpable heat, the adorable bastard. His erection still pressed firmly into Crow’s middle.

Crow put a hand against his face. “Can’t leave you like that, though. Tell me what you want me to do for you. Anything.”

“Oh.” Azra hesitated. The smugness drained away, and he sounded abruptly baffled. “I…I don’t quite know. I never thought I’d get to do...any of this, with a man. And last night everything happened so fast…”

Crow touched a thumb gently to his mouth, stopping the explanations. He understood perfectly. “S’okay. I think we can figure it out.” With a twist of his torso he rolled them both over onto their sides.

Azra slid both arms around him, dug his hands under his shoulder blades to pull them chest to chest. He draped a leg over Crow’s hip and snuggled into his arms as if they were going back to sleep.

Crow sighed, and kissed the side of his neck “That’s it. Just...relax and let me take care of you.”

He closed his eyes and caressed slow paths down Azra’s sides, marveling at how smooth and flawless they were. No pitted scars, no ropy hard muscle or bumpy ribs jutting through – just a sleek thick layer that felt wonderful under his hands, unlike anyone else he’d ever seen, perfect and...soft.

Soft, yes, that was the heart of it, the heart of what he loved about him. Azra was gentle against the world, an open hand where others were a fist. It took someone extraordinary to stay that way in the face of everything and everyone around him. And it deserved equally extraordinary levels of appreciation.

Now Crow had the opportunity to show that appreciation, to treasure all the little details that he had been too overwhelmed to give proper attention last night.

He held Azra with nose pressed to that soft neck, kissing the skin while he stroked long lines up and down his back, following the supple groove of his spine with his middle finger all the way down to the dip of the lower back. “Good?” he murmured.

Azra made a small affirmative sound, and Crow stayed there for a while, in no hurry, toying with the intriguing little dimples he found. Touching the places where Azra’s torso flowed smoothly into the curves of hip and buttocks, feeling him sigh in response. He lingered at the creases in the flesh to either side of his waist, the soft padding encircling it, brushed fingers down his leg and up the tender space between his thighs. Exploring, drawing a map of his body in his mind. He cradled the back of the blond head and spent a long, luxurious moment following the longitude of Azra’s warm pulse with his tongue, from jaw down to collarbone.

“You’re incredible,” Crow mumbled against him, and bit gently at the base of his neck. Azra shivered, a cute little ripple that moved down his entire body to curl his toes.

Crow bared his teeth in a grin. “Hmm. What’s this?” You like that, eh?

“I…I’m not quite- oh…” Azra’s slightly dazed voice cut off into a gasp as Crow bit again.

That sound, and the way he quivered... Crow kissed his neck and bit again, with similar results; then again, and again, a little harder and fiercer each time, bookending each bite with a soft, slow kiss. By the fourth kiss Crow was fully hard again, and Azra was moaning and fumbling for his hand, pushing it insistently down between them, lower. He enclosed Crow’s hand with his own broad one as they took hold of his erection together. For a moment Crow could only lie there and breathe, feeling the heft and thickness of him, memorizing the shape and appreciating every tiny detail...

Azra thrust gently into his hand with a soft grunt, as if to say get on with it. It made Crow grin.

He obliged and stroked him steadily in the warm dark, slow but intense. Azra kept a hand there with him, guiding, showing him how he liked it. The only sound was of heavy breathing and soft sighs, punctuated by the occasional quiet whimper that couldn’t be held back. All was perfect and serene in the hushed dark quiet; there seemed to be an unspoken agreement not to break it. Instead they communed in that silent sweet language: a sigh as Crow touched a particularly sensitive place; a sudden grasp of his hip. An indrawn breath against his neck. A whole series of unspoken questions, and answers of yes, yes, passed back and forth between them, as Azra’s breathing grew more and more ragged.

Like this?

Just like that.

Azra finally let out a shuddering little "Ah,” and tried to roll away a bit, quickly cupped his cock against his belly with a hand to contain the mess, but Crow gently, insistently pulled him back and embraced him against his own narrow body. “S’okay. Go on.” He wanted a mess. He wanted to feel every raw and wonderful bit of this.

Azra hid his face against his shoulder and came, silent this time but for the hitching in his breath and trembling of his body. There was a lovely wet warmth between them. Crow put his fingertips in the dimples at the small of Azra’s back again and closed his eyes, soaking him in.

“What hour is it?” Azra asked suddenly.

They hadn’t moved from where they lay on their sides, still tucked against each other. Crow had drifted off again with one hand down Azra’s breeches - it was nice in there -  but at the urgency in the prince’s voice he jerked his head up groggily off the pillow. “Uhhh. Dunno.” He reached out and parted the bedcurtains a little, and they both groaned as morning light hit their unadjusted eyes like a punch to the face. “Arrrgh. Shit. Not dawn anymore.” He was startled to see that the light filtering in through the narrow windows was no longer grey and weak, but full-strength yellow sunshine. The ravens outside had begun to make their usual cheerful morning racket. How long had they been occupied? He squinted at the clock on the mantel, willing his smarting eyes to work correctly. “A little after eight.”

“Good Lord.” Azra looked at him, wide-eyed. “I...I should be getting back. It’s an entire day’s ride, and people will have noticed that I’m gone by now. There will all manner of mayhem if I simply go missing without explanation...Gabriel will send out a search party, soldiers...”

Crow groaned, and yanked the blanket up over their heads. “Ugh. And Hastur could be back this afternoon, too! That’s the last thing we need. I guess the tour will have to wait for another time.”

“A rain check, then.” Azra lay his head back on the pillow next to him and stroked his face, smiling. “There’s no sense having everything become a hullabaloo for no reason.”

“Well by all means, we can’t have a hullaballoo,” Crow deadpanned, but Azra did have a point. There were still very real threats to deal with, and there was no point in descending headfirst into complete chaos. At least not without giving the alternative a shot.

“Drat.” With an enormously resigned sigh Azra rolled out of bed and buttoned the front of his breeches shut, then quickly began gathering up his discarded clothing from where they had carelessly thrown it onto the floor. He seemed just a tad wobbly; at one point he had to put out a hand to brace himself against the wall as he straightened.

Crow pushed himself up on his elbow and watched, shamelessly enjoying the sight of him shirtless in the clear light of day. And why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t his fault that Azra looked so good without clothes on, anyone with working eyes would stare. There was that fuzz of white chest hair gleaming in the sun, running down over his softly rounded abdomen to vanish into his breeches. And there- at the base of his neck, a circle of colour blooming on the pale skin, purple as the flowers hanging outside the windows…

Azra turned with shirt in hand, and caught him staring. He blushed pink from neck to hairline, absurdly flustered considering what they had just spent the morning doing. Crow felt himself blush too but refused to drop his gaze this time. He wasn’t sure how long this reckless courage would last, so he might as well run with it.

“You look different today,” he said. It was true. Setting aside the obvious fact that he was mostly undressed, the prince had a kind of…calm? Peace? Something more than even his usual steady presence, yet familiar. Certainty, Crow realised. Azra had the quiet confidence about him that he always had when he handled his books, or interacted with his horse. His anchor points. The things he was sure of.

It looked good on him.

The pink darkened a couple rosy shades, and Azra smiled as he bent to retrieve his doublet. “You look a tad different yourself.”

Crow believed it. He didn’t feel at all like the same haggard sorcerer who had woken up yesterday. There wasn’t a mirror handy, but he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find that he had shed his whole skin like an enormous snake to reveal someone completely new.

Azra held up the white silk shirt and squinted at it.

“I may need you to clean this with magic before I go; I can’t tell if it’s dirty. Let’s have some more light.” He walked over to the window and pushed open both shutters – and a huge raven promptly swooped in right over his head.

“Good heavens!” Azra ducked and nearly fell over in surprise. “What on earth?”

The raven circled once around the room and landed on the back of Crow’s gold chair, and stood there staring imperiously at them both like some kind of dark sentinel. Another alighted on the mail perch and crrrawed, a reproachful sound. Two more hopped onto the window sill and peered curiously into the room with shiny black eyes.

“Argh, sorry, sorry, I think they want- I haven’t fed them for a while.” Crow scrambled out of bed as quickly as he could, holding up his sagging unbuttoned breeches, and hurried bow-legged to his desk.

“Oh. They can’t feed themselves?” Azra stood there clutching his shirt to his chest, but his initial alarm seemed to have faded.

“You wouldn’t think so, they way they act sometimes,” Crow muttered, and yanked open the largest bottom drawer. He withdrew a bag of full of seeds and nuts that he kept handy for the rare occasion that there were no kitchen scraps. As he did another raven flew in and landed on his bare shoulder – of all things! Something that had only happened once before in his life – and pecked at his ear with its long beak, claws digging into his skin.

“Ow! Quit it!”

The bird ignored him and pecked again. “Hold up, you little feathered shit!” Crow shouted. “Sorry, they don’t usually do this...” He hurry-shuffled to the window, bag of food held at arms length and raven still clinging stubbornly to his shoulder, pulled their feeding tray over and dumped the entire bag out into it. “There, yes, go on, you ungrateful little- ow!” Yet another raven had already landed on the tray and pecked at him when he didn’t withdraw his hand fast enough. The other ravens were already swooping out of the room, all but one: the last and largest of them seemed reluctant to leave, still sitting arrogantly on the chair as if it owned the place. Crow went over and managed to herd it out the window with a lot of hand flapping.

He shoved the hinged feeding tray out and away and slammed the shutters shut again before the rest could get ideas. Brilliant. Thank you, so much, for that charming addition to my first ever romantic experience. “Sorry. They usually aren’t such terrors, I just haven’t fed them in a while, and they’ve apparently become extremely …” He turned around.

Azra had a hand clamped over his mouth, but his hand wasn’t anywhere big enough to cover the enormous grin. His eyes were wide above it. “I’m- I’m so sorry my dear,” he said, and now Crow could hear the repressed laughter. “I only- when you said there were a lot of ravens around here I didn’t envision… Who exactly is the master of this tower?” he choked out, before dissolving into helpless giggles.

Crow scowled at him with hands on hips. The effect was no doubt lessened by the fact that he had a fuzzy black feather stuck to his bare chest. The claw marks had yet to fade from his shoulder. 

Azra only laughed harder, and sank down to sit on the bed.  

“Oh, shut it,” Crow said. He couldn’t keep his mouth from twitching into a smile. “You aren’t exactly one to talk, the way you dote over that gargantuan horse of yours.”

Azra lowered his hand. “Nonsense. I do not dote.”

He sounded so genuinely indignant that Crow had to laugh. “Right. Sugar cubes and apples every day? It’s a miracle she’ll eat anything else.” He bent and scooped up the gold doublet from the floor where it had fallen in all the commotion, then sauntered grinning over and laid it carefully across the bed next to him. “Here you go, Your Highness.”

“Not every day,” Azra muttered. He gave a dignified sniff and pulled the white silk shirt on over his head, but not before taking Crow’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist. “Blast.” He frowned down at his shirt sleeves, which were dangling open at the wrists. Crow’s spell last night had yanked the laces clean out of their holes. He awkwardly started trying to thread them one-handed. “These things are so fiddly…”

“Stop. C’mere.” Crow took him by the forearms and pulled him up to stand in front of him. “Hold out your arms.”

Azra did so, eyebrows raised. “Are you going for the role of valet now?”

“Just this once. I have a soft spot for pampered princes who can’t dress themselves.”

Crow grinned at his indignant sniff and tied up the sleeve laces, then picked up the discarded doublet and held it out while Azra slid his arms through. He settled it neatly into place and let his hands rest on the broad shoulders, feeling the firm shape of him underneath.

There was that little curl of white hair at the nape of his neck, right above the collar. In a flash Crow was reminded of that day on horseback together. Forcing himself not to look, not to think about it. But now... He swallowed down an instinctive jolt of nerves, then bent his head and lightly touched his lips to that curl, closing his eyes. Azra shifted his weight subtly to press back into him, a tiny affirmation. Crow exhaled softly, let his breath ghost warm across the skin, ruffling the hair. Little goosebumps sprang up under his lips. Azra’s skin smelled good.

Crow swallowed, and quickly stepped around to button up the front of the doublet before he could get too distracted. He slowly, carefully slipped each tiny gold button back into its proper hole, starting at the waist and working his way up towards the chest, taking his sweet time. Wrapping him back up in all those pretty layers the way he had envisioned undressing him, only in reverse, watching the brocade tug closed over the body he’d spent the morning kissing…

Azra just stood there with arms at his sides and watched him, that quiet smile playing about his mouth. From the pink blush in his cheeks he probably knew quite well what he was thinking.

Crow could feel the heat of him even through the clothes, so close, tugging at his attention. Concentrating on buttoning became a struggle as certain parts of his own body began to blush and burn. When he reached the buttons at the top of the collar and dared to meet the other man’s eyes, Azra’s smile shifted from quiet to mischievous. Without breaking eye contact he tilted his chin deliberately up and to the side, baring his throat.

Crow could have sooner flown than resist a blatant invitation like that. He leaned in to kiss Azra’s neck, right on the purple mark. Azra sighed and leaned into it. Crow kept kissing him, slower and slower as he worked at the last few buttons, staunchly resisting the urge to rip them all back open again, to scatter gold across the floorboards and tumble him back into bed… especially since the bed was right there and so very inviting... and oh shit, he shouldn’t have thought of that, because now everything south of his navel was clamoring agreement and drowning out the thinking part of his brain...

He dragged his mouth away with a slight gasp and secured the high collar firmly closed at the throat, concealing the bruise.

“There-” He had to stop and clear his own throat. “There you go, angel. You look almost respectable again.” A quick spell warmed the fabric and took care of the wrinkles. He made sure to smooth the creases out slowly with his hands, just to be thorough.

Azra had been just standing there with chin uplifted, eyes closed and a blissful expression on his face. He opened his eyes now and smiled at him. “Respectable. I doubt I’ve ever been much of that.”

Crow smirked. “Well, one of us has to be. I’m a lost cause, so it might as well be you.”

The thought sobered him, and his giddy happiness faltered as he rubbed his hands up and down Azra’s soft sides. The unwelcome real world had suddenly shouldered its way back in, and brought with it all its very real concerns. What Came Next was suddenly Right Now, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to broach the subject. What if Azra balked? It was all very well to make dramatic proclamations by moonlight and in the heat of the moment, but...things looked very different in the cold clarity of morning. Daylight might be too harsh for this fragile new madness to survive.

“What is it?” Azra had noticed his change in demeanor.

Crow dropped his eyes and kept his hands where they were, gripping handfuls of gold fabric.

“Crow. Tell me. What’s the matter?”

He jerked a shoulder. “I guess I just…keep expecting you to suddenly come to, and start screaming,” he muttered.

“Of course not.” Azra put a hand under his chin and tilted it up, made him look at him. His blue eyes were serious, and tender in a way that made Crow’s limbs go weak. “My dear, this wasn’t just some... passing fancy, or whim. I want to be with you, whatever that entails. Here, if you’ll have me.”

Crow felt a great blossoming of incredulous joy, and he had to close his eyes and rest his forehead against Azra’s. If you’ll have me. The treacherous lump in his throat was back, larger than ever, and his knees were having trouble too. He swallowed away the prickling feeling with difficulty. It took a few tries. Breathe in. And out.

“After everything you said before?” he finally rasped in a voice like gravel. His hands were clutched white-knuckled to the doublet, and he squeezed his eyes harder shut. “Just…just give up your fancy palace and tell everyone else to sod off? Just like that, just-”

“Yes, if need be,” Azra interrupted gently, and put a hand against his cheek. “I know it must seem rather sudden, but...” He went quiet for a moment. “This has been building for a long time. I felt like I was trapped, for so many years...but I don’t feel trapped anymore. I truly meant every word I said yesterday.”

Crow exhaled, and managed a nod. “So did I.”

“Hm. About that.”

Crow opened his eyes and looked at him.

Azra’s eyes twinkled now, and his cheeks turned slowly pink again. “You didn’t actually say much.”

Crow swallowed again, still fighting and losing against that damned stinging behind his eyes. “Well…yeah. But I feel the same way. I don’t care what anyone says, or-” He grasped at eloquence, missed, and gave up with a groan. “I’m just so happy with you,” he said, and felt his skin flush red hot as he grimaced. Ugh, that had sounded stupid. “Just- eughhhh, shut it-” because Azra was grinning now, clearly trying not to laugh. Crow gave himself a shake and took both the prince’s hands, gripping tight, forcing himself to focus. This was important.

“I do want to be with you, more than you can possibly- I do. It’s only that you have so much to lose, and I have so little to offer you. Look, I’m already used to trouble heaping down on me, it’s more or less my style. But you…you understand that this means trouble no matter what, don’t you? Loads of it. More trouble than you’ve ever had to deal with before.” More trouble than I could ever be worth. He peered into Azra’s eyes, searching for fear, second thoughts…

Azra nodded, looking nervous but resolute. “Yes, of course I know that. But, I seem to remember you saying something about how freedom was just figuring out what’s worth the trouble?”

Crow did remember, remembered standing on a ballroom balcony with his heart wide open, and being barely aware of what he was saying. He was stunned that Azra remembered it so well. He nodded, throat tight as a bowstring. “Yeah,” he whispered. The room had gone blurry, so he closed his eyes again.

Azra let go of his hands, reached up to cup his face and touched lips to Crow’s forehead. “You, my dear, are worth the trouble,” he said simply.

Crow exhaled, feeling weak. Soft thumbs brushed gently across his eyelashes, wiping away a wetness he hadn’t realised was there. He opened his eyes to find Azra beaming at him, a smile that could melt cold steel, a smile that held everything he had ever wanted but never once expected to see directed anywhere near himself. And like always it reached right down into him and tugged out an answering smile. He put his hands on Azra’s wrists, feeling their solid warmth. Felt the steady pulse beat under his fingertips.

“And as for what you offer, well, that’s just nonsense,” Azra said crisply. “I’ll be losing nothing of real value, not compared to what I’ll gain. No amount of trouble could be as horrid as not being able to see you anymore. After last week I can now say that for a certainty.”

Crow sniffled and chuckled weakly. “Not our best moment, was it?”

“Certainly not.” Azra took a deep breath and let it out, letting their hands slowly lower to rest in front of them, twining fingers together. “Though I do very much hope to mitigate some trouble, and prevent utter mayhem at least. I just…need a little bit of time. Time to make some arrangements, and to find a graceful way to tell Gabriel that- that I’m calling off my betrothal.” He said the last with a mix of determination and alarm, as if even he was shocked by the words. He paused and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Are you alright?” Crow asked quietly.

“Yes, yes I am.” Azra opened his eyes again and gave another huge sigh, but this time full of relief and something like awe. “That felt…absolutely wonderful to say aloud, oh my goodness. I’ve been dreading it for so long…it’s as if an enormous weight has dropped off my shoulders. It seems too good to be true.”

It felt wonderful to hear, too. Surreal, but wonderful.

“Well go on, say it again then,” Crow said, grinning.

“I’m calling off my betrothal. I’m not getting married!” Azra laughed, then shook his head in an embarrassed sort of way. “Listen to me, I sound so incredibly silly. It’s not exactly something big or brave, is it? Hardly the stuff of legend.”

Crow’s scoffed, and ducked his head to kiss Azra’s hands. "I couldn’t disagree more. You’re the bravest person I know.”

Azra turned adorably pink again. “Oh, tosh,” he muttered, but nevertheless managed to look pleased. “At any rate, Gabriel doesn’t make the formal public announcement until the Tournament nine days from now, so there’s still plenty of time. I can come up with a good way to tell him beforehand, and I’m sure I can make him understand, and, er...” He faltered and bit his lip, and his shoulders slumped a little. “Oh dear. Our people aren’t going to be reasonable about this, are they?”

"We’ll just have to make them see reason.”

Azra nodded, a determined jut to his jaw. His eyes glinted with that hint of stubborn streak. “Yes, quite. I will think of something. I know I have no right to ask for more patience from you, but-”

“Stop that. Of course you do.” Crow gently squeezed Azra’s fingers, halting their sudden anxious fidgeting. It was high time he said something useful instead of just standing here like a damp rag. “And I told you, we will think of something. Together. Just send me a letter once you get home, and we’ll come up with a plan. Together we can handle any trouble they throw at us.” He arched an eyebrow, trying to hide the flutter of nerves. “If you’re really sure about this.”

“Absolutely sure.” Azra smiled at him now, unmistakable relief in his eyes and not a glimmer of doubt. “It appears I’ve decided to live dangerously.”

Crow burst out laughing at that, his entire chest unclenching all at once. “Welcome to Apollyon, Your Holiness.”

Azra laughed too, the last traces of worry falling away, and threw his arms around his neck. He kissed him so enthusiastically that some of his recently-fastened buttons popped back open at the throat, and despite being half-strangled all of Crow’s worries dissolved into sunshine and warm lips, and there definitely wasn’t actually music playing anywhere but he heard it nonetheless. He held Azra tight and kissed him back, and kissed him some more. And maybe Azra could hear the same nonexistent music, because they finally just stood there hugging each other and swaying in place.

“I’ll be here waiting, angel,” Crow said quietly to him. “However long it takes.”

No doubt about it, I’ve gone mad. Completely, barking mad. I am in so much trouble.

Crow only grinned, behind Azra’s back where he couldn’t see, and held him tighter.

The rest of the preparations went swiftly, and soon everything was ready to go: Crow more or less clothed, Azra’s doublet mostly buttoned up and cravat re-knotted, with the Artifact sword retrieved from Crow's room and buckled securely at his waist. They decided to leave the rest of his extra clothing and books there at the tower for simplicity’s sake, “Since I’ll be back soon enough anyway,” Azra had commented, casual as anything. As if it was not the most extraordinary thing in the world, the ridiculous creature. Crow had only nodded dumbly and cleared out a drawer in his armoire, resisting the urge to slap himself awake the entire time.

“Wait.” As they reached the open door Azra stopped, then ran back to the window and pushed one shutter open. He leaned far out for a moment, reaching, then ducked back inside holding three of the purple flowers he had admired the other day. He turned and offered the makeshift bouquet to Crow with a huge smile and a slight bow. “It seems only fair that I should heel to tradition.”

Crow took it, trying not to blush. “What tradition is that?”

The smile turned mischievous, eyes creasing until they sparkled. “It’s traditional to give flowers to lovely maidens in towers.”

“Oh, you little-” Crow did blush now as he scowled and pretended to fling the flowers at him. “It’s also traditional for sorcerers to dispatch upstart Princes who invade their towers, you know.”

“You don’t seem like someone overburdened by tradition.” Azra ignored his indignant scoff and swept past him with nose held high, through the door and down the stairwell, leaving Crow to trail along in his wake.

He kept ahold of the flowers.

“Is anybody looking?” Azra asked nervously behind him.

Crow stood in the open doorway at the base of the tower, peering around at the grounds. He had insisted on scouting the tower ahead of Azra, despite his protests that he was the one with the sword that negated magic, thank you.

Now he was checking the area before they stepped outside, too, but the only thing to be seen in all directions was the wall of thorns ringing the property.

Crow spent another moment craning his neck before answering anyway, listening hard. No sign of Hastur, but you could never be too careful with that one. Listening was more reliable than looking.  There wasn’t a sound beyond the wind and rustling of treetops, the distant chirp of birds. It was a clear-skied autumn day with no sign of rain clouds yet. The ravens were sitting calm and quiet now, of course, and the territorial things were as reliable as guard dogs – they always made a fuss when anyone at all approached the grounds, even him or Hastur, so he was as certain as he could be that they were alone.

“No, we’re clear,” he confirmed. “Technically Hastur’s not due back for hours, if even today.” He squinted up at the sun. It wasn’t yet nine in the morning, but it was still too narrow a window of time for comfort. “Still...”

“Indeed. Best not dawdle.” Azra kept one hand on the sword hilt at his waist, and together they went to the paddock to retrieve his horse.

“Send me a message once you get back, will you?” Crow gingerly patted Serafina on the neck, who permitted it with regal indifference. “Just so I know you’re alright.”

Azra finished fussing with the gilded saddle buckles and turned to face him. “Yes. Of course, yes.” He took Crow’s face between his hands and beamed at him. “I promise, my dear. I won’t leave you wondering this time.”

Crow couldn’t help himself- something like gravity was already pulling at him from that smile, so he didn’t resist; he tugged Azra in by the cravat and kissed him on the mouth. Azra melted against him, wrapped his arms around his neck, and they clung to each other as tightly as they ever had.

Azra sighed against his cheek. “I’ll see you again soon. This isn’t goodbye.”

“Too right it isn’t,” Crow muttered into Azra’s hair. “Don’t make me run up there and kidnap you. I don’t exactly have the best luck with that sort of thing.”

Azra kissed him once more, then let him go and quickly mounted up onto Serafina, who had stood there watching the entire proceedings with what could only be described as a skeptical expression. Crow used the password to open a passageway through the thorns and went through first, keeping a sharp eye out in all directions for anyone outside. Nothing.

Azra reached down and clasped his hand one last time, smiling, then urged Serafina into a trot across the stretch of open space towards the Wood. Crow just stood there, hand still tingling, the warmth and smell of him still fading from his skin. Holding his flowers and watching him go with a foolish smile. He watched until the white horse had vanished safe into the autumn-bright trees and truly out of sight, and for a good while after.

Utterly, howling-at-the-moon, hopelessly mad.

“Ha!” Crow let out a whoop and flung both arms upwards, startling a nearby perched raven into the air in an explosion of screeching black feathers. He ran his free hand through his hair and blew out a long, long breath. When he didn’t wake up, or come to, or experience any other shift of reality, he turned and opened the hedge again, sauntered back through with a spring in his step, whistling a jaunty tune.

Back upstairs in his room, he threw himself into his chair in front of the hearth and brooded there for a while, running the purple flowers up and down the bridge of his nose and thinking hard.

The first thing to do, without question, was to get rid of Hastur. That was a liability he could no longer afford, risky or not, tradition and ire of the Council be damned. The nosy bastards would just have to find a new way to spy on him if they were really so inclined.

And once Hastur was gone, and Azra was casually dressed and…living here (Crow cast an incredulous glance over at the still-open armoire, just to reassure himself that he hadn’t imagined it)….then who was to know Azra was a Prince, or a Northlander at all? Hastur was the only person who had ever seen Azra’s face in that capacity, and Hastur certainly wouldn’t be hauling his shriveled arse all the way back up here from Pandemonium for a social visit. No love lost between them.

If anyone ever noticed anything from way down there, or bothered to ask at all, he could simply inform the Council that he had finally taken up with a partner. And fuck knew there was nothing remarkable about that; every sorcerer in Pandemonium did, after all. Lord Dagon himself lived with four of them. They’d probably even consider it a step up towards normalcy, for Crow, even if they did still harp and whinge on about an Heir.

Yeah. Bloody hell, it really could work.

He abruptly had too much excited energy to sit down. He needed to do something, to move, or he was going to simply explode. He catapulted himself out of his chair and made a beeline for the door- only to immediately wheel back as he realised he was still holding the purple flowers. There were no decorative vases in the tower, but he commandeered a water glass and placed the flowers on his desk where he could see them clearly. Then turned the glass a little to show them off better. With a satisfied nod he finally turned and hurried out the door, taking the steps four at a time the way he had when he was young: with hands braced on the stone walls to swing his legs down in great leaps.  

In the third floor kitchen was an innocuous-looking Artifact, a large stone crock that kept its interior winter-cold at all times. Currently it contained an entire chicken’s worth of raw cuttings. Crow grabbed it and ran back upstairs, flung open the window on the very surprised ravens and dumped the whole thing into their feeder. “Oi!” he hollered.

It only took the birds a moment or two to realise that something especially good was in the offering today. They descended in a screeching cloud, tussling over the best bits. Crow poured himself a large goblet of wine and leaned on the windowsill to watch the mayhem.

For the next couple hours he amused himself by drinking, watching the birds, and reliving the morning in his head. And then the night before. Over and over again, from every possible angle,  until he stopped doubting that it had all really happened. By chance he discovered a small crescent-shaped bruise on the right side of his chest that definitely hadn’t been there when he woke up yesterday, and that fascinating detail had him pulling up his shirt and prodding around at himself for any other momentos. He found two.

How about that.

He leaned back against the windowsill with a cocky grin, and started idly planning out new furniture for the bedroom, debating the merits of an extra armoire versus a chest of drawers. He could always commission the local carpenter to make something special, he mused; maybe it could be done before Azra came back, as a surprise.

Still grinning, he finally picked up the empty crock and trotted back down the stairs to the kitchen, round and round – and nearly ran facefirst into Hastur.

“Aaargh!” Crow caught at a niche in the rough stone with one hand and managed to stop his headlong momentum at the very last second, barely keeping his grip on the jar instead of shattering it all over the stairwell. “Shit! Oh, it’s you.” He steadied himself against the wall, panting. Was it that late already? The time had flown.

The hunched old man was standing on the third floor landing in front of the kitchen, holding a large sack of foodstuffs in knobbled hands, glaring keenly at him with those unsettling black eyes. It was always glaring, nowadays. Shit, the unexpected sight of him was like having his privates dipped in icewater.

“Uh…afternoon.” Crow straightened up and blew his hair out of his face, trying to get his galloping pulse under control. “Ahem. Been back long?”

“Just got in.”  Hastur’s black eyes looked him up and down, and Crow felt his face begin to burn. He was acutely aware of how he looked: rumpled shirt unlaced, with disheveled hair and half-unbuttoned breeches threatening to slide off his hips. It wasn’t much different than how he usually looked after rising late when he had nothing else to do, but today he could still taste Azra on his tongue and lips, his skin was still warm from his kisses.

Hastur’s eyes finally settled on the empty pot he held.

Crow shifted the large heavy jar awkwardly to his other hip, and licked his lips. “Uh. Just feeding the birds.” 

Hastur put out an arm to block him as Crow tried to push past into the kitchen. His thin lips were pressed tight together, black eyes narrow and suspicious. “I noticed fresh hoofprints when I came in.”

Shit. Shitshitshit. The nosy old bat. Decrepit he may be, but he was not yet senile.

Much like the Council, Hastur had always felt like an extension of Father’s authority; it made it intimidating to lie to him even about small things, even as a grown man. Crow hated that, but there was nothing for it but to bravado his way through. 

He stared Hastur down in turn and raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And you’ve never had visitors before.”

“It wasn’t a visitor,” Crow said shortly. He pushed past him and set the crock on the counter with a sigh of relief, picked up a rag and busied himself with cleaning it. That was usually Hastur’s job, but he needed something to do. “Had an attacker yesterday, another woodsman. He managed to hack through and ride his horse in here. He wasn’t wearing any armor, so there was nothing salvageable, unfortunately. But I was at least able to sell the horse off to the hostler in town, kept things simple.”

Crow could still feel the burn of Azra’s hands on him like a brand. It made the lie feel even more brazen than it was. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. 

Living dangerously, indeed.

And speaking of dangerous… There was no point in putting this off. If he lost momentum he might also lose his nerve. Crow paused, and took a deep breath.

“But since you’re here, we need to have a discussion.” He tossed down the cloth, folded his arms across his chest and turned to face Hastur squarely. He paused for a long moment, trying to think how to word things and irritated at how his heart had started hammering. 

“I think we can both agree that while we've had a good run of it, this... arrangement-” he gestured between the two of them “-has run its course. Father’s been gone for years, after all, and we’re overdue for a change. I’ve decided that it is time for us to part ways.”

Hastur didn’t move. Then his black eyes blinked, and he finally stirred. “You’re…firing me?” he said incredulously.

Crow pursed his lips. “Euhhh, not firing, simply... moving on, for both of us. Retirement, as it were. I’m plenty able to manage my affairs on my own, and there’s no real need for a manservant in a place like this. Not exactly a manor house, is it? And I’m sure the stairs are a bit much for a man your age. Whatever age that is. Surely you’d be happier in Pandemonium anyway, what with family there and all.”

Hastur just stood there, glaring.

Fine, then. Crow set his jaw and bulled ahead. “There’s always sorcerer families in the Capital looking for good hired help, if you’re set on still working. I’ll send you off with several months wages to get you settled; you can take it from whatever you sold at the Market. I’d send a letter of reference too, but I think we both know that it wouldn’t do much good coming from me. You can take what time you need to make arrangements.”

Hastur grunted, and finally spoke. “No need, sir. I’ll take my things and leave tomorrow; I have lodging at my cousin’s.”

Crow gave a curt nod, then turned and picked up the rag, resumed scrubbing at the jar. “Very well. All the better then.”

Once Hastur had deposited his sack of goods in the kitchen and shuffled resentfully off down the stairs, Crow stopped pretending to scrub and let out a long, slow, breath. He rubbed the sweat off his brow with a sleeve, letting it rub away the tension as well. All those years, and just like that. The relief was incredible. He felt abruptly rather foolish about his apprehension. What exactly had he expected to happen - for Hastur to refuse and barricade himself into his room?

I should have worked up the courage a decade ago. 

He felt his grin bubble up again, the giddiness of earlier swiftly reasserting itself. Tomorrow. After tomorrow he would be free, and then life could really begin. 

Chapter Text

My Dearest Crow-   

As you can see, I’ve arrived all in one piece, if somewhat harried. Ever since I set foot in the palace yesterday people have been flapping at me constantly about one thing or another, never giving me a moment’s peace! Even as I write this there is yet another knock at my door, so I must be swift.   

If you can believe it, my absence was only noted during the last day of it. Fortunate, really, but I feel slightly insulted!  

I’ve already begun packing up my books, and the hardest part is deciding which ones to bring and which to leave behind. Alas, if I don't show some restraint your tower would be overflowing with nothing but books, and then there’d be no room for us at all.   

I miss you terribly. I must go for now, but I’ll let you know the very moment I have any ideas, or progress to report!   

With all my affection,   

Crow lifted his head from the letter and exhaled in relief, letting the tension flow out of his body. 

All day waiting for that stupid pigeon, for a sign that Azra was safe, and now he could finally relax a bit. He’d been a vibrating mass of alternating ecstasy and nerves ever since Azra left yesterday. 

He'd tried taking all that energy out on his flowers...which hadn't been as effective a distraction as he'd hoped. The colour yellow had slowly but surely come to dominate his garden over the last couple of months, entirely by accident of course, and everywhere he looked all he saw was Azra. He’d stalked nervously through the rows of bright yellow roses, the golden tulips, the lemon-hued petunias and newly-added clay pots of daffodils, warning them in no uncertain terms that just because someone especially nice and easily impressed was coming to stay, that didn’t mean that they could all start slacking off.

Everything was so bloody cheery-looking that he'd quickly given up. It was like trying to threaten a room full of sunbeams. 

He'd spent time perusing his Artifact room instead, musing over which ones he could sell for a good price to raise a bit of extra money. It would be a bit trickier without Hastur to go hawk the items, but there was always a buyer’s market for Artifacts among the wealthy. Someone was bound to want those danger-glowing necklaces, for example, or the cloak that billowed dramatically all on its own without the need for wind. He would want that himself if it hadn’t been such an unfortunate shade of orange. It wouldn't hurt to offload some of the more unsettling items too; perhaps the creepy suit of armour could go, and the breadbox, and that clear glass ball that flickered warningly red whenever anyone came too close. Damned weird sorcerers. 

Through it all part of him had constantly been waiting for the other boot to drop: for Azra to be waylaid by bandits on the road, or struck by lightning, or for the letter to arrive and say "I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve made a dreadful mistake..."

But no. All was, miraculously, well. Crow lounged against the windowsill with another huge sigh and read the letter over again, slower, this time simply to enjoy hearing Azra’s voice. It made him smile, as it always had: the precise rows of neat handwriting in deep blue ink, and the signature with the little twirl on the A. It wasn’t as good as seeing Azra in person, but in the absence of that it still felt like a piece of sunlight on his face. It was a welcome thing on a grey day that had not once stopped drizzling outside.  

It had started raining at the crack of dawn, which Crow had actually been awake to see because that was when Hastur had left as well. As promised, the old man had packed his minimal belongings the evening before and left via hired carriage first thing today, apparently as eager to be rid of him as Crow was to be rid of Hastur. Crow had come out to see him off, and watched the black carriage clatter away down the unpaved road with an enormous sense of relief and only the smallest pinch of guilt. Doubtless there would be a black-sealed letter from the Council flapping his way soon enough to chastise him, but he could deal with that when it came.  

The first thing he’d done after Hastur’s departure was march right over and change the password to the hedge.

And with that, for the first time in his life, the tower was truly his, and his alone. It was the most incredible feeling, even if it did also feel rather empty without Azra. The prince had spent only a single night here, yet he’d already infected the entire place with his spirit; Crow could feel his absence, a hollow space where he had been. As if he'd become a vital part of the stones themselves. However did he do that? Azra had a unique magic all his own, that was the only explanation. 

That emptiness wouldn’t last long, though, if it was all to be believed. And Crow finally did believe it, mostly; he didn’t doubt Azra’s word, but it still wouldn’t feel truly real until he could see him again, hold him and reassure himself that he was safely...home. 

He couldn't see him yet, but at least he could write back.  

Crow plopped himself down at his desk, grinning, and pulled a sheet of fine white writing paper (that Azra had gifted him) and raven-feather quill towards himself. He dipped the quill, humming.  

Azra, he began, as he always had-  

-and stopped, quill poised above the page. His grin faltered.  

It suddenly occurred to him that he should probably write it differently, now. Sure, he’d written dozens of letters to Azra before, but those were all before. Now that they were lovers…he was fairly certain that this would be considered a love letter.  

The very thought immediately made him break into a sweat, and he stared down at the mostly-blank paper in open dismay. He didn’t have the slightest clue how to write a love letter. What the hell was he supposed to write? A poem? Was that the proper thing to do? Oh, fuck, would Azra expect that now? Shit, maybe he would; people always wrote elaborate, flowery love poems in all the plays and stories, perfectly worded lines that bared the soul and made music of one’s emotions. That idea made Crow sweat even harder, and he rubbed his damp palm along the leg of his breeches. No, ugh no. Writing poetry was for people with more feelings than common sense. He had no experience writing poetry either, and surely bad poetry was infinitely worse than no poetry at all. With his luck, any tortured verse he cranked out would have the opposite of intended effect and make Azra reconsider his life choices.  

Something in between, then. Something that made clear he cared about Azra, yet did not unleash an entire tidal wave of feeling upon him too soon.

Crow sat stumped for a bit with chin propped on his fist, glaring at the purple flowers in their glass on his desk, hoping to intimidate them into giving him inspiration. None came.  

Something stronger, then. He pulled the trusty decanter of red wine towards him and poured a goblet, to fortify himself. He quickly downed the first one, and when no fortification was immediately forthcoming he poured another.  

The words wouldn’t come. He growled and ran his free hand through his hair. Where do people learn to do these things? Clearly he had been reading entirely the wrong sort of books all his life, because at the moment he felt it might be easier to swallow the entire tower stone by stone than to put what he was feeling into the right words. He rubbed a hand across his face and groaned, staring one-eyed down at the paper. Did people just…say exactly how they felt? Did anyone actually do that? Now that was living dangerously!  

He realised his quill tip had long since dried while he just sat here, and he cursed. He quickly trimmed it with a little silver knife and dipped the quill back into the inkwell. Out with it, then. Once he began surely it would get easier, like molasses running downhill. Momentum. Momentum was what he needed, yeah. He took another determined swig of wine, set his jaw, and began to write:  

My Dearest Azra-   

He stopped, and stared at it. The words seemed to bore into his eyes, taunting. Perfect opening…if you want to frighten him screaming away. Sure, Azra had written that, but that was Azra. Just because he said things like that didn’t mean it was automatically alright for Crow to say them. Did it?  

He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. Best to scale it back a bit to be safe. He took another gulp of wine, obtained a fresh sheet, and tried again: 

Dear Azra, I had the most wonderful time with you yesterday-  

Cringe. “Ugh. ‘And mayhap next time, Your Lordship could join me for biscuits and a nice cup of tea before intimate relations!’” He scratched out the sentence with a sharp jerk of the quill, then groaned and bent over until his forehead thumped against the desk.  

“I,” he muttered to the scarred wooden surface, “am bad at this.” The desk had no reply. 

That paper joined its fellow on the floor, soon followed by an avalanche of others.  

Dearest Azra, I hope you are doing well,   

Azra- I was hoping that 

Dear Azra, how are you? I am fine…  

And so forth.  

A not-insignificant amount of ink, wine, and sweat later found Crow sitting in the wreckage of his romantic aspirations, hair clenched in hand. His fingers holding the quill were spattered with black ink, as was his hair, and he had another smudge streaked high across his nose and one cheekbone like a battle wound. All told, there was considerably more ink on him than on the paper, and more wine inside him than in the decanter. The quill was considerably shorter. He was more than a little tipsy. Crumpled up bits of paper were scattered all across the desk’s pockmarked surface and on the floor behind him. Some were burned.  

He squinted blurrily at the page in front of him. It was the last page he had, so it bloody well had to be good.  

Dear Azra,  

I’m so glad that you’re safe. I can breathe easier now, though it's  too quiet around here without you.

Good news, though: Hastur is gone- yes, I fired him at long, long last. Honestly, it was a lot easier than I expected and I wish I had done it years ago. At least you no longer need to worry about being cracked over the head when you do come here, so with that my ability to be a good host has improved. That, and the fresh chocolate cake I’m going to bake tomorrow. Yes, I'm trying to tempt you.   

As for your books, restraint is overrated. Bring as many as you like, and if need be we can fill the lower six floors to the brim.   

I miss you too and can’t wait to see you again. Be careful and hurry back, angel. I’ll be waiting.   

The last lines still made him instinctively sweat and cringe. So much candor still felt risky… but he was at a loss to do better. Clearly, he was not cut out for this. If he had known he would be trying to woo a prince he would have just kidnapped a wandering Bard ages ago, and kept him captive for this sort of thing.   

But now a new conundrum presented itself: How ought he to sign the letter? Simply ‘Crow’ now felt too curt. Not ‘Love,’ surely, regardless what he might feel. ‘Truly yours?’ Ugh. Mortifying.  

He glared down at the page a moment longer, then belligerently scribbled “Always,” and signed his name. He quickly rolled the letter up before he could second guess himself. He attached it to the white pigeon’s leg, who had been just waiting resignedly on the perch the entire time, then without preamble tossed the bird out the window into the light rain before he could change his mind. It let out an indignant squawk that sounded like an expletive, and then it was flapping its way through the rain out across the treetops.  

Crow nudged the castoff letters into the fireplace and set them alight with a thought, then spent a few useful minutes pacing the floor and glancing out at the grey sky.  

Relax, you idiot. It will be hours before he gets it, if even today. You aren’t going to see a response soaring towards you tonight. If ever. If it wasn’t far too clingy. Shit. I shouldn’t have left that line in!   

He resisted the impulse to fling himself out the window after the bird. Or possibly just fling himself out the window.  

He flung himself onto his bed instead, and lay there splayed out spreadeagle on his back, fully aware that he was making a complete prat of himself and completely unable to help it. Sometimes having a vivid imagination was a massive waste of energy.  

His bed felt far too large and cold and empty, but… Crow grabbed a handful of sheets and held it to his face, inhaling. Yes, it still smelled like Azra, just a tiny bit. That gave him an idea, and he went to the armoire to retrieve one of Azra’s spare shirts. Now that smelled like him, smelled of parchment and flowers so strongly that Crow could almost believe he was here. He lay back down, and the bed was suddenly warm and soft as well. He could almost feel himself sink an extra inch down. Crow closed his eyes and smiled. 

He lay there stretched out on his back with one arm flung above his head and Azra’s shirt pressed to his nose, remembering those perfect soft hands, how it felt when they touched him just so. The sounds Azra had made when Crow put his mouth on him. The taste of his skin and the way he had stiffened in his hand as he wrapped fingers around him and stroked... 

And Crow found that he had a use for his imagination today after all, a much better, more pleasurable use than fretting over letters.  The second half of that rainy afternoon passed much quicker than the first.  

Silky red hair running through my fingers...   

Azra shifted his hands in his lap, smoothing a fingertip idly over the cool silk of his sleeve, feeling an echo of those tresses in the texture.  

He sat in his usual spot at the library bay window, book of poetry held lax in his lap. It had taken him all morning to creep away from his duties, and now that he was finally alone he hadn’t actually done a lick of reading; he just sat gazing out over the rainy sea and smiling to himself. Remembering. Watching raindrops trickle down the glass, turned molten gold in the reflected light of the sconces.  

Eyes like warm honey…   

Warm, and full of an intensity that had captivated him the very first time he had ever seen them. Beautiful beyond compare. And that lovely arched nose framed by high cheekbones…Azra wanted to kiss each feature over and over again until Crow loved them as much as he did.

And Crow's hands, goodness... Those long, elegant fingers that so easily produced magic had also been quite deft at other things.   

“What has you in such a good mood?”  

“Hm?” Azra blinked, and was startled to find Michael standing right in front of him. Oh. How long had he been there? He cleared his throat and crossed his right leg over the other. “Oh. I beg your pardon?”  

Michael had his arms folded, and was eyeing him disapprovingly. “You’ve just been humming and smiling all over the palace these past couple days. Are you addled from your illness?”  

Azra supposed he had been rather distracted. He’d weathered the storm of questions about where he’d been with nothing more than a smile and a vague “Oh, you know, here and there about town, you know how it is when you’re having a good time!” In the end his brothers had given up and concluded that he had simply lost track of time, and spent an entire day swanning about at the local marketplace with his silly head lost in piles of dusty books. Ridiculously obtuse of them, but that was his brothers for you. They couldn’t fathom a world where their little brother pulled the wool over their eyes, and for once Azra was happy to be underestimated.  

But who could blame him for being distracted? He was not going to be married to Urielle after all, he was going to go stay with his beautiful sorcerer and never let him go, and the future simply could not get any more heavenly than that.  

Fever-warm skin against my lips…   

Azra pulled himself back into the present with a little shake of his head. He fussed at his ruffled sleeve cuffs, wet his lips with his tongue while he collected his thoughts. “Oh. Of course not, quite the contrary. I’m finally feeling well again; you know how it is when you’ve been ill. I also found an excellent book at the market the other day, the food has been particularly good lately, the weather is nice…” He glanced outside, where the dreary rain was still falling. “…er, usually. All is just ship shape with the world at the moment.” He smiled and absently put a hand to the side of his neck, where that scandalous purple mark was hiding in plain sight under his shirt.  

Michael regarded him skeptically. It was quite a familiar look, the look of what nonsense is our eccentric little brother up to now?   

For once Azra simply didn’t care. He just sat there, hands folded on his knee and smiling dreamily up at him, until Michael finally became uncomfortable and went away.  

Good riddance. Azra resumed gazing out the window. He also uncrossed his legs, because covering that up had been growing awkward.   

It was a shockingly heady feeling, this new sense of courage, of not caring about what his brothers thought. Almost as shocking as knowing that he was about to upend his entire life, but if anyone was worth that, it was Crow. It brought a wonderful crystal clarity to a world that had seemed so muddled before. Must not had suddenly become why not, and oh, that freedom was glorious. 

He held on to that feeling every time he felt a shiver of anxiety at what he had to do next.  

The previous week he had indeed met with Gabriel once he rose from his sick bed, the day before his mad dash South. If one could really call it a meeting when he just sat there while Gabriel talked at him, pontificating on and on about the fantastic addition to their treasury and the great tracts of land they would be receiving from the marriage alliance. As if Azra cared one fig about any of that. The king had decided to set the wedding to Lady Urielle for four months hence – an improperly hurried timeline for a royal engagement, to be sure, but then Gabriel was in something of an improper hurry, wasn’t he? Those coffers weren’t going to rebuild themselves, not with his brothers’ habit of buying every expensive Artifact and gilded bauble that passed under their noses, for both themselves and their wives. And mistresses. Azra rolled his eyes at the thought.  

They were certainly not going to be pleased to learn that he would not, in fact, be helping them offset those expenses after all. Or attending the Tournament, which was sure to invite questions from the guests.  

Ah, the Tournament of Kings. Yet another event that he would be more than glad to leave behind forever. Every five years, all five of the Empyrion royal families gathered together into one castle for a week of feasting, festivities, and of course...tournaments. Boxing, swordwork, jousting, spear throwing – all the staple sports of Empyrion noble society, and all the things that Azra so dreaded. Every single member of each family was expected to participate, with their respective courts and retinues placing bets and drinking themselves to oblivion the entire time. Over the years this lovely event had furnished Azra with some of his most embarrassing memories.  

No, he would not miss any of that once he had left.  

But he couldn't leave, not until he had what was sure to be a very unpleasant conversation with Gabriel. And he would, just as soon as he found a way to break the news to him that would not cause too much turmoil. They were all adults, after all. Surely they could come to some kind of calm, rational understanding. There must be a way, he was quite certain of it, but it was eluding him at the moment. 

But it was hard to be too anxious about that, or anything at all, having come just a couple mornings ago from Crow’s arms. And his bed.  

Lean corded muscle under my hands. Azra closed his eyes again, remembering. It still felt like a dream. A lovely, impossible dream.  

And oh, that wicked mouth of Crow’s. It sent a pleasant jolt through all the expected places just thinking about it, rippled goosebumps down his back and made him shift his shoulders in indulgent delight. His hand crept up to his neck again, slid fingers under his collar to touch the place that was still every so slightly sore. Crow’s mouth had been a surprising mix of fierce and tender that spun his head. Even in the moments he had allowed himself to imagine before, Azra certainly could not have anticipated the marvelous, feverish hot taste of him. The slight coarseness of Crow's firm jaw against skin as he devoured Azra’s mouth, and neck, and chest. He would very much like to feel that mouth on other places as well. Crow had kissed him like…  

Like he’s been dying to all his life. Like something out of a play. Like I’m something precious and rare.  

Azra sighed and leaned against the window, feeling that powerful joy swell through him.  

Crow made anything at all seem possible. And every time he left, a piece of that courage stayed with him like a bite of warm sweet pudding on a cold day.  

When his personal butler knocked smartly on his bedroom door that afternoon, Azra’s heart nearly bruised the inside of his ribs to see the black-sealed letter sitting on the silver tray. The butler, a dour, rail-thin gentleman with the most spectacular posture he’d ever seen, offered it to him expressionlessly. Azra managed to take it with nothing but a calm princely nod of thanks, then quickly shut the door and locked it. He sat down at his scrolled writing desk and eagerly unrolled the letter, fingers fumbling a bit in his haste.  

A minute later he was grinning and pressing the paper to his chest as if to absorb it, eyes closed. His ridiculous sorcerer. How he loved him. The powerful simplicity of it all stole his breath, sustained him. I love Crow. What a strange and giddy thing, to admit that so freely to himself after so long trying to lock it away. Like a kettle with the lid clamped down it had only gained pressure, and now it felt large and strong enough to burst through steel.  

With Crow he was not a faded man at all. With Crow he felt simultaneously born anew and more himself than he ever had before, as if all the chaff had been burnt off to reveal his purest self. It made him feel fearless and daring, bordering on reckless, in a way he could never have imagined six months ago. 

He’d taken that first heart-stopping leap off the precipice, and found that he had wings all along. 

Not that he could say any of that to Crow just yet, he reminded himself. Because of course that would be too much too soon. He did not want to ruin this by being too much. He would have to give Crow time, time to catch up. He didn’t want to dump all of this excessive feeling on him too quickly and frighten him off.  

He opened the letter again and re-read that last bit, the part where Crow said he couldn’t wait to see him. Smiling dreamily again, his eyes drifted upwards and latched onto the second paragraph. That dreadful old man, gone. He had only a single fuzzy memory of that man swinging a pipe at his head, but it was still enough to make him shudder. But at least Crow was all alone in his tower now, one step safer. The primary hold up was now...well. Himself.  

The thought made him frown. Crow had already taken concrete steps to solving their problems while he, Azra, just sat here in his palace, mooning away and uselessly fretting about timing. For what, exactly? The situation wasn't going to change.  

His spine straightened, and he braced both feet on the floor. That new boldness stirred. Hadn’t Crow waited long enough? And surely, the longer he waited to say anything the harder his... defection would be, on everyone around him. Especially his family, and despite everything he still felt a sharp twinge of guilt about that. The courteous, graceful thing to do was to break it to Gabriel as soon as possible, to give him time to adjust and send messages to the Elysian king long before the Tournament, to help him save face. And besides, the sooner he told him, the sooner he could see Crow again.  

Simple, really. He had only to march right in there and say...what exactly could he say? Hello Gabriel, nice weather isn't it? Small thing, but I just thought you should know that I will be popping off for a bit, forever actually, and by the way you won’t need to fuss about any wedding, or even announce it, because I am in love with a sorcerer and have no intention of marrying Lady Urielle after all...   

He winced. Oh dear.   

But surely, at least, there was no need to mention who he was in love with, or mention sorcerers at all. That was not one whit of anyone's business, in any case, and it would only give everyone heart palpitations and cause an uproar. No. They did not need to know about the sorcerer part. Best to omit that.  

No time like the present, is there?   

His resolve hardened. He stood, and told himself that the flutter in his stomach was simply due to hunger. Crow would surely not be nervous about something like this. Crow had endured far worse for his sake without complaint or cowering. He was owed nothing less in return.  

Azra tugged his doublet firmly into place, raised his chin and straightened his cravat with a few determined yanks, as if cinching up plate armour.  

Yes. It was time.  

“Steady now. You can do this,” he whispered to himself.  

He stood outside the king's private study, an intimidatingly large wooden door with oversized brass handles wrought in the shape of birds wings. He’d been standing there for a few minutes, twisting his signet ring and ignoring the surreptitiously curious glances of the palace guards posted to either side. Azra rarely came here.  

Blast it. It was so very aggravating, the way Gabriel always made him feel so flustered and unsure of himself, so much like Father. And much like with his Father, he’d never once openly defied his brother before.

He forced himself to relax his hands, to let them hang at his sides. Gabriel hated unnecessary fidgeting. He called it an immature habit. 

But at least this was an ideal place for an awkward and private conversation: the queen and her retinue were not allowed in this study, nor were his nephews, so they were almost sure to be uninterrupted. Not that there was much risk of that anywhere else, either, of course. Save for formal banquets and large events, all his in-laws lived completely separate lives from their husbands.    

And that was what they had been trying to arrange for him? He must have been mad to ever consider it.  

The thought bolstered him. He squared his shoulders, sucked in his stomach, and knocked briskly on the door.  

“Enter,” came the voice from inside.  

Azra stepped sideways through the door, and closed it behind him. 

The king’s study was a large, richly appointed room, round like Crow’s tower, but that was where the similarity ended. Crow’s bedroom was sparse yet cosy, all smooth-worn stone and thick carpets and simple furnishings. Comfortable. Broken in. This room was almost oppressively opulent, where everything seemed to be in shades of either gold or brown. Dark polished wood, elaborately carved paneling and gold leaf accents, glossy leather chairs with brass buttons that looked nice but were dreadfully uncomfortable to sit on. Warm amber firelight flickered from numerous brass lamps hanging from the ceiling. The walls around the periphery of the room were hung with large oil paintings in gilded frames, all depicting various scenes of sport: men ahorseback in hot pursuit of baying dappled hounds, armoured swordsmen caught in mid-combat, archers with drawn longbows. The air smelled of pipe-smoke and expensive sandalwood oil.  

“Good afternoon, Gabriel,” Azra said cheerfully, taking a few measured steps forward. His feet made no noise on the thick velvet carpet. It was replaced every six months like clockwork, lest it grow even slightly worn. "Er- it's me." 

“I know it's you, Azra.” Gabriel sat at an enormous desk the colour of fine coffee, deeply engrossed with a large, elaborate model ship in front of him – a three-masted schooner, if Azra wasn’t mistaken. Gabriel was in the process of attaching the bowsprit. The king prided himself a bit of a nautical enthusiast, despite having never once set foot on the deck of a ship. Or picked up a book on the subject. 

Azra idly noted that he had glued the mainmast where the mizzenmast should be.  

He sighed and cast his gaze around the room. To the immediate right of the desk stood a life-sized, artistically nude yet very recognisable sculpture of Gabriel’s wife, the queen, and Azra respectfully averted his eyes as usual. It had always struck him as a rather boastful and obscene thing to have anywhere but a private bedroom. He wondered for the hundredth time what she thought of it, or if she even knew it was here. He knew that he would certainly be mortified to have a statue of himself in his altogether out where anyone could see it. 

Much more appealing was the white statue of the wrestlers in the back left side of the room, also nude, with one man bent in triumph over the other. The victor was pressed flush all along behind his opponent with arm twisted up behind his back. That statue had been there for as long as Azra could remember, his father’s possession before Gabriel’s; he remembered staring at it with interest as a young boy without quite understanding what made it so fascinating. Eyeing it sidelong, after the week he’d had, he felt his cheeks warm a bit.  

Anyhow. He gave himself a little shake and re-focused his attention on the reason he’d come. Oh, but he was dreadfully nervous after all, how irritating.  

He stood and waited, hands clasped firmly behind his back, but Gabriel only kept fiddling with the model ship and didn’t look up. 

 “Ahem. That’s coming along well, now isn’t it?” Azra commented.  “How are you today?”  

“Very busy, as you can see.”  

“Quite...” Azra took a deep breath. “Listen, Gabriel, I need to speak to you about something of great importance.”  

“Later,” Gabriel said impatiently. He frowned distractedly as he held a piece of triangular sail up to the ship, and consulted a little labeled diagram spread out on his desk. “I’m sure whatever it is can wait.”  

“No...no, I’m afraid it most definitely cannot.”  

“Is this about your little hobby again?” Gabriel asked dismissively. “I’m not in the mood to discuss another expansion to the library, Azra. We don’t need any more books.” He gave a firm nod, and began attaching the jib where the spanker sail should go. “We have far too many of the damned useless things as it is.”  

Azra’s determinedly pleasant expression faltered. “No,” he said as evenly as he could. “Not about the library. It’s rather more important than that. I assure you, this is something you will want to know as soon as possible.”  

“That foolishness about Apollyon ambassadorship then, is it?” Gabriel put in before he could continue. “You must know that it’s impossible. Michael was right about that, at least. The sorcerers would never bargain in good faith.”  

Azra pressed his lips together. He was not in the mood to hear yet another diatribe against sorcerers. He’d spent his entire life surrounded by constant comments just like these, but ever since he met Crow it had become more and more unbearable. Hearing it always made him feel uncomfortable and ashamed at his own silence. It was a growing struggle to hold his tongue.  

“That’s not what I’m here to discuss, either,” he said with dogged calm. He opened his mouth, again, but- 

“Good,” Gabriel said. “Disgusting unnatural creatures. The world would be better off if the whole lot of the wicked devils could be stamped out like the vermin they are.” He squinted thoughtfully at his handiwork.  

Azra had never considered himself a man with a temper. In general he was slow to anger; he wasn’t like Crow, with his bursts of molten intensity that were more bark than bite. But now he discovered new depths as he felt himself go cold in a flash. A wintery chill turned his spine to brittle ice, his insides rimed in frost. Had Gabriel bothered to look up, he might have been taken aback by the look on Azra’s face.  

But Gabriel didn’t look up, so he just kept talking:  

“Ah, and good news, by the way: the Elysian king has included a fine warhorse from his own stables as part of the wedding arrangement, absolutely top-class!” He’d finished attaching the sail, and began deftly knotting bits of rigging between the masts. A constellation of jeweled rings winked on his fingers. “So you’ll have no more need for that old mare. I’ve already lined up a buyer for after the wedding; the Elysian quartermaster needs a strong draft horse to haul supplies about the grounds, and the animal is certainly fit enough to suit after all those long journeys South. Not a total waste after all, eh? Oh, damn…” He frowned at the ship as one of the masts listed over.  

Azra’s left hand slowly closed into a fist at his side. He drew a deep, deep chilly breath in through his nose. And exhaled through his mouth. It was a surprise to see that it did not fog the air. He slid his other hand into his pocket, closed his fingers over the letter there, and just stood still and silent for a long moment, thinking hard.  

“Actually,” he said at last in clipped tones, “what I came to tell you is that I’ve decided to take another guard duty assignment. Tomorrow.” 

Gabriel’s fingers paused, and his violet eyes flicked up to look at him for the first time. “Tomorrow.”  

“Yes.”  

“The Tournament is in only a week.”  

And this was risky with Gabriel, simply stating rather than asking, but Azra forged ahead, figuring it out as he went. “Yes. But my last guard duty session was cut short by illness before it even began, you see. I feel that it would do me a great deal of good to have some time in the fresh air before the Tournament, and there’s no time like the present, as they say. A couple days of riding is just the thing to get myself back up to speed after a convalescence.” Lying so blatantly to Gabriel’s face still gave him a bit of a guilty quiver, but the memory of Crow’s smile was a ball of warmth in his chest now, melting the ice and fortifying him. The letter was a friendly weight in his pocket. 

 “It seems to me that the time might be better spent in training.”  

“Oh yes, of course, but why not both? There’s still plenty of time; I can go down for a few days, then come back here for the rest of the time and train then. Diversify, you know. Even with travel that would still leave me with a couple days before the Tournament. And surely we wouldn’t want to give the impression that Empyrion is languishing unprotected during this time.” It took all of his willpower to refrain from injecting a note of sarcasm into the last sentence.   

The king’s eyes fixed on him again. “That is true,” he said at last. “Very well then. Wrap up whatever you feel you need to wrap up down there, then immediately back here to prepare for your real duties.” Gabriel returned his attention to the model ship. “We can’t afford to waste too much time.”  

“It certainly won’t be wasted,” Azra said flatly. He left the room without further comment, and shut the door firmly behind him.  

He had important things to do. 

Chapter Text

It had been a good day. Or, at least, as good a day as one could have without Azra in it.  

Crow had risen late after another night of extremely pleasant, enthusiastic dreams, fueled by the recent dose of extremely pleasant reality, and had spent the day doing absolutely whatever he wanted. That included going into town to purchase some new wine (during which he’d managed to be completely unbothered by the usual glares), laying out the ingredients for chocolate cake (to bake later that night), and fiddling with some new flower designs. He'd tried an adjustment to the gauzy maiden's veil flowers, the ones from the book Azra had gifted him, and decided that a dash of lavender was just the thing to give them a little extra something.  

And it had taken him all of that day to realise what the puzzling new sensation was. It had been creeping up on him for the last couple of days, the sensation of something missing, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It wasn’t until he spiraled all the way down the stairs to the kitchen without once holding his breath that it dawned on him: it was Hastur. Or rather, the absence of Hastur. The manservant had been an unwelcome lurking presence his life for as long as he could remember, a proxy for Father and then later the Council, as inexorable as the sunrise and always vigilant. There had never been a time when he wasn’t lurking around the corner like an especially solid ghost, just waiting for him to trip up. Crow had grown so used to it that he never realised just how twitchy it kept him, not until that humming discordant note on the edge of his awareness was finally gone. Now he felt...unexpectedly relaxed. More than relaxed. He felt...free.  

It was an odd feeling. An odd, very good feeling.   

Now he was just sitting in his throne chair with his bare feet propped up on the desk, lazily paging through a book of plays and keeping half an eye on the open window for any little white pigeons. He was rarely too far from his window, nowadays. There had not yet been a response to his last letter, and he still held out hope that something might reach him today before it got too dark.  

As the late afternoon waned he noticed that the ravens were making an unusual kind of racket. There was always a rise in volume around this hour, but they were yelling especially loudly right now, and not in the agitated screeching timbre he had come to associate with an approaching attacker. The territorial little bastards earned their keep, he had to give them that. Some new and exciting food, maybe?  

Best to check it out. He hadn’t lived as long as he had without cultivating a healthy paranoia. 

Crow went over, book in hand, and looked curiously out the window. The sun had just begun to set. A firm breeze had kicked up, making spreading ripples across the distant trees of the Wood as they swayed.  

Far below, bright against the deepening twilight, was a huge white horse with a blond rider standing just outside the wide ring of black thorns. 

The book hit the wooden floorboards with a thud. Crow was away from the window and through the bedroom door before he had time to think or even fully process, flying down the stairs faster than he’d ever taken them before, feet barely touching the stone. He burst out the door at the base of the tower, breathing hard.   

He parted the thorns with a word and sweep of his arm, scattering a few ravens perched on the hedge. Azra had just dismounted and was standing right there on the other side, facing away from him, patting Serafina. He wore a gold doublet that shone resplendent against the dark green all around him, and he was holding his drawn sword. 

Crow wavered on his feet, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. Then Azra turned and saw him, and his face broke into a brilliant, hopeful smile. The sword dropped to the ground in a flash of silver.  

Crow’s feet pulled him right through that hedge and into Azra’s open arms.  

For a while they just held each other. Azra was soft and solid in his arms. His hair was windblown and smelled like fresh air; his skin smelled of paper and cologne-tinged clean sweat. Crow pressed his lips to the side of his neck above the white cravat and just enjoyed that incredible, familiar smell. His feet were steady on the grass now, rooted firmly to the earth while the hedge and tower and purpling sky whirled around them both as if they stood at the very centre of a spinning top.  

Home.  

It rang through his blood and mind, echoing with every beat of his heart: Home, home, home...   

“I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time,” Azra said at last.    

Crow snorted. “I’m horrified. Such terrible manners, I think I need a moment.” He took that moment, and several more as he squeezed him tighter. “Has something happened? Is anything wrong?”  

Azra pulled back a little and beamed at him. “No! Nothing is wrong, quite the opposite.” He smoothed back Crow’s unbound hair with one hand. “All is well.” 

Crow let out a relieved breath, dizzy. “Good. Good. Then what are- wait.” He gave his head a shake and cast a quick look around. The ravens had quieted once more and were just sitting perched atop the tower and hedge as usual, but still. No sense just standing here with his arse hanging in the wind. “Let’s get inside before anything else.” It had been a while since the last Hero attack; the odds seemed higher than average.  

Keeping ahold of Azra’s hand, he turned and opened the thorny doorway, then scooped up the unsheathed sword from the ground where it had been unceremoniously dropped. “Were you planning to stab me with this thing?” he teased.   

Azra rolled his eyes with a smile. “Don’t be silly. I was trying to be a bit more prepared this time, just in case.” He took Serafina’s reins, and together they all hurried through into the safety of the grounds. Once the hedge crackled closed behind them Crow was able to relax, and exhale.  

“Okay. So. What are you doing back here so quick? It’s only been a couple of days.”  

Azra’s rounded face was flushed with hectic colour, blue eyes bright and excited as he patted the horse’s neck. “I know. But I simply couldn’t bear to stay there one day longer, not when I had another option, so I’ve, er… leapt ahead of schedule.” 

"You told your brothers already?” Crow asked incredulously. His stomach did a strange sort of leap at the thought. 

“Well no, not yet.” Azra took both of Crow’s hands, nearly vibrating with nervous energy. His palms were sweaty. “But I decided that there was no need to tell Gabriel before I left after all, not when it could give him a chance to cause trouble for us. So I told him that I wanted to take another guard duty shift, and…here we are.” He beamed, and staggered slightly as Serafina laid her enormous head on his shoulder. The horse lipped affectionately at his hair, and Crow noticed for the first time that she was laden down with much larger saddlebags than usual. Azra had packed.

Crow blinked at him, feeling dazed. “Really? Just...just like that?”  

Azra nodded, still speaking very quickly. “I’ll simply send him a message instead. In a couple of days I can go to a post station in a city above the Wall and send a letter to the palace saying goodbye, and that I’ve decided to live elsewhere. I’ll sign it with my signet ring so Gabriel knows it’s truly from me. He won't be able to do a thing about it; he won’t even know where I am! And besides, he’ll soon be much too busy with the arriving Tournament guests and everything else involved, with no time or opportunity to make a fuss. If there’s one thing Gabriel hates more than anything, it’s losing public face.” Azra looked so smugly pleased with himself, and at the same time alarmed at his own audacity, that Crow had to laugh. 

“Wow. I can’t believe- wow.” Crow shook his head, an incredulous smile curling his mouth. For someone so outwardly fussy and predictable, Azra never ceased to astonish him with the things he said and did. “When I said ‘hurry back’ I didn’t expect this. You don’t do things by halves, do you? Who is this fearless rebel?” He grinned as Azra blushed and rolled his eyes.  

Crow sobered a little. “I mean, are you sure you’re alright with this? I know you really wanted to do things a certain way...”  

Azra hesitated. “Well... yes, I have no desire to cause unnecessary hardship for anyone, that much is still true. But I’m certainly not going to put us at risk to make Gabriel’s life easier, not any more. Some things simply cannot be tolerated.” For just an instant the blue eyes narrowed, though not at Crow, and a hint of that steely streak glinted.  

Ah. Crow wondered what the hell had happened to spark that in his mild-mannered Azra. Knowing his brothers, nothing pleasant. But he didn’t want to ask about that right at the moment, because oh shit, it was really beginning to sink in that Azra was here, and looking so elated, and under the nervous energy was something more carefree and happy than Crow had ever seen on him before... The stomach leaps became full-blown backflips, and his heart began pounding in counterpoint. He took a couple of quick deep breaths before his skin could start to heat up. 

Azra was still holding tight to his hands and beaming at him, radiant. “And I realised that whatever happens next, good or ill, I’d far rather be with you to face it, my dear. I’ve arranged for another trunk of my things to be delivered to the Golden Pony, it should be there in a day or so and I can retrieve it then. And that should be that!” Uncertainty splashed suddenly over his face, and the excited smile faltered. “Oh...oh dear.” His shoulders slumped. 

The backflips paused. “What?” Crow asked.  

“Well, I...I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I really ought to have sent you a letter first. It’s much sooner than we had discussed, and I simply got carried away... I’m sorry, I don’t mean to simply barge in on your home like this without asking...” Azra trailed off, and the apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed anxiously. “I’m perfectly happy to take a spare room and keep out of your way. Or I can always go back and stay at my usual rooms at the Golden Pony for a while instead, as a sort of transition phase to give you time to-” 

Crow simply yanked him into his arms mid-nonsense and kissed him. He held him tight, bent him slightly backwards and poured every ounce of incredulous joy into it, letting his enthusiasm answer for itself. Azra went slack in his grip with a sigh, and soft hands cupped Crow’s face as he kissed him back. It was slightly reminiscent of their first kiss in Eden, except this one held only pure exhilaration. No searing pain in Crow’s breast, no desperate certainty that he was going to break in half if he didn’t hold him right this instant – only soft eager lips and the surety of Azra’s solid arms around him as if they had never left, holding him together. The sensation of absolute impossible rightness in the world that he had felt for the first time in his life only a few days ago... 

“Oh,” Azra said faintly, as they finally eased upright and apart.  

“Yeah,” Crow wheezed. That warm static was back, pouring through his body and mind, melting everything except his awareness of the man in his arms. He had to pause, and breathe, and check to see if his feet were still touching the ground. They were. Barely. “I think I can handle a few extra days with you. You know. If you really want to.”  

Azra sighed, and rested their foreheads together. “Well, the feeling is mutual. Obviously.”  

“Obviously.” Crow closed his eyes, hearing that silent, thrumming echo again. “Welcome home, angel.”  

They settled Serafina into her stall, and as they removed the horse’s tack Azra pondered aloud about building a larger paddock. Making plans, something real and concrete that smacked of future in a way that Crow was still struggling to grasp. It was thrilling. 

Even more concrete (and slightly less thrilling) were the saddlebags that they then had to haul inside and up the stairs to Crow's room - no small task, that, because those oversized bags turned out to be almost entirely stuffed full of books. Large books. Crow had never thought of a book as being a terribly heavy thing, but through some peculiar alchemy they became as weighty as flagstones when clumped together and hauled up seven flights of stairs. "Well, I could hardly entrust my collection to someone else's care, now, could I?" Azra pointed out, in a tone of utmost reason. Crow had only enough breath to grunt in reply as he dragged his own obscenely heavy stack up the stairs, feeling an unexpected surge of kinship with Serafina. At least he'd only have to do this once. 

Those bags and Azra's sword were stuffed under Crow’s bed for the time being, and promptly forgotten about.  

Once Crow caught his breath he made the visibly weary Azra sit down, then served them both dinner. By happy coincidence he had already set a pot of rabbit stew over the kitchen fire to cook earlier in the day, and by even happier coincidence it was one of the dishes he was particularly proud of. They sat at his little bedroom table together and ate, watching the golden sun sink out of sight below the trees while they worked their way through a bottle of white wine. Crow was so full of incredulous happiness that there wasn’t much room left inside for food - he mostly just sat there, chin propped on his fist and holding Azra's hand, drinking in his presence while his own bowl of stew cooled. Feeing the wine envelop him in a relaxed cloud and slowly easing the shock of this sudden new development.

Azra for his part demolished two bowls of piping hot stew with his usual delicate gusto, apparently taking the entire situation in stride just as well as he had last time. He certainly wasn't acting like he felt nervous about this, about turning his entire life upside down for- for a renegade sorcerer living on the edge of nowhere. The thought made Crow wince. 

Azra sighed, the sound jerking him from his reverie.

The sun had fully set by now, the ravens sat quiet in their roosts. A burnished silver crescent of moon hung in the dark sky outside the open window, and the stars were coming out from behind wispy streaks of cloud. 

”My, that's much better,” Azra said with another sigh, laying his neatly folded napkin on the table next to his empty bowl. His cheeks were rosy again, from the food and wine both, and he had a contented glow about him that wasn't entirely from the lamplight. “Thank you, that was delicious. I’ve scarcely eaten all day, though I did stop to bathe in Tadfield before I came here, at least.”

“Ah, so that was it.” Crow grinned and tugged at his ivory cravat. "I thought you smelled especially un-horselike today."  

"Scoundrel." Azra swatted his hand away but returned the smile, eyes crinkling almost shut. "I’m so happy to be here with you at last, my dear.”

That simple affirmation took Crow's breath away, even as the smile punched right through his chest. He would never, ever get used to that smile being directed at him. It was all he could do to swallow and grind out "I'm so happy, too. You have no idea..." 

He looked down at Azra's right hand where it was still entwined with his own, resting between them on the table. He put his other hand over it as well, feeling the weight of his fingers, the soft texture of the skin. Rubbed a thumb over the familiar contours of the signet ring, the symbol of everything Azra was giving up by being here. By choosing him. Crow looked back up. 

Azra just sat there watching him, blond head tilted to the side and a gently curious smile on his face. 

Crow lifted Azra's hand and kissed the gold ring. “I want to show you something,” he said quietly.  

He led Azra down the stairs to the fifth floor of the tower, to the tightly shut and warded oak door. With only the slightest nervous tremor Crow disengaged the magical lock and paused with his hand on the brass doorknob.  

“No one else has ever been in here.”  

“My goodness.” Azra raised his eyebrows at him, teasing. “Should I be concerned?”  

Crow took a deep breath and pushed the door open. He lit the sconces with a snap of his fingers, and they stepped inside. 

As the soft white lights filled the narrow room one by one, Azra’s eyes widened. He looked around with mouth in a little "o", taking in the long tables arrayed with a double dozen different flowers, the pots hanging from the ceiling with vines reaching in tangled masses towards the ground. So much greenery that it blurred out the stone walls and made it feel like they were not inside a room at all. Every possible colour blooming everywhere, overwhelmed by a disproportionate amount of sunny yellow.  

“Oh, my- this is your garden?” Azra’s voice was soft with awe. “This is what you meant, all this time?”  

Crow nodded. His heart was smashing his ribcage to kindling, and for the first time since creating this place he didn't spare even a glance for the flowers. His eyes were fixed on Azra, watching his reaction. It shouldn't make him feel this nervous, he knew that... It was just a few plants, curse it; it was stupid to stand here feeling like he was taking off his clothes in front of him... 

“The amount of work and skill this must have all taken...” Azra seemed momentarily at a loss for words. He walked slowly down the curved aisle of greenery, blond head swiveling side to side to look at everything, pulling Crow along behind him. He didn’t seem to notice how sweaty Crow’s hand had become. “These are the most flawless roses I’ve ever seen. Not a single spot to be found! And all the leaves are so...so lush. We can’t even grow anything this fine at the palace, and nowhere near this variety, and especially in autumn! And- oh!” He pointed delightedly to a cluster of sunset-gold snapdragons, flecked with crimson. “What a gorgeous colour! How did you get the yellow so vivid?” He didn’t even wait for an answer, but kept walking and exclaiming anew with each new table he saw. White and gold among the green, bright as a flower himself and far more beautiful with face lit up in excitement. Crow followed, smiling and unable to get a word in edgewise. Which was lucky, because that damned prickling lump in his throat had made a reappearance.  

Azra finally stopped walking and turned to face him. "Crow, this is...incredible! I knew you were understating things by calling it a hobby, but good heavens, this is...beyond anything I could have imagined. You clearly have a gift."

Crow shrugged and scratched at the back of his neck. His cheeks felt very hot. "Euhhh. It's really not as impressive as all that." He abruptly needed something to do with his hands. For lack of any better idea he picked up a nearby watering can and began watering the already-waterlogged pot of star lilies, daring them to comment. "I've had more than twenty years to work on it, after all. And the magic makes it a lot easier." He nodded to the spellbook lying on a table next to them. "Child's play, really." 

"Nonsense. The fact that you did it with magic only makes it that much more extraordinary. I wish more people knew that sorcery could do things like this." Azra carefully picked up the book, and as he looked closer his fascinated expression changed to something like horror. There was a garbled spluttering sound. “Good Lord, Crow…what have you done to this book?” he exclaimed. He mouthed wordlessly a few times, then gingerly lifted the cover to look inside.   

Oops. Crow supposed it had looked better. Every single page corner had been dog-eared at some point, making the book twice as thick as it normally would be, and the edges were heavily crinkled and marked from various colourful spills accumulated over the years. Creases ran from edge to edge of the brown leather cover. At least, he was pretty sure it had originally been brown. The spine was cracked. A large fern leaf had been carelessly thrust between the pages to serve as a crude bookmark.  

“Er… well, I’ve had it for most my life … and I’ve used it outside a lot. And I had to hide it when I was young, stuffing it under my mattress, things like that.” Crow grinned at Azra's scandalised expression.

“But…but…but this is easily rarer than any book I’ve ever owned!” Azra protested faintly. “This is hundreds of years old, a book of magic, and just look how lovely it used to be…” He sputtered to a halt and shook his head with a pained expression on his face. He put a hand to his chest, closed his eyes and set the book slowly back down upon the table, as if he couldn’t bear to look at it any longer.  

“I’ve got smelling salts upstairs if you need them,” Crow offered solemnly, trying not to laugh. 

“No, no, I’ll be alright…” Azra opened his eyes and heaved a resigned sigh. "Nevermind. In any case it was well worth it, if this garden is the result.”

"Thanks. High praise indeed.” Coming from Azra, it truly was. Smiling, face still burning, he turned to set the watering can down. 

Hands touched him from behind, gripping lightly on both sides of his slender hips, and tugged. Crow stumbled back a step, and suddenly found himself leaning against a front that was warm and solid.

"And fortunately for you, my dear," Azra said, "you are far rarer than any book." His voice had a smile in it, with just a glint of mischief that was enough to make Crow's muscles go weak. Those strong arms encircled him, one round his waist and one palm pressing flat to his chest to hold them together, and then he was being gently rocked with soft lips touching behind his ear. 

Crow put an arm up behind him, around Azra’s neck. "Angel," he breathed. 

Azra sighed, letting his breath gust warm over Crow's neck. Goosebumps sprang up on his skin in response, prickling down his back, across his shoulders and the backs of his arms. Crow closed his eyes and turned his face towards him, feeling Azra’s eyelashes brush his cheekbone. Feeling his heart thud against the hand on his chest as if drawn to it, and the corresponding pulse of heat in his belly. Azra's sunlit smell all around him and the rough stone under his bare feet.

He distantly realised he was still clutching the watering can with his other hand, but he was too far lost in the incredible moment to care.

He stood there in the heart of his rebelliously distant tower, in the arms of his forbidden, unacceptably soft Empyrion lover, surrounded by a garden made from magic he was never allowed to learn and harboring a defiantly large horse who was never meant to have existed, and in that moment every single stricture of his life seemed to be cracking wide open and toppling down, world expanding outward and outward without limits...  

“My beautiful, remarkable sorcerer.” Azra's voice brushed softly against his ear. “Thank you for showing me this place. It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. Second only to you.”   

The ocean of mad things welled up in Crow's chest again, larger than ever before, and this time there were no pieces at all to hold them back. 

Azra deserved poetry, deserved something much bigger and grander, but all Crow had were those simple mad things- mad, because he had never once said them before in his life, or even heard them said, and had never expected to. Because once he said them there was truly no taking them back. Like stepping off a cliff and entrusting himself to the whims of gravity, with no guarantee that he would not be shattered on the rocks below.

He dragged in a breath, and finally whispered the words that had been shouting in his heart for months: 

“I love you.”  

It was say it at last or die right there on the spot.  

Azra went perfectly still. “Really?” he whispered. 

Beyond speech, Crow only nodded.  

Azra swallowed, and tightened his arms. “I love you too, my darling. I love you so very much.” 

Crow stood there feeling those words trickle down into him. They made bright little rivulets of silver all through his chest until they touched his soul…and ignited.  

His entire universe abruptly unfurled in a great bloom of colour and possibility.  

The stone walls of his tower could no longer contain him. Gravity held no power after all, and he felt the most wonderful… wonderful… 

Freedom.  

The watering can fell out of Crow’s hand with a clatter. 

He twisted around to face him and cupped Azra’s face with both hands, cool water sloshing over his bare feet. “I love you.” He kissed his lips, and chin, and eyelids, and the little freckle on his left cheekbone. “I love you, I love you, I love you…” He kept trying to say it between increasingly frantic kisses, blurring the words against his skin, and Azra laughed as he wrapped his arms around him and kissed him back. They staggered backwards against a table full of rather startled yellow tulips, and from there crashed directly into the unfortunate pink rose bushes.  

After a few very enthusiastic, prickly seconds it became glaringly clear that this wasn’t the most practical place. Azra finally made a sound of protest and extricated himself from the roses, trailing long golden threads where his doublet had caught on the thorns. Brilliant pink petals clung to his shoulders and adorned his mussed pale hair. His cheeks were stained with matching colour and his mouth was rosy from kisses, his eyes shone. Without a word he took Crow’s hand and dragged him out the door into the stairwell, into the flickering orange lantern light and up the spiraling stone steps. Crow hurried after, grinning like a fool. He left the door ajar behind them and didn’t look back. 

They had to stop at each stairway landing to catch their breath, and almost didn’t make it off those landings as catching their breath segued into trying to steal each other’s. Crow yanked Azra into his arms and kissed him without a shred of restraint, ravenous, starving for him, and Azra matched him hunger for hunger. Their panting echoed in the cramped narrow stairwell; lantern flames threw leaping tall silhouettes on the walls as they clung to the railing and each other. One particularly unrestrained, impatient moment on the sixth floor was nearly the end of it: Crow with his back pressed hard up against the solid oak of the door, one wrist pinned flat as well; the solid ridge of Azra’s erection pressing equally hard into him through the front of their breeches. Azra’s mouth covering his, sweeter than honey and stronger than brandy, better than anything he’d ever tasted and Crow’s entire body on fire from the inside out...  

Just when it seemed they would simply sink to the floor and work things out right then and there, Azra pulled away from his clutches and grabbed him by the wrist again. Up they went, grinning like boys and progressively more disheveled, shedding bits of petal and emerald leaf along the way.  

They finally stumbled into the bedroom with arms around each other, grasping at handfuls of each other’s clothes and peeling them off as they went with frantic haste. Crow kicked the door shut behind them without ceremony and kissed Azra in the moonlight pouring through the open window. He was already naked to the waist but had only managed to get Azra’s cravat off so far; he was still struggling with the dozen or so buckles running down the doublet even as he tried to keep kissing his neck. Meanwhile the prince was fumbling open the laces on the front of his breeches with a look of burning determination on his face. Curse it, at this rate Crow was going to be starkers before he saw even a bit of skin.  

“Nngh. We really need- to discuss your clothes,” Crow panted, and with a growl of frustration spoke a word of magic that made the rest of the stupid buckles slide open. Azra giggled breathlessly and helped him, tore off his own doublet and flung it away somewhere into the void without looking to see where it landed. The shirt quickly followed, and the sight of his bare chest lit a fresh wildfire in Crow’s belly. He’d thought he understood fire after all this time, knew the taste and flare and snap of it, but this was something else entirely, this burning. He needed to get his skin against Azra right now, to sate that hunger, soothe the hot ache that had exploded through his entire body and seared between his legs… 

Crow shoved Azra up against the stone wall next to the desk and kissed him with all the wild passion coursing through him. He pinned him there and slotted himself between Azra’s thighs, hooked a hand under the shorter man’s knee to pull him up around him. This had the natural effect of bringing their erections together, and with a shift of his hips he ground against him. Azra made a muffled and completely involuntary sound of pure pleasure that set aflame every single nerve in Crow’s body, and in that moment he felt incredibly suave and dashing, powerful, like one of the ridiculous Heroes in the stories...  

…until Azra decided to remind him of the differences in their strengths. 

It was a shock to find himself suddenly seized and bowled over backwards with inexorable force. To find himself slammed onto his own desk and fiercely kissed, pinned flat by Azra’s larger weight, scattering papers and inkwell and Crow’s thoughts along with them. A good shock, though, the kind that started in his chest and ended taut between his splayed legs. He let out an incoherent exclamation of surprised delight, something along the lines of “mleh!” and felt his eyes roll back into his head as books and iridescent raven-feather quills went toppling in all directions. His desk was a disaster, they were crushing his things, he didn’t care. Azra’s mouth was on his neck and his broad hands were everywhere else- scritching down his chest, groping the small of his back, caressing between his thighs, and Crow so damned hard that it felt like he could come right then and there. He nearly did when those hands eagerly slid under his open breeches to grab his bare backside. 

That’s how Crow eventually found himself lying on his side in bed that first evening, Azra’s plush naked body pressed all along the back of him from shoulders to feet and not a stitch of clothing between them. Azra’s breath was hot and urgent on the nape of his neck, soft curves molding against all the empty parts and filling them in. Strong arms tight around Crow’s waist clutching him possessively close, cock nestled in the crease of his rear and frotting rock-hard while one soft hand stroked him from the front.  “Crow,” Azra moaned into his hair, and kissed between his shoulder blades. “Anthony.”  

Crow was miles beyond responding. He held Azra’s hand and squeezed his eyes shut, so powerfully undone that he could only gasp in return. He was already so close…the hot slide of Azra’s cock alone was nearly more than his limited endurance could bear. Azra was making soft little mmm, mmm, mmm whimpers of pleasure with each gentle thrust of his hips, the same kind of noises that he made when he ate a particularly decadent bite of dessert, except far more urgent. Better. Crow groaned and clamped a fist around the base of himself to stay Azra’s hand, barely hanging on. “Angel, m’not gonna last if you- keep making that sound…” As it was he was never going to be able to calmly watch him eat ever again.  

Azra paused. “Wait, my love,” he murmured in his ear. His voice was tight, with pleasure and restraint. He sat up and gently rolled Crow onto his back, knelt between his legs with a hand on each knee. 

Crow swallowed hard, staring transfixed up at him. He felt intimately vulnerable like this, lying naked on his back with his legs open. His cock was standing at attention, flushed dark red and taut with impatience, already seeping pleasure at the slit. His yellow eyes and many scars were uncovered and out in the open for anyone to see. He was more exposed, in every possible way, than he’d ever been in his life. Involuntary tremors shivered down his body, making his limbs twitch.  

Azra looked him up and down. “Oh. Aren’t you lovely,” he whispered. He slid a trembling hand from Crow’s knee down his thigh, eyes locked on his body. “So beautiful.”  

Lovely didn’t even begin to describe what Crow was seeing. Azra's skin was milk-pale in the starlight, hair like moonlight itself, kneeling there with his gloriously naked, decadent body on full display. Layers of softness that still couldn’t hide the bulk of muscle underneath, broadening his shoulders, giving contour to his arms and chest. Everything his clothes had ever hinted at and more, and fuck, but Crow wanted him, wanted him more than he had known it was possible to want anything in the world... 

“Come here.” Crow reached out and took him by the waist, and pulled him down atop himself. Azra came eagerly, willingly, and then...then the entire world was his body, silky-smooth against his chest, thighs heavy between his legs, everywhere; bare skin sliding together as they twined arms and legs around each other. Warm lips searching for each other as hands and tongues roamed freely… Crow grasped that decadence with his hands, panting, sank fingers into Azra’s plush flank and pulled him close. He could feel Azra’s cock pressed between them, hot and stiff along his stomach.  

Azra pushed forward with his hips, angled just so to press that  beautifully hard length against his own, and Crow gasped as his vision spiraled. “Oh, fuck.”   

“Oh,” Azra gasped too, breathless and shuddering.   

Crow thrust up, digging into the softness of Azra’s middle, against his hardness again, and oh... He let out a grit-teethed keen of pure, blind pleasure, head thrown back, eyes rolled so far back he couldn’t see. Azra moaned too, deep and ragged in his throat, and then they were both rutting hard, erections sliding against each other in the tight, increasingly slick place between their bodies. Azra touched their foreheads together and whispered “I love you” to him again and again, voice catching, sometimes losing his voice entirely and just mouthing the words.  

In one determined motion Crow rolled them over, crawled atop him and took his place. Azra had flung one arm out to the side, Crow pinned his hand there and picked up where they had left off, rolling his hips, angling to keep that perfect contact. His thrusts grew faster, sloppier, more desperate, in perfect time with the increasingly loud sounds Azra was making. There was blinding heat between them, converging right where they rubbed together, a delicious point of hot friction that built and built and built… 

“Mmh, oh,” Azra gasped. His free hand clenched on Crow’s back. “Oh don’t stop, please, please don’t stop-”  

A deep groan, and Crow felt Azra come first in a burst of fresh heat all along their stomachs. “Fuck....” It was too much. A single ecstatic thrust into that slippery warmth sent him over the edge, and he was coming too, both of them moaning, grinding until they were thoroughly drenched with each other.  

He managed to hold the magic back this time, just barely, held in a churning ball within rather than spilling it everywhere when he spilled himself. He rolled off Azra and had to lie there panting for a moment as his heartbeat settled, hand on his heaving chest. There was still a white-hot point under his sternum, not exactly comfortable. He lifted one hand and spread his fingers above their heads, conjured up his map of star constellations, and felt the heat slowly bleed away.  

Azra scooted down a little bit and wrapped both arms around his waist, which was narrow enough that his arms overlapped to the elbows. He laid his head against Crow and gazed quietly up at the shifting points of light. After a minute he shut his eyes and pressed his face into Crow’s chest, unmoving.   

“You alright?” Crow asked quietly.  

“Very much so,” said Azra. He didn’t lift his head. “I’m just making sure you’re real.”  

It was so much more the kind of thing that Crow expected himself to say, that he would have laughed if Azra hadn’t sounded so somber. “Of course I’m real. C’mere.” He extinguished the stars with a wave of his hand and rolled over a little, pulled and cajoled Azra up to lie on his side next to him. “See, I’m right here. If I was a phantom I would be better looking.” 

Azra smiled at that, and touched his cheek. “All the more reason to think you are, then.” 

“Ha, ha.”  

“It’s true. You are perfectly sublime.”  

Crow scoffed. “And you, my angel, are so far above what I deserve that you may as well be the moon. You light up every room you enter, and as for beauty…” He kissed Azra’s swollen lips, pressed his mouth to the hollow of his throat, brushed the side of his neck with fingertips. “Your hair is like sunlight on the water,” he whispered. “Your skin is softer than the finest rose petal. I could drown in the blue of your eyes. And every single inch of your body is just…” he ran a hand from his shoulder down to his hip, over his deceptively soft torso, and was left momentarily speechless as he took it all in again. In the moonlight damp curls of blond hair shone silver on his chest, at the softening junction of his groin, on his thighs, just a shade paler than his skin. It was Crow’s first time seeing him fully naked, laid out bare in the open like this, and the sight was simply…simply...  

“…magic,” he breathed, and bent to kiss each of those curls. “Just perfect.” 

He raised his head to look at him, and found Azra staring at him with a kind of tender surprise.  

With a start he realised what he’d been saying, and embarrassment shut up his mouth like mortar. “Um…” Apparently he’d had some poetry in him after all. How did Azra always do that to him? He hadn’t meant for so much to come tumbling out, but there it was. 

“Oh, my love.” Azra was still looking at him like that, with that almost pained expression. “You think too highly of me.”  

And that loosened Crow’s tongue again. “If there is higher to go I don’t know it. And you aren’t going to change my mind.” He quickly kissed him before he could protest, and again when it looked like he would argue. Soon both their mouths were too occupied to say stupid things.  

That was the first night.  

Chapter Text

They spent much of the second day simply relaxing in bed, canopy curtains open to let a square of sunlight from the window spill across the blankets. In that sunlight Crow lay stretched out with Azra tucked under one arm, listening to him read from one of the many books he had brought. A familiar activity in a sea of surreality. Crow lay there barely hearing the words, all of his mind and heart focused on the texture of soft curls under his chin, the familiar rhythm of Azra's voice, the way Azra's warm body fit against him: all rounded curves to his concave spaces, soft giving flesh against his bony angles. As if they were built to hold each other.

In the afternoon Azra insisted on showing him how to make one of his favourite desserts: “Apple tarts,” he said with a sly smile. “Since we finally have an entire kitchen to ourselves.”  

When Crow demanded to know how in the hell a prince knew how to cook anything, Azra blushed and admitted that he had made good friends with an elderly palace cook as a child. Because of course he had.  

Crow leaned against the counter next to him, chin in hand, and enjoyed the remarkable sight of a prince kneading wet and dry ingredients into a fluffy dough, sending puffs of white flour into the air, and using a large kitchen knife to cut dark red apples into precise wafer-thin slices.  

Crow also teased him and stole pieces of apple to eat when Azra wasn’t looking, but mostly he just watched, giving his eyes full permission to roam while nodding solemnly along.  

Azra had a huge white smudge of flour on the tip of his upturned nose that he definitely wasn’t aware of, and it took every single ounce of self-control Crow possessed to keep a straight face and not give it away. He lost by himself in the way Azra lit up with enthusiasm, grey-blue eyes as bright and excited above his smudged nose as if he was doing a magic trick. The way he set his fine green doublet aside and rolled his ruffled silk shirtsleeves carefully up to the elbows (ngk) out of harm’s way as he mixed and measured and explained in minute detail how to layer the apples with the honey just so. And if Crow watched the clothes with far more intensity than he watched the baking… well, that was hardly his fault. 

That thin white silk shirt clung to Azra’s shoulders and stomach in a very intriguing way, highlighting rather than concealing the soft curves of his upper body. The fabric was so fine that it actually turned translucent in places where sunlight hit it. Crow desperately wished for more windows. That embroidered collar was scandalously unlaced and open as well, low enough to show a hint of pale silvery hair peeking out from his chest, hair that he now knew for a solid fact went allll the way down, down… Crow pulled a long breath in through his nose and tried to rein in his unruly imagination. Too bloody late for that. He had to lean his hips against the counter to conceal his rather obvious distraction. Focus. When, exactly, had body hair become so bloody intriguing?   

And if he ended up losing all self-control and kissing Azra breathless on the counter while the prince squeaked in surprise; if they ended up with the taste of apple in both their mouths, with floury handprints in Crow’s hair, and all over and under his clothes …well. Neither complained.  

“Are you comfortable?” Crow asked. 

It was dark, and they were standing by the bedroom window with all the lamps extinguished. Shutters thrown open wide to the night sky, the endless jeweled expanse spread above them for the taking. It had rained earlier in the day, but the thick clouds had been whisked away just as the sun set and it was now perfectly clear for stargazing. Clear, and cold. For once Crow didn't mind the cold, because it gave them an excellent excuse to cuddle up. He had spent the last hour with his arms around Azra’s waist and chin on his shoulder, a blanket draped around them both to keep the heat in. Holding him safe within their little warm cocoon and pointing out all the familiar constellations that had kept him company over the years: the Scholar, the Three Horsemen, the Kraken, the Sea Serpent... Shining dazzling-clear above them and far more visible from this vantage point than they could have been from the ground. Many of the stars Azra already knew, and told him folk stories about them that Crow had never heard before.  

“Mm, very comfortable.” Azra leaned back into him and gave a little wiggle. “You’re so cosy warm. I quite like it when you hold me like this.”  

“Nngh, shut it. M’not holding you. I’m trapping you here, you’re my hostage.” Crow lifted one leg to coil himself further around him, and squeezed. “You should have known better than to walk right into my trap, foolish one.” He could stay right here like this forever, with Azra pressed all against his front, soft stomach under his hands and the whole starlit world at their feet. The world at their feet, and...Azra’s backside pressed against his increasingly interested groin. Crow bit his lip to stifle a moan as Azra squirmed again. Shit, was he doing that on purpose? It was subtle enough to where Crow couldn't tell, and he'd been exerting a decent amount of mental energy trying not to react too much. Tempting as it was, he didn't want to just grind up on him like an overexcited dog. 

“Mm, yes. You certainly took me by surprise, ambushed me.” Azra turned his head and smiled at him. “Ruffian.” The word was slightly breathless. 

Crow yawned into his face, his jaw cracking. 

“Tired, my dear?”  

“Mm. A bit.” The truth was that he hadn’t felt truly tired since Azra arrived. He was full of such vibrant energy that he felt like he could speed-run to the top of Empyrion and back on that alone. He hooked a finger in the collar of Azra’s silk shirt, pulled it back and breathed warm air against the nape of his neck. That little whorl of pale hair was soft under his lips as he took the opportunity to kiss it. And kiss it. And to the side as well, up Azra's neck to kiss under the curve of his jaw... and then Azra turned his head again to meet his lips, and for a while they were occupied by that...

Azra shivered, sucked in a keen breath against Crow's mouth. “We should probably go relax in bed, then.” In a deliberately casual tone. “Perhaps with some of that red wine I brought?” He shifted against him, and this time there was no doubt about it- that slow movement was most unambiguously deliberate. 

“As you wish, Your Holiness,” Crow whispered in his ear, and grinned as Azra shoved at him. 

Crow took another large gulp of the truly excellent dark wine, smacking his lips at the rich taste of black cherry and plums. Azra had ‘borrowed’ a few bottles from Gabriel’s private top-tier wine collection before leaving the palace, a nervy gesture that Crow heartily approved of and left him in even more awe of Azra than before. They had put away two bottles of the stuff and were not at all sober.

Crow's thoughts were slightly blurry, but that was fine. He didn't need to think. He was currently lounging splayed out on the bed with upper back resting across Azra’s thighs, gazing owl-eyed up at him and relishing the freedom of being able to do so. There he is. The object of my affection.   

That object was just sitting there against the headboard, ankles primly crossed and silver goblet held carefully between thumb and forefinger. His little gold spectacles were still perched on his nose- he’d planned to read aloud a bit before the wine took firm hold. His shirt collar was unlaced, baring a shocking amount of throat and chest, and his gaze was slightly less focused than it had been an hour ago. There were twin splotches of colour high in his cheeks. 

“Everyone- everyone else who’s ever kissed me...It was only because I’m a prince,” Azra was saying. He gave a deep, pensive sigh and took a delicate sip. His lips came away redder from the wine.  

That wet crimson on his lips was distracting. Crow licked his own lips before answering. “Well…You’re the first person who’s ever wanted to kiss me, at all.” He drained the last of his wine, choking a bit from his reclining position, and waved philosophically with the empty goblet. “So I win.” 

Azra gave an offended sniff. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re clever, and dashing, and brave.” A soft hiccough. “And devilishly handsome. Who wouldn’t want to kiss you?” 

Crow dissolved into snickers. Hearing himself described like that felt ludicrous.  

“I suppose I’m a sorry excuse for a prince, really.” Azra sighed in a wistful sort of way. 

“It’s true,” Crow said, quickly sobering. “So disappointing. You were supposed to be an insufferable royal boor, and instead you had the nerve to be like this. My beautiful, soft angel.”  

“Oh, hush you.” Azra blushed fetchingly and waved a hand as if he could bat the words out of the air.  

“It’s true. Soft as a cloud.” Crow rolled over, squirmed further up Azra's lap and kissed his soft stomach and chest through his shirt. Azra giggled, and the motion sent Crow's thoughts reeling in pleasant tipsy circles. It felt nice, so he kept doing it. “Soft like a pillow.” He pushed himself up on both arms and kissed Azra’s bared throat, then his chin, tasted those wine-rouged lips. They tasted good, of black cherry and the vanilla biscuits they had eaten earlier. Crow kept kissing them, made brazen by the wine. “Mm. Soft as spun sugar and- and fresh baked bread.” It was getting harder to focus on speaking, harder in all sorts of places. He crawled onto Azra’s lap, straddling him and gripping his shoulders. Azra’s broad hand grasped his upper thigh, fingers curling around the lean curve of it...then trekked a slow tingling path up his hip, under his shirt to rest splayed on his lower back. That hand pulled, hauled Crow up close against him, and his blood ignited to feel their bodies press together. Azra was looking up at him, heavy-eyed with lips softly parted, cheeks aglow with wine and other things. Crow gently removed the gold spectacles and let them drop to the blankets next to them. His entire body felt very hot.

“Soft,” he murmured again, and brushed a thumb over Azra’s sweet lips. “Soft as - mnh- summer clouds…and feather down…and- mmh, and music...” Crow kissed his mouth for each one, lingering, smoothing hands over his chest and stomach...then reached down between them to cup the very not soft part he felt swelling in Azra’s breeches. “And solid as a mountain,” he whispered fiercely in his ear. He stroked once, just a brush of his thumb, and Azra gasped. Crow kept kissing and speaking quietly to him, rubbing, increasing the level of touch from fingertips, to entire hand, to both hands.  

“Nuh uh,” he mumbled, and gently moved Azra’s hand aside when he tried to reciprocate in turn. “My soft angel deserves my undivided attention.” 

“But-” 

He was not in the mood to brook any arguments. A nudge of his shoulder tipped them over and had Azra stretched out on his back, with Crow on his hands and knees over him. Crow kissed his neck, then kissed a sinuous path down to his waist, to the tall peak in the fabric right below that, stroking him reverently with both hands and ablaze with the noises Azra was making in response. And then, before he quite realised what he was doing, he had pulled down the peaked breeches and bent his head to take Azra thick and hot in his mouth.  

“Oh, oh my- hah- darling, you- that’s- ahmmmmmn-” Whatever Azra had been trying to say was abandoned as his hand fisted in Crow’s hair to hold his head in place, by the way he tilted his hips up to push deeper into Crow’s mouth. “Ahh…” He moaned helplessly, and his cup of wine dropped out of his other hand to splash crimson across the blankets. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, your bed- I- oh sweet gracious me…!  

Crow barely noticed either the spilled wine or his fluttery attempts at apology. Every single drop of trembling focus was on the exquisitely perfect shape and salty-sweet tang of Azra’s rigid cock filling his mouth. He’d wanted to put his mouth on it ever since he first saw it, and it...it...it defied proper description. Silky-hard against his tongue, so warm, pulsing harder and harder every second, and absolutely the most erotic thing he’d ever felt in his life. Crow moaned around his mouthful and pushed him in as deep as he could manage, glorying in the press against the back of his throat. He wanted to take him all the way in, wanted to pleasure him until he lost control and… 

A note of caution broke through the haze. Crow pulled off him, swallowed and looked blearily up through disheveled strands of red hair. “D’ya want me to stop?”  

Azra stared at him from his back, glassy-eyed and indignant. “Wha-? No!”  

Crow laughed. He ducked his head and shoved him deep in his mouth again. Azra grabbed at him with a gasp, then just as hastily snatched his hands away. “Oh, sorry my dear, I-”  

Without raising his head, without relinquishing even an inch of him, Crow reached up and felt around until he found Azra’s hands. He took hold of them and pulled them down to rest on his own head, slid the fingers through his hair and held them there until he felt them close into fists. Until Azra had a good firm grip.  

Then he wrapped a long arm under Azra’s waist, held him close, and sucked him. He swallowed him down and laved him with his tongue, pushed him deep and drew him out again in long, tight pulls, going on instinct, and if he was inexperienced that didn’t affect how much either of them enjoyed it. Azra held on to his hair for dear life as he moaned and whimpered, thighs quivering with tension as he struggled to hold still. Crow caressed Azra’s soft chest and stomach, slid hands under his hips and tugged gently upwards, letting him know it was alright to want, to take, to indulge. It didn’t take much encouragement. At his urging Azra quickly devolved from slow and careful to something primal and desperate. Soon he was using language quite unbecoming for his station, grasping Crow’s head with fingers digging into his scalp, nearly sobbing his name in broken gasps as he thrust up into his mouth over and over again. It was beautiful, exhilarating; it sent chills racing over Crow’s arms and made him feel like he could climb the entire tower in a single bound.  

And when all too soon Azra cried out, seized his wrist in a grip like iron and poured himself shuddering down his throat, Crow felt like he could touch the very stars.  

Crow woke, much later, in the middle of the night with heart thrilling for no reason at all, to that silvery moonlit strangeness of another person beside him in the dark. The night outside the window was silent. The passion-wrecked bed smelled like Azra, and come, and red cherry wine. Crow carefully scooted up behind him and wrapped both arms around his chest, pulling him close. He lay there holding him in the tangled sheets with bodies pressed all together, listening to Azra breathe and mumble a bit in his sleep. Touching lips to the back of his head and soaking in the heart-leaping surreality of it all. Watching the stars slowly turn past the open window. He lay awake until the sky blushed pink, and the thrush began to sing, and the man in his arms began to stir.  

That was the second night.  

It was around noon, and Crow lay sprawled between Azra’s legs with back against his soft stomach. Lunch was digesting in their bellies, and they were very content to simply lie there and enjoy the time together. The prince had a possessive arm wrapped around his chest, and had been humming and idly toying with his hair for the last half hour, combing his fingers through it and smoothing it back. Right now those fingers were massaging gently at the temples in little circular motions, and Crow was fighting to not loose the guttural, dying-cow sound of pure pleasure that would definitely ruin the mood.  

He’d also discovered that if he tipped his head back to look at him, Azra would smile and place a warm kiss on his forehead every time. There had already been many warm kisses. He was in serious danger of melting into a gooey puddle.  

He caught a glimpse of his hair out of the corner of his eye, and pulled a red strand around to squint at it. “What are you up to back there? Did you braid my hair?”  

“Only the one piece.”  

Fingers slid over his scalp again, coaxing out the tangles, and Crow moaned before he could stop himself. “That’s ridiculous. Don’t stop. Where does a prince learn to braid hair, anyhow?”  

“Our cook showed me, when I was little. Then I practiced on my pony, with ribbons.” Gentle hands gathered up new pieces of hair, tugging at the back of his head.  

Crow snickered, eyes drifting shut again. “Mm. Bet that went over well.”  

“Mmm hm. About as well as one might expect. Sandalphon told Father, and Father made me go and train at swordwork for hours when he caught me. Goodness, my hands were blistered for days, I couldn’t even hold a quill." Azra sighed. 

Crow’s eyes popped open. The anger came swift and sharp, taking him by surprise with its ferocity. His hands clenched at his sides until they creaked, and he grit his teeth in helpless fury. It was useless to hate a man years dead, he knew that, but... how he would love to have a few private words with the old King.

He tilted his head back to say so. "Well, I-" 

Warm lips touched his forehead, and both his anger and his thoughts evaporated like a puff of steam. "Well..." he sighed, and just lay there with head tipped back and eyes shut. He reached behind him and took Azra’s hand, and kissed the palm. “Well, you can do whatever you like to my hair. I promise I won’t tell.”  

“Thank you, love.” Azra sighed, and resumed combing. “Everyone else in the palace always loved things like sword work and hunting. Grand balls and tournaments, all the court events. My entire family lived for it.” He sounded genuinely baffled. "Father always said that there was something gone awry in my head, and I suppose he must have been right in a sense. Clearly I'm missing something." 

Crow sat stock still for a long moment, mouth pressed into a line, then said all at once, harshly, “My father was a necromancer.”   

The hands in his hair paused. “I beg your pardon?” came the startled reply.   

“My father. He could raise the dead.” Crow bit his lip and closed his eyes. Azra had gone still behind him.

There was a stunned silence. “But...I thought you said sorcerers couldn’t do that?”  

“We can’t,” Crow said quickly. “Mostly. Father was the first and only one in hundreds of years. And ‘raise the dead’ might not be the right term for it. He could animate corpses, more like. Mindless drones who would obey.”  

“We did hear stories,” Azra said softly after another long pause. “Stories filtered in from one of the Southernmost kingdoms about a battle, oh, years ago. I always thought it was pure nonsense, wild rumours...”

“Oh, yeah,” Crow sighed. “Good old Father and his little army of invulnerable soldiers. He could raise about four dozen at a time, which doesn’t sound like much, but when they can’t be killed...” He twitched a shoulder, and snorted. "To hear the sorcerers talk it was this huge glorious battle. They conveniently ignore that they barely made it above the Wall, then used their homing amulets to run the moment Father was killed." Here he shook his fist and deepened his voice in mimicry of Dagon’s. “Slain, slain by the disgusting trickery of those Northlander scum!” He gave a humourless laugh. “But there was no trickery, just typical arrogance. Father didn’t bother to carry a shield, or even take cover. Just strode right out there with all the confidence in the world. Ten minutes in he took a crossbow bolt to the forehead and his entire army dropped dead. Again.”   

“Good Lord.”   

“Yeah." Crow closed his eyes and breathed slowly out. That hand had started petting his hair again, comforting. It felt good. He relaxed, and realised that he was still rambling quickly on without even meaning to: "I was always supposed to be the big hope for sorcerer society, second chances at glory, that sort of thing. Everyone thought that because I was his only Heir, then I’d inherit the necromancer power. But...I didn’t.” He swallowed hard.   

“Oh.” Azra sighed heavily. “I see.”   

It sounded like he did see.   

“Well, thank heavens for that,” Azra said crisply after a contemplative moment. “It sounds like a highly disagreeable power to have, anyway.”  

Against all odds, Crow felt the corners of his mouth quirk up. “Yeah. Yeah, it really was. I spent a lot of time staring at corpses and hoping they wouldn't move." 

"How utterly frightful." 

Crow was fighting a grin now. "But...my point was that... you aren't missing a damned thing, and we should consider the possibility that both our fathers were complete idiots." 

Azra chuckled, a rumble against Crow's back that turned into a full-bellied laugh. Then they were both laughing fit to burst, Crow with his head resting back on Azra's chest, and Azra's arms holding him as if to brace himself. Laughing long past when it stopped being funny, just laughing for the sheer relief of it. 

Entranced with each other, time did not blur so much as move forward in strange leaps and dollops, flashes of vivid clarity interspersed with vague periods of happy nothing. Here they were lying on his bed, Azra reading from a silver-leaf-edged book with those little gold spectacles perched on his nose...and now they were looking out the window together as a storm flashed in the distant clouds…  

Showing Azra his Artifact collection room, soaking in his delight as he carefully demonstrated (or in some cases, only described) all the mostly-useless powers. 

A casual hand on the back while he poured them some wine. A brush of lips on his cheek as he cooked their lunch, an arm around Azra’s waist... 

Crow would suppress the urge to reach for him, out of habit, only to be pulled into Azra’s arms a second later. The prince seemed to have an uncanny ability to tell when he was aching to be held. But then, he was often aching to be held. 

Here he was sitting up in bed in the morning, watching: Azra, barefoot and adorably casual in only a shirt and breeches, using a slim silver blade to scrape the pale stubble off his face with the same elegant precision that he did everything else. Crow moving close and brushing his lips across the freshly smoothed, damp cheek. Smelling his own aftershave on Azra, mingling with his natural scent, the combination potent enough to set his head spinning.  

Conjuring a tiny fiery hummingbird above them as they lay in bed, making it flit around illusory flowers in the dark while Azra watched with an enormous smile on his face. 

Azra kissing him in his bedroom by the half-light of the fireplace, pushing Crow down to sit in his carved chair as he slowly lowered himself to his knees before him, a dark silhouette limned in gold-orange… The grip of broad hands to his thighs, the hasty working of fingers at laces. The razor edge of breathless anticipation. And finally the startlingly hot, wet new ecstasy of Azra’s mouth closing over him, a pulse that made Crow arch in his seat, made him reach up and clutch at the gold posts of the chair back for dear life as he moaned through tightly clamped lips and fought to avoid setting the whole damned thing on fire… 

Curled together in bed, after, in the times that were just as good: those moments when he lay in Azra’s arms with face against his soft chest. Feeling that still-foreign sensation of another life against his own, listening to the beating of Azra’s heart. Letting his hands drift over Azra’s naked body. Talking to each other about small things and planning what to have for dinner that night.   

“I’ve been longing for you my whole life,” Azra murmured during one of these times. He lay on his back with Crow atop him, red hair spilled across his bare chest, and they’d just been lying there in silence for a while listening to the crickets sing outside. “I wish I’d found you sooner. And come to my senses before I hurt you.”  

“Forgive yourself,” Crow replied drowsily. His mind was loose and relaxed, floating, only one step from dozing. “You were doing what you thought was right.”   

Crow woke once with a start in the small hours of the morning to the feeling of being touched, and for a split second almost panicked- had someone burst in to attack him as he slept? But of course, no- it was only fingers stroking down his bare spine, lingering at the small of his back.  

“Wh’tisit?” he mumbled. He reached out without opening his eyes, groped unseeing in the dark...and felt a soft hand capture his, fingers twining through his own and giving a reassuring squeeze. A press of warm lips to the scar on the back of his wrist.  

“Nothing, my dear.” A whisper with a smile in it. “All is well. I’m just looking at you.” 

“Hngh. M’kay.” Crow sighed, and let himself be pulled under again.  

All is well.   

And on the third night, wrapped chest-to-chest in Azra’s arms, they crossed yet another threshold, one involving several false starts, and oils, and lots of gentle reassurances on both sides. Gradual shifting of hands, and probing exploring fingers, and mouths hot on damp skin. But they were equally determined, and in the end they crossed it all the same.  

In a rush of fire and silk Crow eased inside him for the first time, and it felt like coming home.  

“Oh …” Azra shifted under him, pulling a long, slow breath that seemed to move through his entire body. Fingers clenched on his shoulders. “Ohhhhh. You feel…” he whispered. 

Crow squeezed his eyes shut, trembling with the effort of remaining still. Azra was a perfect circle around his cock, hot and tight. Welcoming. Little pulses tugged at him, and his body wanted to thrust. He wanted to sink all the way in until there was nowhere left to go, to feel his hips pressed flush and Azra’s body clamped around every single hard inch of him... 

“You alright, angel?” he whispered instead. 

“Mm. Oh.” Azra nodded and tightened his arms around him. “More than alright. Just… go slow.”  

They rocked in the vast ocean of his bed for a long while, just swaying gently while locked snug together, finding their rhythm. Testing this new thing and letting the tension in Azra’s body melt away, until he could take in all of him. Crow held him with face pressed into his neck and went as carefully as he could, terrified of hurting him, moving gradually from a sway to tiny undulations of his hips that felt better than anything he had ever imagined. The first solid push into that soft heat was an ecstasy that pulled a guttural “uhh” out of him, and he had to pause with head bowed, and breathe, and bite his lip to avoid losing all control. He wanted to feel all of him, to take, to bury himself so deeply in him that he never had to stop feeling exactly like this... 

And then Azra’s legs came up to clamp around him; strong hands grasped his arse and with one sure tug pulled him all the way in to the hilt. Crow gasped in shocked delight at the sudden tight grip; his hips jerked involuntarily as he felt his cock pulse. The contrast of stiff and yielding, oh, the soft clenching heat of him… Crow whined deep in his throat and thrust, hard, before he even realised what he was doing, and the sound Azra made in response was not one of pain. Crow thrust again, gentler, groaning in abject relief, and suddenly all was sliding hot pressure and decadent softness. There was nothing but the slick thrust and pull, the sound of skin against skin, half-caught breaths and matching cries of pleasure that punched out of them both with each tiny rock of Crow’s hips. They were tangled fully around each other and moving steadily together, Azra’s heels pressed hard under his backside. And this was like nothing Crow could have ever dreamed. He’d never dreamed he could have this, want this, with anyone, and this was more than sex… this was something that had his eyes stinging, and mortifying tears brimming hot on his cheeks…  

The careful restraint began to unravel. Their coupling grew more and more urgent, raw desire overwhelming caution as they strained to be ever closer. As the heavy hot pressure in Crow’s lower belly swelled to an inferno he could feel raw magic begin to spill out with every beat of his pounding heart, could taste it sharp on his tongue. He couldn’t control it, fuck, he couldn’t. All his skin was seething with heat now, far too hot, oh- he was surely going to scorch him. 

Crow felt like it would kill him to stop, but he did stop, and started to pull away. “Sorry-” 

“No, don’t- don’t stop,” Azra gasped. He moved soft hands to his hips, gripping lightly to hold him there. “Keep going. Please,” he begged. 

Crow jerked his head back and forth without opening his eyes. “Don’t want t’hurt you…”  

“You won’t.” Hands touched his burning chest, and Crow twitched, then relaxed. Azra pulled him back down and kissed his mouth. “See, it doesn’t hurt. Make love to me, darling. Please.”  

That “please” was his undoing. Crow groaned low in his throat and shook sweat-damp hair out of his face. He pulled Azra into his arms and kissed him again, slid deep inside him once more and made him gasp. “Alright, angel,” he said between kisses. He drew his knees up under himself for leverage, pushed forward again until they both moaned. “Anything you want,” he whispered, and took him faster.  

Azra clung to him and moaned with each push, tilted his hips to rub his cock against his stomach. Crow quickened his pace and held each thrust firm at the zenith, eyes clenched shut, teeth sunk deep into his lower lip as he fought for control. His breath came in short, ragged grunts of effort, so lost in it- in him, that he didn’t care how he sounded. Thin wisps of smoke curled up from where his hands made fists in the bedding.  

In the midst of almost agonized pleasure he felt a cool hand cup his face.  

“My love,” Azra murmured. “It’s alright. Let yourself go for me.”  

Crow did. He’d been struggling against the orgasm from the moment he entered him, and now he stopped fighting. A groan tore out of him; he clutched at Azra and gave himself entirely over to it, to him. Stars burst behind his clenched eyelids; for the first time he surrendered all restraint and let himself cry out loudly into the warm space between them, let himself moan and sob out his pleasure without trying to temper it, trusted Azra to hold him together as he fell apart. And it was good. His voice echoed uninhibited through the room as he bore down, as the devastating release ripped through his entire body and into Azra, wave upon wave of searing pleasure that left him panting and sweating. In that heat Crow felt the edges of his very soul glow cherry red, then begin to soften and blur. The air was hazy and grey with smoke. And Azra holding him through it all, whispering, “That’s it, yes, yes darling. Yes.” 

Before his vision even cleared, before he could begin to worry about Azra, the prince surprised him by echoing it right back with a climax of his own. And oh, he could feel it, a gripping sensation that rippled from the inside out and wrung every last bit from him. It was glorious to watch that composure fall apart, too: the astonished look in his wide blue eyes as he writhed under him, the uncontrolled arched spine, the ecstatic wails. The way those carefully tended hands scrabbled for purchase on his back, nails scoring the slick hot skin in long messy lines. Crow closed his eyes and willed him to scratch harder, harder. He hoped it broke the skin. He wanted those marks, wanted Azra to give him a set of scars he wouldn’t mind having, a reminder of his hands on him like this. 

And though he was the one inside he felt himself crack wide open yet again, felt Azra slip into all those cracks, into every flaw and scar and unlovable trait, filling him up like gold poured from a crucible.  

“You’re sure nothing hurts?”  

Crow murmured it to him afterwards as they lay there exhausted, still sweat slicked and wet with each other. The air of the dimly lit room was close and still tinged faintly with smoke. He held a cold damp cloth in his hand and was running it over Azra’s flushed and overheated chest, cooling his skin down. Every time the cloth grew warm he chilled it again with a mental command.  

Azra shook his head drowsily against his shoulder without opening his eyes, a faint satisfied smile on his lips. “A touch sore, perhaps, but in a good way. Ooh, there, that feels lovely.” He sighed and shifted luxuriously against him.   

Crow moved the cloth back to the requested spot, a blotchy red bite mark just below his collar bone. “I’m glad, but I meant…on your skin. I felt my magic- I thought- But I don’t see any burns.” He’d checked. Anxiously. The skin was red, but the ordinary flushed red of exertion and too much heat. There were burns and scorched hand prints on the silk sheets, on the mattress, even the headboard where he’d grabbed it… but none on Azra’s body. Which seemed odd, because he’d definitely been grabbing him too. Vigorously.  

“You were quite hot, almost like… stones that have been sitting in the sun. But not hot enough to hurt. Even if it had it would have been worth it.” Azra took his hand and slowly kissed the inside of his wrist, then each of his fingertips one by one. Each touch sent a pleasurable shiver through Crow’s wrung-out body. “The alternative was for you to stop, and that simply did not suit.”  

He sounded so impossibly smug that Crow had to grin. “Can’t have that.”  

“Mm.”  

Crow lay there looking down at the patterns the lamplight made on his face, at the faint tracery of lavender over the closed eyelids. He leaned down and lightly touched his lips to the silken skin.  

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he said quietly. “I don’t like hurting people with magic.”  

Azra opened his eyes now, and smiled up at him. “I know, my love. Of course you don’t.” As if it were obvious. As if he’d never doubted.  

Crow let out a breath. He was surprised at what a relief it was.   

Azra was still smiling. “Let’s wait a couple more days before sending the letter, shall we? It will still get there before the Tournament.” He reached up and stroked Crow’s hair. “I don’t feel like sharing you tomorrow.”   

Crow only nodded, and bent to kiss him again, and the silent cry in his heart had a new refrain now.   

Stay forever.    

Chapter Text

“Good morning, love.” 

Crow surfaced from an extremely pleasant dream, directly into another one.

His face was mashed into Azra’s chest- a great place to be mashed, all things considered. They’d fallen asleep naked and wrapped up in each other again the night before, and Crow now lay splayed out on his stomach atop him like a giant weighted blanket. He sighed and rubbed his cheek through that fine silken hair without opening his eyes.

His entire life he’d been a restless sleeper, usually tossed and turned all over the bed, but he’d found to his great embarrassment that he was very clingy when sleeping with someone else. Learning all kinds of new things about himself lately. The first morning he’d woken up all tangled around him like a ball of string left in your pocket, and he’d tried to apologise- only for Azra to grab him and show him what clingy really meant. Now he didn’t even try to resist, and mornings were all the better for it.

“Mmf.” That soft, hairy chest was far more comfortable than his mattress. He kissed it and burrowed deeper into his embrace, and how had life become so wonderful? And how had he gone nearly forty damned years without this? “Morning,” he mumbled. “Time s’it?” Two syllables was the best he could do at this unholy hour. It was hard to tell for sure with the shutters and bedcurtains drawn, but it had that pre-dawn feel, and he was learning that Azra was by nature an early riser.

“Still very early. But I noticed that you’re rather...awake.”

“Nuh.” Crow pressed his face into Azra’s chest and closed his eyes tighter.

“Part of you is, though.” Azra shifted his leg to demonstrate, and a sleepy second later Crow realised what he was talking about. Oh. So he was awake. Very awake and pressing against the prince’s thigh.

“Mmhm.” He pressed a little harder.

“Is that for me?”

“Mmn.” It had been a very good dream.

Azra tightened his arms around him and turned to his left, rolled Crow carefully over onto his back. He touched his nose to Crow’s cheek, and Crow could feel him smile. “Well then, my ruffian. Let me help you get back to sleep, hm?” He kissed him, and kept kissing as he slid down Crow’s bare chest, under the covers, down his stomach and then-

“Oh...guhh,” Crow breathed. Two very heartfelt syllables that turned into a moan.

“Just relax, my dear,” came the muffled voice from between his legs. 

Crow was happy to obey. He stretched long limbs out languidly on the bed, slid his hands into the soft white hair and let himself indulge. And indulgence it was. For never having touched a man before a week ago, Azra was remarkably…gifted. Or a fast learner. Crow had absolutely no basis for comparison, of course, but sometimes you simply didn’t need to taste average to recognise excellence.

Five days, they’d spent together in the tower, barely stepping outside except to tend to Serafina, and never once outside the hedge. Five days of absolute bliss that seemed like an excerpt from someone else’s life. Five days of feeling like he had stepped through a magic portal into a sunlit fantasy land, far too good to be true. 

But today it was time.

Later that afternoon, Crow sat on the edge of the bed and watched Azra get dressed for their jaunt up to Empyrion, making sure to keep his anxiety well-hidden. 

Time to breach their perfect little bubble world. Neither of them had been eager to do so, and through a mixture of selective amnesia and strategic...distractions, they’d managed to put it off up to the absolute last minute. But the last minute had finally arrived; the Tournament was tomorrow, and now there was just barely enough time to get a letter to Gabriel by sometime the next day... though if they were entirely honest, they had become progressively less concerned about that as the days went on. 

Nevertheless, now Crow was forced to remember that there was a wider world out there, one mostly populated by complete idiots, and that he was still waiting for a response from the Council to Hastur’s firing, waiting to find out what the fallout would be from that situation, and here they were about to incite another one. Time to fire another arrow into the dark, and wait for the bloom of orange to see what ignited. He didn’t look forward to it.

Azra glanced at him, halfway through pulling on his boots, and smiled. He looked gorgeous in a casual brown leather doublet for the trip, with long slashed sleeves layered over blue linen undershirt. His cravat was patterned in blue and pale lavender that complimented his eyes. He’d added a single gold pin to keep it in place. “We're only going to send a letter, love. Nothing nefarious. We’ve been up there dozens of times, after all.” 

So much for well-hidden. 

Crow went over and put his arms around him, pressed his lips to his hair. “Yeah,” he muttered. 

“Gabriel won’t know where I am,” Azra said gently, and twined a comforting arm around Crow’s waist. “No matter how angry he is at me, or what kind of fuss he makes up there, it can’t reach us all the way down here. And he’ll have his hands far too full with the Tournament, anyhow.” 

“Hngh.” Crow didn’t entirely share his optimism, though he would have liked to. “I just know from too much experience how things can all go...pear-shaped, in the blink of an eye.” 

“And if they do, we’ll handle that too,” Azra replied, unruffled. His arm tightened. “Pears notwithstanding. Because I love you, and I want all of it with you. I want the good days and the bad ones, because any bad day is better with you in it. I want to have dinner with you every night and stitch you up when you get hurt, and I want to protect you from all the terrible fools who come to your tower to hurt you in the first place.” 

Crow scoffed, because his throat had clenched up and the alternative was to start crying, and it at least used the same muscles. “I'll be sure to send them your way,” he whispered. And then, “I love you too,” even quieter. He brushed Azra’s hair back with both hands, letting his fingers stay buried in the soft white curls as he touched his lips first to the crinkles by each eye, then to his mouth. 

Azra returned the kiss with ardor, closing his eyes and leaning into him. Crow loved the way Azra kissed, loved the way his hands clutched at his clothes and the small happy hum against his mouth, the way everything around them always dissolved into nothing and the entire world felt whole. And how had he gone his entire life without this? He would never, ever get used to it, either, not in a thousand more years...

Azra finally broke off the kiss and smiled up at him. “Shall we? We’re cutting it a tad fine as it is. I’m sure Gabriel is already furious at my unexplained absence.” He sounded entirely too pleased at the idea, and Crow smirked. 

“Mm. Can’t have that.” He touched their foreheads together, rubbed a thumb across Azra’s cheek once more, then let him go. “Fancy going for dinner and a drink at the Jezebel after we take care of business?”

“That sounds marvelous.” It wasn’t a very cold day from the look of it, but Azra was shrugging into yet another piece of clothing, a chocolate-brown suede coat that cinched at the waist with a broad leather belt. “It will be nice to see Tracy. Some of that strawberry wine sounds like just the thing. Or possibly that marvelous vanilla brandy that she makes!” 

“Ehhh, yeah.” Crow winced. “I may pass on brandy. Last time I was there I, uh...overindulged a bit.” 

“You did? When was this?”

“And I may have accidentally set one of Tracy’s rooms on fire.” 

Azra paused midway through buckling the coat. “I’m sorry, you did what?” 

"Ugh, don’t ask.” He’d been trying to forget. The memory still made him cringe.

Azra wanted to ask, he could tell, but evidently decided it wasn’t worth it. He only shook his head and finished fastening the belt. “Just the wine, then.” 

“Sounds perfect.” Crow gave Azra’s cravat a few adjustments. It wasn’t crooked, he just liked to tug at it. “Back at it with your layers, I see,” he said with a smile. 

“Of course.” Azra lifted his chin and gave him an arch look. “Just because I’m choosing a disreputable life doesn’t mean that I can forsake all decorum entirely. At least in public."

“Mhm. Wouldn’t want to risk feeling an errant breeze, would we?” 

On his desk next to them sat a glass of fresh yellow irises, picked from the garden the night before. Crow plucked one from the bunch and tucked it into the front of Azra’s doublet, into one of the little decorative slashes. Then he took his hand and kissed it, like he had done at the Ball. “Your Holiness.” His manner was only half-teasing. The entire situation had a kind of gravity to it that filled him with almost solemn joy despite the nerves.

Azra took Crow’s hand and kissed it in return with a slight bow, the motion elegant and as natural as breathing. Things like that always forcefully reminded Crow that Azra was, in fact, Empyrion royalty. He acted so unlike other nobles that sometimes it was easy to forget.

Azra’s smile turned impish, and he patted the flower at his chest. “I can tell Tracy that it’s a favour from a lady that I rescued.”

Crow pulled a face. “Oh, ugh, you’d better not.” 

Azra gave a dreamy sigh and reached up to twist a strand of red hair around his forefinger. “Yes. A lovely, delicate damsel with long flowing tresses like burnished copper, whom I found languishing in a tower, and-” 

“It’s not too late to incinerate you.” Crow scowled at him, though his mouth wanted to laugh. His face had gone hot, curse it, he could just tell he was bright red.  

Azra only grinned and went to Crow’s desk, where a gold-sealed envelope lay waiting. No pigeon post for this one- they would be sending it via courier to ensure proper delivery. He’d written it late the night before while Crow lay in bed reading one of his books. Or pretended to read, anyway – he'd actually spent the time mostly watching Azra sitting at his desk: tongue caught between his teeth and that serious little wrinkle between his brows as he wrote, the one he only got when he was thinking very hard.   

Azra picked up the letter and looked down at it for a moment, then stowed it safely away in the innermost pocket of his doublet, against his chest. He picked up his nearly empty cup of morning tea on the desk and drained it in a single dignified gulp. Then he turned back towards Crow and held out his hand with a smile, inviting. 

Crow took it, and together they headed down the stairs to see what trouble the outside world held in store for them. 

It was the damp and earthy kind of fall afternoon, the sun shining weakly over the Rookery from behind thick veils of clouds. A thread of cool fresh wind blowing in from the North swept away some of the moisture and carried in musky-sweet smells from the nearby trees. A fine day for walking. 

After a quick visit to Serafina they struck out quickly for the relative cover of the Wood, traveling on foot the way Crow had dozens of times before for their lunch rendezvous. It felt very odd to be making the trip with Azra beside him now. The first of many trips.   

It was only a couple of miles or so to the Eastern gate, but it took longer than usual due to their leisurely pace. Crow’s hand reached out and found Azra’s soft one as they walked through the forest together, both saying nothing, just enjoying each other’s company and the view all around. There was plenty to enjoy. Vivid autumn colours all above and below, a canopy of orange and red just starting to lose their leaves and pattern the ground. The earth was damp beneath their booted feet from recent rain, the thick carpet of moss and fallen leaves made almost no noise. The air smelled cold and full of fresh exciting promise. And of course, best of all, Azra next to him, face set in a calm contented smile.

Azra squeezed his hand, and Crow squeezed back.  

Soon enough they came to the familiar rocky terrain that marked the nearness of the Eastern gate. A short hop and a jump later the gate itself was looming before them: the tall white Wall stretching to all sides, and the familiar wooden door with rusted hinges. The site of so many meetings, and right where it had all begun on a late spring day...only months ago? The idea made Crow blink in disbelief. It felt like an entire lifetime.  

As they approached the door, as Crow began to reach for his dark glasses, Azra stopped and tugged him to a halt. “Wait one moment, my dear.” His cheeks were rather flushed, though they hadn’t been exerting themselves, and he turned to face Crow with an expectant smile. 

Crow raised a quizzical eyebrow at him.

“Crow,” Azra began, and took his other hand too. His fingers squeezed with what felt like nervous excitement. “My love. I was thinking that... Well, it’s all rather official, now, isn’t it? What with sending the letter today, and firing Hastur and such.”   

What? “Er, yeah, should be…unless there’s some other engagement you need to break off somewhere else.”  

Azra rolled his eyes, still smiling. “And this is where we met, do you remember?”  

Crow chuckled and squeezed his hands, bemused. “It’s hardly the sort of day I can forget, angel.”  

Azra beamed. “Well- yes, of course. Silly of me. But my darling, I was wondering if…” The pink flush deepened, spread to his ears and neck. “Seeing as we’ve come so far since then... that is, given everything that’s happened…” He trailed off and paused with his mouth open, flustered. He looked as if he were hoping for someone else to burst out of the shrubbery and finish the sentence for him. 

“Uh...yeah?” Crow was now utterly confused. He would have been worried, too, except that Azra's eyes were still crinkled happily in a way that didn’t seem consistent with bad news.   

“Well...” Azra took a deep breath. 

There was no warning. No crunching of forest floor underfoot – but then there wouldn’t be, on the stone, and the rain-sodden leaves were quiet. No ravens were here to raise the alarm. And if he were entirely honest, he'd let his attention grow slightly occupied. 

So Crow only saw Azra’s eyes suddenly widen, gaze fixing on a point over his shoulder, and then it was too late. He had time for only a single, heartfelt thought:  

Ah, fuck.   

There was a whoosh of air, the flapping of cloth moving far too swiftly to be natural, and a scratchy bag was thrown over Crow’s head from behind. A second whoosh, and at almost the same time a fist struck him hard under the eye, sending a spike of stunning pain through his head and spinning the world round him. His hands were torn from Azra’s grip as he fell facedown in a graceless sprawl.  

“Crow!” He heard Azra yell his name, then grunt as if struck in the stomach. There was the sound of a brief scuffle.  

“Azra!” Crow yelled and struggled madly, trying to get to him, but he was stunned and blind, and he had never been what you’d call physically imposing to begin with. A boot on his back shoved him down; strong hands seized his arms and yanked them up behind his back as his wrists were swiftly wrapped together with coarse rope. Someone muttered a word, one Crow recognised as a spell of binding, and the rope around his wrists knotted itself tightly.  

Well, fuck. That meant the situation was officially pear-shaped. Several pears worth of pear-shaped.

They were in Trouble.   

Then to add insult to injury, someone reached up under the hood and wrestled a filthy rag into his mouth.  

Crow swore as loudly and creatively as he could, but only managed a long stream of muffled gurgling. He grit his teeth on the gag and frantically considered his options. They were precisely shite: without speech, hands, or even vision to focus he couldn’t work any magic, not even his homing amulet, which- shit, he’d forgotten at home. It worked too slowly, anyway. Even if he managed to simply burst into a pillar of uncontrolled flame the way he had when he was a pubescent boy, the only person he would really hurt was Azra – direct sorcerer fire couldn’t burn sorcerers, being raw magic and not quite real fire at all. It was the only thing that allowed them to live in proximity to one another, otherwise their (literally) flaring tempers would probably have wiped out the entire sorcerer society centuries ago.  

And wasn’t it too bad that it didn’t? Crow thought furiously.  

But that meant he had nothing, nothing at all. He thrashed around on his stomach, kicking blindly out at the person holding him. He could be really lithe and squirmy when he wanted to be, had plenty of practice with fending off attacks, but that had always been against mundanes. He’d never been so thoroughly incapacitated before. From the sound of it Azra had been quickly subdued as well. Even if the prince had been wearing his Artifact sword there wouldn’t have been time to draw it, but the cursed thing was still lying uselessly under Crow’s bed next to the saddlebags. Right where it had been for the last five days.  

That was all the thought Crow had time for before he was hauled to his feet, head still spinning from the blow, and forcefully hustled along. Then most of his attention was occupied with not accidentally inhaling the gag and dying the world’s most pointless death. The only thing that kept him from utter and complete panic was the muffled yet vigorous sounds of protest nearby, which let him know that Azra was very much alive. Gagged and restrained too, but alive. And angry, by the sound of it. Crow knew exactly how he felt. If only his head would stop hurting for a moment, and if he could only have a chance to get a proper breath.

He didn’t get that chance. They moved along swiftly and without pause for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only about half an hour or so. No one spoke, not a single word. Not that he would have been able to hear them if they had- inside the scratchy bag the sound of his own stormy nose-breathing was deafening. The ache in his head from being punched had faded, but now his eye had begun to throb instead. He tried blinking a bit, and discovered that yes, it hurt. He could only hope it didn’t look as swollen as it felt.  

This is what I get for being less paranoid, he raged silently, as he stubbed his toe on a rock and nearly fell. And to think he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be punched. It was far preferable to a stabbing, at least, and infinitely better than being poisoned. He’d had plenty of opportunity to appreciate the various fine nuances of injury over the years.  

You know, he thought furiously to the nameless ancient sorcerers, while you were inventing weird useless things, it would have been really handy if you had created an Artifact to tell you when you were about to be bloody well ambushed!  

He shoved at the person holding him, and received a cuff across the head for his trouble.  

At least we’re alive, he thought desperately. If the sorcerers wanted them dead, they would be dead already.

Finally he was yanked to a stop. As he stood there hunched over and trying to catch his breath he realised he could hear ravens again. His ravens. The familiar sound of the birds clamouring a greeting...so they were back at the Rookery, then.  

There was a low murmur of human voices as whoever held them conferred briefly.  

And then there came a sudden swish of air and a throaty avian crawww - a decidedly angry noise that Crow immediately recognised. One of his captors yelled in surprise and pain. The sound of flapping wings, and another screech. A man’s voice cursed, and there was the rush and crackle of sorcerer fire. The crawwing exploded into a frenzied cacophony all around and above them, followed by more cursing, more yelling, a lot of confused noise and general hubbub. More and more bird voices rose in fury and alarm until the air rang with it. The hands holding him let go, and what felt like a warm wind struck the left side of Crow’s body as a ball of sorcerer fire grazed him. He smelled smoke; aargh, a growing heat on his arm told him that his clothes had ignited. He quickly dropped to the grass and rolled it out – ordinary fire could still burn him as much as anyone.   

The ravens, Crow thought, and choked out a mad cackle around the dirty rag. The ravens are attacking. How about that.

Among the chaos a hand seized the back of his shirt collar and hauled him back to his feet. “Call them off!” a very recognisable voice snarled in his ear. Crow groaned aloud. Lord Belz. Of course it was.  

The hood was yanked off his head, revealing a scene of complete mayhem. They stood in front of the looming hedge, and the air was full of smoke and darting black shapes. Bursts of sullen red flame lit the gloom in flashes. The entire swirling flock of ravens was diving at the people on the ground: Lord Belz, a nasty cut streaking one cheekbone and still holding tight to Crow’s shirt; Lord Ligur and Lord Dagon clutching a hooded and tied Azra between them a few paces away. Last but not least – here Crow ground his teeth – there was Hastur, the bastard, dodging and swiping futilely at the birds along with the rest of them. Of course he was involved. Didn’t that just figure.  

The ravens weren’t attacking in groups, but one at a time from all different directions. Swooping down out of the smoke like avenging spirits, darting by to rake at exposed faces and necks with outstretched talons before veering off, nimbly dodging the balls of fire being flung in retaliation. The fire seemed to only provoke them further. Even as Crow watched a huge raven flew directly into Lord Ligur’s face, wings flapping, and the sorcerer was forced to drop Azra’s arm and spin away to save his eyes. Lord Dagon helpfully sent a blast of green fire directly at the bird – but it was already gone, wheeling away back into the smoky sky, and Dagon only succeeding in enveloping the shrieking Ligur’s head in a ball of flame. Dagon abruptly had his own problems as two more ravens took advantage of his distraction to latch on to the back of his neck; he screamed and flailed as they pecked at him.

All four captors sported bloody scratches and badly singed clothing, but it didn't look as if they’d managed to kill any birds yet, or burn through his fire-resistant hedge. Crow felt a surge of fierce pride in both.  

“Call them off,” Lord Belz ordered again. She reached over and yanked the gag out of Crow’s mouth.  

“I can’t command them,” Crow snapped. “They’re doing this on their own.” He flexed his hands behind his back, hoping to take advantage of the distraction, but the rope held tight. No give at all.  

Lord Belz swiped away a diving raven and shoved Crow roughly at the hedge. “Open it then,” she said, and jerked her head towards Azra. “Or I kill him right now.” She didn’t bother waving a knife or making any threatening gestures – no need, when they all had fire at their fingertips.  

He had no choice. Crow spoke the new password (“mellon”), and they were bundled through the wall of thorny vines. Hastur ran as quickly as his spindly legs would carry him over to the double doors leading down to the tiny cellar dungeon, harassed by maddened birds every step of the way. He hauled them open, grunting from the effort, and the harried group dragged Crow and Azra down the steps, lighting the torches on the walls as they went. Blessed silence fell at last as the doors slammed shut on the mayhem behind them. 

Silence, and the ragged panting of three absolutely spitting mad sorcerers. On second thought, Crow much preferred the mayhem. 

“Get in there.”  

Crow was promptly shoved headfirst into the small jail cell, hands still tied behind his back, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the bars as he lost his balance and stumbled to the dirt floor. The unfortunate Azra was dragged over and cuffed once again to the rusty chained manacles hanging from the wall next to the cell. They didn’t bother to remove his hood. Lord Dagon took up guard position a few steps away, lip curled in an angry snarl and a small spark of dull green fire at ready in his hand. Green was a bad choice; the bilious light shone sickly on his already thin and sallow face. The back of his neck was a mess of scratches and puncture wounds, and he moved as if it pained him.  

Good, Crow thought fiercely. He ignored Dagon and shuffled over on his knees to the left side of the cell, towards Azra. 

“Are you alright?” he called quietly. The pain of his swollen eye was nothing compared to the pain of seeing Azra in those chains again; it set his heart pounding.  

"Mmmph." Azra nodded under the hood and made a garbled sound through his gag that managed to sound indignant. His nice lavender cravat was dirty and torn open, his yellow flower was gone, and one of his jacket sleeves looked to have been singed in the firefight outside, but...he was standing straight and tall on his own two feet this time, and didn't seem to have a scratch on him. He very conspicuously lacked a single raven wound. Crow breathed a bit easier.  

Don’t panic. Imprisoned meant the sorcerers wanted something. All hope wasn’t lost.  

He heaved himself to his feet, set his jaw, and finally turned to face the three figures arrayed before him.  

It felt like a grim parody of a Council summons. Or a scene from a bad play, Crow couldn’t decide which. The guttering torches threw unsteady shadows on everyone in the small dark room, making the entire thing even more ominous. Not that it needed any help in that regard.  

On his far right stood Lord Ligur, a heavily scratched hand clutched to his cheek. He'd definitely looked better: a long bloody gash just above and below his eye spoke to a very near miss with some talons, lots of smaller cuts marred his forehead. His long leather coat was missing a chunk of the sleeve, and his shirt collar had been burned clean away by Dagon’s fireball to the face. He was still smoking slightly. 

Lord Belz stood in the middle, of course, directly in front of the bars, arms folded across her chest and eyes narrowed to yellow slits. She didn't seem to notice the still-bleeding scratch on her own cheek. The trails of red gave her pockmarked face a savage cast. Over her usual waistcoat and crimson sash she wore a scorched black jacket with lapels cut at asymmetrical angles. A collection of mismatched Artifact brooches adorned her breast, glinting in the firelight.  

“Well, well, well,” she said, with weighty emphasis. “If it isn’t the traitor.”  

“That’s not a nice word,” Crow commented, glaring at her through his good eye. "What seems to be the problem now?"

Lord Belz ignored him. “I must admit, when Hastur came to us with his suspicions, we thought he must be mistaken. No sorcerer, we thought, could possibly be so mad, so misguided.” 

She looked him over as if he was a specimen in a jar. “Still, such serious charges merited investigation, especially given your...unusual history. So we decided to pay you a little visit, a couple days ago, just to clear things up. And what do we find, but that your security had been changed. Suspicious, don’t you think? It makes one wonder what you're trying to hide, made us think Hastur’s tale might not be so far fetched after all. So we set watch to find out.”  

Crow groaned and thumped his forehead against the bars. He’d known for years that Hastur must have given the hedge password to the Council, but it had never occurred to him that changing it would be a giveaway.  

“Yes, that’s right.” Lord Belz stepped back. “You’ve been very wicked indeed, haven’t you? Let the witness step forth!” she shouted suddenly, making everyone in the room jump.  

Hastur shuffled soundlessly forward into the light and gave an obsequious little bow towards the other sorcerers. “M’Lords.” His sparse thatch of hair was in disarray, and he had a deep scratch on his left hand, but he had come out of it better than the others.  

“Heya Hastur. How’s retirement going?” Crow asked. And to think I felt even a little bit guilty, he thought disgustedly.  

Hastur only glared. Crow gave him his biggest grin, the one with all the teeth.  

There was a sharp clearing of throat off to the left. Lord Dagon. “Hastur, mundane, cousin of Lord Ligur,” he intoned formally, as if everyone there didn’t already know. “Do you recognise this man?” He reached out and finally, finally pulled the hood off Azra’s head. Azra blinked rapidly in the torchlight, then made a muffled mmmph through his gag and jerked at the chains. He ignored everyone else in the room; his wide blue eyes darted immediately to Crow, and mingled concern and relief flooded over his face. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Crow could practically hear, Are you alright, my dear?   

He wasn't, of course. Crow nodded and managed a small smile. “I’m fine,” he said quietly. Of course his brave, compassionate Azra was concerned about his wellbeing, even chained and surrounded by deadly enemies. “I’m sorry.”    

Azra only shook his head, eyes soft with fond exasperation.  

Crow loved him so much that it hurt.  

“That’s him!” Hastur said furiously, breaking through the moment and drawing all eyes back to him. His black eyes glittered with malicious excitement. “You can see the signet ring, it’s the same Empyrion Prince I told you about, the one I captured and that he wouldn’t kill.” He stabbed a shriveled finger at Crow. “Saw it with my own eyes. I thought it was only cowardice at the time, but he saved him. They’ve been... carrying on, behind our backs for ages!”  

The other sorcerers all made noises of distaste. Crow didn’t bother correcting them that the romance was new. Somehow he didn’t think they would offer congratulations.  

“I just knew it,” Hastur burst out again, grinning with all those crumbling teeth. Ugh. “I knew you were up to somethin’, sneaking around all the time, and I was right. Nowhere to run, now, Crow. You’re done. At long last, you’re done. You hear me, you useless little sh-”  

“That will do, Hastur,” Lord Belz drawled behind him, cutting off the ranting. “Remember your place.”  

Still glaring at Crow, Hastur fell silent and melted back into the shadows at the edge of the room. All that could still be seen was his eyes, glinting out of the darkness.  

“Consorting with the enemy,” Lord Ligur rumbled, voice thick with disgust. “Conspiring, plotting against us. All this time.” 

“That’s complete bollocks,” Crow retorted. “I haven’t betrayed anything, there’s been no plotting against Apollyon. This was purely personal, not business. Neither of us has been working for anyone. We just want to be left alone.” 

“Ha!” Lord Dagon let out an incredulous laugh, far louder than necessary. “Do you think we are complete fools?” 

Crow wisely held his tongue on that.  

“There is no personal when it comes to their lot,” Dagon sneered. “Even if you weren’t conspiring with him,” here he gave a vastly skeptical roll of his eyes, “then he has been using you, and you have simply been taken in like the naive fool you are. Silence!” The last was shouted at Azra, who had renewed his muffled sounds of protest, shaking his head and rattling at his chains. The prince subsided and just stood there, wide-eyed. “A staggering lapse, even for you. It was treason the moment you didn't capture or kill him on sight.”  

Lord Belz stepped regally forward once again, reclaiming the floor. “All these years of trust in you, Crow, and this is how we are repaid. I suppose we shouldn't be surprised. Living so far away from your own people, failing to provide an Heir, not even attempting to live up to your father’s legacy. Your judgment has always been...” She paused, dramatically. “...lacking. Much like yourself. You are an embarrassment to our kind.”  

Cold sweat had broken out along Crow’s spine. “Look, he- he’s worth far more alive. Just ransom him for a fortune. That will hurt the royals far worse, you know how greedy they are. Their honor will force them to pay anyway.” He hated how thready and desperate his voice sounded. Years of rage at bowing and scraping to these people was clawing its way up his chest, and he swallowed it down along with his pride. “I’ll go live in Pandemonium again, whatever you want. Just don’t kill him.” 

“Oh, you’re right about one thing. He’s far too valuable to kill.” Lord Belz walked over to the wall and ruffled Azra’s white hair. He jerked his head away and shot her a simply frigid look in response. “Not yet, anyway. An Empyrion Prince, a bargaining chip the likes of which we never thought to see,” she said with relish. “Finally, for the first time since the War we have some real leverage. We just need to figure out how best to use you, don’t we?” She patted Azra’s cheek, to his visible discomfort, and that hot rage swelled anew.  

“Get. Your hands. Off him,” Crow gritted through clenched teeth.  

Lord Dagon laughed. “Jealous, are we?” He gave Azra a swift once over, and shrugged. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste.” 

Crow saw red. His shirt began to smoke, and he glared daggers at Dagon, seething. 

Lord Belz strode back to stand in the center of the room, jacket lapels gripped in both hands. She cleared her throat loudly. “We have all seen the evidence of our own eyes, and heard the evidence spoken against him. What is the verdict of the Council?"

"Guilty," Dagon said immediately, glowering. Ligur echoed the sentiment a heartbeat later, still clutching at his injured face. 

Lord Belz gave a sharp nod. "Guilty. Sorcerer Crow, you are hereby convicted of treason." 

Of course I am. As if you came prepared to do anything else.

“So, what’s it to be, then? Death?” Crow asked belligerently. To his left, Azra made a frantic "nnnnnn" sound and thrashed desperately at his chains. Crow had only time for a single anguished look at him before Dagon threw the hood back over Azra's head. 

“Oh no," Belz said. "We’ve decided to let the punishment fit the crime, and we came prepared. Bring him.”  

Dagon and Ligur opened the cell door, seized Crow by the arms and dragged him out to stand before Lord Belz. He struggled and cursed at them, just to make them work for it. A sharp kick to the back of his leg had him down on his knees, putting him nearly at eye level with the much shorter sorcerer. 

Belz clicked her fingers, and Lord Ligur reached over Crow's shoulder and placed a black satin bag in her hand. From this she removed a set of thick silvery...manacles? They weren’t connected by a chain, so they more closely resembled metal cuffs that opened on a hinge. There was no lock. 

Behind Crow, Dagon spoke a word that released the rope tie around his wrists. 

Lord Belz regarded the cuffs thoughtfully, weighing them in her hands. “You know, we’ve never actually needed to use these before, but I’ve always wanted to. The only pair left that we know of, been sitting in the Justice Hall for centuries. I’m very curious to see how they work.”  

Crow scoffed. “What, new jewelry?” He was trying for cavalier, but the power humming off those cuffs had him sweating. An Artifact could do anything, and somehow he didn’t think these had been chosen for their warm and fuzzy comfort.   

The edges of Lord Belz's mouth twisted upwards, and it took him a minute to realise she was smiling. It only increased his dread exponentially. The expression didn't touch her eyes and looked unnatural on her face.

“You’ve always been a disappointment, Crow, and with this latest development it’s clear why. You were never truly one of us. You’ve always wanted to be one of them, haven’t you?”   

She grabbed his left arm, and with Ligur’s help forced it outstretched. “So now we’re going to give you your wish.”  

The manacle snapped shut on his wrist of its own accord, like hungry jaws. Once closed it sealed smoothly, leaving a solid silver cuff without any seam or indication that there had ever been hinged pieces.  

As the second manacle clicked into place Crow gasped and staggered. His connection to his magic, that inaudible humming beneath his skin that he had felt for his entire life, as much a part of him as his heartbeat, was…gone. Extinguished like a doused lantern, leaving him cold and oddly numb. He felt muffled, like having stuffed ears from a head cold. Panting, he tried to conjure fire, something that had come easy as breathing since as long as he could remember, but it was like trying to take a breath without lungs. His power was simply gone. He slumped over gasping on his knees as his vision went dark for a minute, then slowly faded back into focus.  

He distantly heard Azra yelling through his gag, clattering the chains around again, and remembered that the prince couldn't see what was happening. 

"S'alright," Crow called, trying to reassure him. "I'm fine. Just...feels a bit weird."

"Former Sorcerer Crow, your tower is forfeit along with all of your possessions," Lord Belz said above him. "As you have no Heirs-” this was said with a hint of sneer, “-the property will fall to the Council. And that reminds me..." A hand slid under the neck of Crow's shirt, and he jerked away.

"Oi!" 

"Don't flatter yourself." Lord Belz rifled briskly through his breeches pockets too. "Where is your amulet?" she snapped. 

"Lost it,” he muttered. It was, in fact, sitting in his desk drawer up in his bedroom where he had left it, but he wasn't going to make it any easier for them. 

A skeptical scoff. "No matter. We'll find that too once we search your tower." 

Crow was seized again and dragged, shocked and unresisting, back over to the cell. 

The door clanged shut on him. 

"And speaking of your tower, Hastur tells us that you have an entire room full of Artifacts up there. Let’s go have a look at what you’ve really been up to, shall we?” 

At least they didn't quote the Tenets at me, Crow thought morosely. That was a first. 

He sat on the floor of his cell with his back against the stone wall, legs outstretched before him and hands in his lap. 

The silver manacles hurt. Not pain, exactly, but a kind of creeping malaise that was difficult to quantify. His skin crawled, prickled. Breathing felt funny. His heart beat heavy in his chest. Clearly, suppressing magic was not healthy for people who had magic flowing in their very blood. In addition to that his swollen eye ached something fierce, and he'd been nervously jiggling his knee for so long that his heel had dug a groove in the packed dirt floor. 

The other sorcerers had been gone for about an hour, presumably rummaging through his Artifact room for further nonexistent evidence of conspiracy. Pawing through all his carefully curated rare collection, the greedy bastards, no doubt debating who would keep what. The only plus was that they had taken Hastur with them rather than leaving him to lurk. 

Outside the cell, still hooded, gagged and chained, Azra heaved a loud, expressive sigh in the silence that sounded more aggrieved than despairing. It was identical to the sigh he had given that morning, when he discovered that they were out of sugar for his tea. It sounded so ridiculous that Crow had to grin despite everything. 

“I guess I owe you dinner after this,” he said lightly. 

Azra snorted. 

They’d been talking a little bit here and there in the quiet, as much as they could when one party could only communicate in inarticulate sounds. Crow wished desperately that he could hold him; being so close yet unable to even see Azra's face was pure agony. But he kept that agony out of his voice. 

“I love you,” Crow said quietly. “I’ll think of something.” He'd been doing little else. 

"Mm mmmf ymmm auhgh," Azra mumbled back. 

Crow returned to his plotting. Well, no, plotting would imply that he had a plan of action. Currently he had only a circular track that his brain was looping frantic circles on, like a maddened hornet trapped in a jar. 

The situation was bad, no doubt about it. Definitely the worst situation he could remember being in, even the ones involving poison, but he'd been in very dire situations before and always managed to wriggle his way out. It seemed, at least, that they were in no immediate danger of being executed. The Council wanted to use Azra, not kill him. That was good. That gave Crow breathing room, and time to think of an angle to use...if he could just think of something to offer..or if they could perhaps escape...

The one bright side, he reasoned - well, more of an anemic gleam, really - was that the situation, for once in his life, could not get worse. 

There was a sudden bang as the cellar doors were flung open once again. Footsteps. Crow was slightly surprised to see that no light came down the stairs from above - was it nighttime already? Time really flew when you were in dire peril. 

"Here we go," he muttered. He stood up quickly as the three sorcerers filed back down into the dim little chamber, one at a time, trailed by Hastur.

Lord Dagon was holding a rectangular object covered in a cloth. The fingers of his right hand were solid black, as if dipped in ink, and Crow allowed himself a smirk. That would be from the small silver key on the shelf next to the self-repairing bowl. It looked completely innocent, but one touch with bare skin and your fingers darkened like the end-stage of some terrible rotting plague. The effect was purely cosmetic and only lasted for about an hour, but it was a nasty shock if you weren't expecting it. 

I hope you shat yourself, Crow thought sourly. 

The Council faced him, stood all in a line before his cell, and now he noticed with unease that there was an unmistakable air of excitement about them. Well, Belz merely looked slightly grimmer than usual, but Ligur's eyes shone, and Dagon wore a triumphant smirk. Behind them, in the shadows, Hastur looked practically gleeful. 

That couldn't be good. 

“So,” Lord Belz said without preamble. “Not conspiring, you said. You are as bad a liar as you are a sorcerer.”  

"I wasn't lying," Crow said irritably. Showboating wankers.

"Really. Then how, exactly, do you explain this?”  

Dagon stepped forward and whipped the cloth off with a dramatic flourish, revealing the hidden item.  

It was the elaborately carved, screaming wooden breadbox from his Artifact room.  

Crow stared at it, utterly nonplussed. He blinked, but it remained the breadbox. If he hadn't known full well that none of these people possessed anything like a sense of humour, he would have thought they were having a laugh at his expense. 

No one said anything. All three were watching him intently and seemed to be waiting for some kind of reaction, so he finally said, “Uh. What?”  

"Where did you acquire this, and how long have you been an agent for Empyrion?” Lord Ligur demanded. 

"Wait- what?" To Crow's left, Azra made a similarly confused sound. "Hold on, that's- What are you talking about? I'm not an agent for anything." 

“What did they offer you, Crow? Wealth? Land? Acceptance?” Lord Dagon's last word was a mocking sneer. “A place in their courts?"

Crow gave his head a shake to clear it. 

"Lord Belz,” he said as calmly as possible, ignoring Dagon and Ligur both, “I have no idea what the fuck they are on about, but there's clearly been a misunderstanding. That’s just another useless curiosity, I found it in some old ruins about ten years ago! For all our ears’ sake don’t open it, it makes a bloody awful sound.” 

"Don't insult us," Lord Dagon said. "You were planning to raze Pandemonium to the ground for the Northlanders, weren't you?" 

Crow was starting to doubt his own sanity. "With a breadbox?" he half-yelled. 

Lord Belz looked at him as if he had sprouted a second head. “You cannot possibly be so ignorant…”

Apparently his blank expression finally convinced her that he really could. The three Council members exchanged a look.

Lord Dagon let out a bark of humourless laughter. “You poor, pathetic man. Did your father teach you nothing?”   

“You three knew full well what Father spent all his time trying to teach me,” Crow spat, roused to fresh sharp anger by the prod at an old wound. “He had a very singular focus. And if it's not a breadbox then I have no idea what that thing is.”  

“Your ignorance is your own misfortune, then.” Lord Belz snapped her fingers at Dagon, who stepped forward to carefully take the box from her, handling it as if it might explode. “Take this and the hostage to Pandemonium. Prepare to leave tomorrow.” 

Crow felt as if he might explode. The walls were crashing down around him. “Wait, tomorrow?  What-”  

"Shall we rally the troops?" Dagon asked Belz, ignoring Crow. The three sorcerers gathered together into a triangle, speaking quietly, but the room was small enough that Crow could still hear them. 

"No," Lord Belz said after a moment's hard thought. "No. This calls for speed and stealth. With the hostage as collateral and the box as weapon, we don’t need an army, they would only slow us down and draw attention. The Council will be sufficient for now, we can send for the others once we have Empyrion in hand."

A brief cough. "And we cannot have his treason widely known, not Vlad’s son," added Lord Ligur. "It would set the wrong example for the younger ones."

"Agreed," Lord Belz said. "So we will deal with this ourselves. We are the only ones who know about this, and that is how it is going to stay, for now.” She shot a pointed glare over at Hastur, who didn’t look at all happy about it, but he finally nodded along with the rest. “Good. The moment we have awaited for centuries has finally arrived, brothers. Our glorious revenge is at hand!”  

Without further comment Lord Dagon turned and went over to Azra, reaching into his shirt as he went. He gripped the prince's arm and spoke a word, and the ring of red light sprang slowly up around his feet. 

Crow jerked from his stunned horror as he realised what was happening. "Azra!" he yelled, "Wait wait wait, wait a second, I-" but the homing amulet light had already completed it’s circuit, and in a flash both Dagon and Azra vanished. The chains clattered empty against the wall. 

“Wait- fuck,” Crow swore, and spun frantically back towards the remaining two Councillors. “What is going on? Where are you going tomorrow?"

For an awful moment he thought they wouldn't answer, but apparently the opportunity to gloat was just too tempting. 

“According to our intelligence, tomorrow all five of Empyrion's royal families will be under one roof," Lord Belz said, unsmiling. “We now have an unprecedented opportunity to strike at all five kingdoms at once. To cripple their governments and crush their spirits, to take their finest palace from them, all in one fell blow.”

Oh, shit. The Tournament. Crow swallowed hard against a hysterical laugh.

Lord Ligur pulled open the cell once more and took him by the arm, dragged him out yanked his manacled hands behind his back. Crow didn't bother fighting it this time. He just knelt there, horrified.  

Lord Belz stayed where she was, watching. “As it turns out, you've given us everything we need. Even a secret way through the Wall, yet another little detail you've neglected to mention." She gave a humourless laugh. “It turns out you will be the instrument of our glory after all, if not quite in the way we had hoped." 

"Yes," Lord Ligur said in his deep voice. "One way or another, Destiny has finally delivered our enemies directly into our hands.”   

Crow found his voice again. "Look, just- just think about this.” He licked his lips nervously. "Even if you somehow take the High Fells by force, there aren't enough sorcerers to hold all Empyrion. Honestly, what do you expect to accomplish?” 

“Vengeance,” Lord Belz said. Her eyes gleamed with a manic light that had nothing to do with the colour. "By this they shall know that the Sorcerers of old are still here, we are still powerful, and we still remember!"  

Crow just stared at her. "You are," he said with feeling, "completely mad." 

She bent down and leaned close to his ear. “And you are such a fool,” she hissed. The sudden venom in her voice took Crow aback. She continued speaking, quietly enough that only he could hear, biting off each word. “Did you really think that they would accept you into their elite circles, allow you a place at their fine tables? Do you honestly believe any of them out there could ever see you as anything but a dangerous freak?” Her face was almost impassive, but her yellow eyes burned with raw fury like nothing he'd ever seen. “Here in Apollyon you had everything, and you threw it away. You could have made something of yourself, even with your natural shortcomings, and instead you betrayed us. You are your father’s greatest failure.”   

She sighed, then straightened and gave a careless shrug. “Unfortunately for you,” she said in her normal, louder tone of voice, “your chances have run dry.” She snapped her fingers.  

Crow was seized by both upper arms and dragged to his feet. The scratchy sack was thrown over his head again.   

"The Vault," Lord Belz commanded. 

Someone growled something unintelligible. There was a familiar red glow, then a dizzy whoosh and swirl of power around him in the dark.   

Crow took a blind step, and found that the floor had changed under his feet: he now stood on smooth stone, not the dirt of his cellar, and from the echoes they were in a much larger room. That was all he had time to register before the restricting hands on his arms hauled him roughly along. He had no idea where the hell he was or where they were going, but they were going somewhere with purpose; it felt like they went down several narrow passages and a flight of equally narrow stairs. He could tell they were narrow because his captors kept bouncing him back and forth against the walls.   

They finally came to a stop. The hood was yanked off his head again, and cool air touched his skin.   

Crow coughed and blinked in the dimness of a long, narrow, low-ceilinged room, dingily lit by metal sconces set in niches along the walls. Less of a room, really, more of a damp stone hallway that smelled like mildew and rot and general disuse. Before him was a row of metal jail cells. To his right a single burly man dressed as a guard stood at attention.   

He was shoved forward into yet another tiny cube of a cell that contained nothing but a single wooden chair. The door slammed shut behind him, and an enormous metal padlock was fastened with an ominous clack.   

Lord Belz spread her hand above the lock, muttered, and the green fire of a warding spell sparked briefly. She stood there staring at him, flanked by Hastur and Lord Ligur, who must have all come with them via the amulet. Their eyes were hard.    

“Former Sorcerer Crow,” she said. “You will now rot in this cell without your power for the rest of your days. You’ll have all the time there is to think on your mistakes, traitor, while we go and finally exact our glorious revenge.” 

Time went by with all the speed of a dying tortoise.  

Crow prowled anxiously back and forth in his tiny cage. Three long steps forward. Three steps back. And again, endlessly. Just like he’d been doing all through the interminable night. At least, he was pretty sure it had been only one night. There was no sunlight or other visible markers of time wherever they had stashed him, but he knew it had been hours and hours, long enough for the guard to bring him water twice. He felt like he was going to climb the walls if he stayed here another moment. So far he’d smashed the wooden chair to bits, kicked the door, and tried to force his for-once-not-skinny-enough body through the small gaps between the bars. He had only bruises and a possibly fractured toe to show for it.  

The guard had found the entire thing extremely funny, the wanker. Not even a sorcerer guard, no, just one of the many eager mundane lackeys in sorcerer service. There were a shocking number of them here in (he presumed) Pandemonium, and some of them were even more wedded to the social order than the sorcerers themselves. It was a never-ending source of bafflement to him how someone could be so invested in a hierarchy that rated them somewhere just above a draft horse.  

Crow had finally flung a piece of the broken chair through the bars directly into the idiot’s guffawing face. He’d stopped laughing then.  

But now Crow was tired. The manacles hurt. He’d been on his feet for more than a day, and his energy levels were banked down to flickering coals. He was hungry. The last thing he’d eaten had been a light lunch with Azra at the tower, the day before, and his empty stomach gurgled.  

He couldn’t stop moving, though, because once he did then all he could think about was the softness of Azra's chest against his cheek. The feeling of Azra’s hands being yanked out of his grip, yesterday at the Wall. That last look at his face down in the Rookery dungeon, wondering if that glimpse would truly be the last one he ever had... 

He snarled and kicked violently at the bars.  

For the dozenth time he tried to blast the door, weaken the metal with heat the way he would have any other time. Come on, he growled to himself. Sorcerer magic is eight parts willpower, and you’ve plenty of that. He set his teeth and focused as hard as he could, straining with hand outstretched until he gave himself a headache, but nothing happened. There was only a yawning hole where he had once been full of fire.  

Gone. Useless. Helpless. 

He’d promised. After Hastur he’d promised himself that no one would ever harm Azra again, that the... carnage that followed Crow everywhere he went would never touch him. And he’d managed to keep that promise for all of two weeks. He might as well have gift-wrapped him for the Council himself. 

Shit, Azra. I’m so sorry. There was a tickle on his face, and he swiped at his cheek to find water there. He stood staring at his wet hand, dully surprised.  

He was running out of time. Was already out of time, probably. The Tournament was today, the sorcerers had surely already set out for Empyrion with their hostage, they were already gone, gone, gone beyond his reach, through the secret entrance that he had lead them right to, after all these years.... And they were certainly going to kill Azra the moment they didn’t need him any more, just to spite him. Those damned Empyrion royals wouldn’t do a thing to stop it, either, not if it meant compromising themselves. They would let his beautiful, kind, perfect Azra die without lifting a finger.  

Well, mangled fucking bollocks to that.  

Crow abruptly slammed the heels of his hands against the bars in a fit of rage. “Bastards! All of you!” he hollered at the top of his lungs. No answer, of course. Just the despairing echoes of his own voice and the drip of water.  

The last of his furious energy left him, and he slumped to his knees with a moan. If only he’d been different. Hell, if he’d been a different person, been like Father and all the rest, he...never would have met Azra, but then at least Azra would be safe. It wouldn’t be Crow’s fault. And he wouldn’t be alone again.  

He wasn’t entirely sure how long he knelt there, lost in dark thoughts. Banging his head occasionally against the metal bars, listening to the incessant drip, drip of the leaky pipe and the scree of a distant cricket. It could have been minutes or hours, but he finally became aware of a new, distant sound: 

Faint footsteps, echoing.  

The fucking guard. He would come and taunt him again... but maybe, maybe he could use that to his advantage this time. Maybe, if Crow was insulting or obnoxious enough, the guard would open the door to hit him. Then Crow could tackle him. Or maybe just lure him close enough to grab him and knock him out, grab his keys; he’d seen that done in plays before.  

It seemed a long shot, but if there was one thing in the world Crow was confident in, it was his ability to be unusually obnoxious. It was worth a try. He took a few quick deep breaths, trying to think of all the worst insults he’d ever heard. Some of the ones he’d heard shouted at him by irascible Heroes would probably do the trick.  

In his anxious state it took him a moment to realize that the footsteps sounded...off. They weren’t the steady clomp of the guard’s hobnail boots, but a much quicker, lighter step. With a wooden heel, from the sound of it.  

Crow pressed his face up against the bars, and craned his neck to peer down the hall. There was a light bobbing its way towards him.  

Click, click, click. A slender figure was indeed walking down the narrow dungeon corridor, holding a lantern aloft, but the silhouette was all wrong. So was the lantern flame, for that matter. It did not flicker yellow, but instead glowed a steady, ghostly blue.  

As it drew closer the figure’s face slowly came into focus, and Crow blinked.  

“...Anathema?” he said in disbelief.  

Chapter Text

“I heard the strangest rumour,” the dark-haired hedgewitch said, voice echoing down the stone corridor.

Anathema came to a stop about three feet away and just stood there, hand on hip, examining him through the bars. The blackened-iron lantern in her hand did not hold fire at all, but a lump of some strange substance that looked rather like glowing candle wax. Its cold blue light cast an otherworldly pall over her unlined face and reflected in her glasses.  

“The strangest rumour,” she continued, “about a sorcerer who committed treason, and was foolish enough to get himself caught and locked up for his trouble.” She tutted to herself as she looked him up and down. “Aren’t you in a sorry state.” She wore a high-necked gown of deep turquoise, with full swishing skirts and lace cuffs, but she stood there in the dank surroundings like she owned them. A small black shadow moved at her feet; two bright green eyes gleamed as the cat daintily skirted a puddle and sat down next to her, tail twitching.  

“What the- what the everloving hell are you doing here?” Crow demanded, scrambling to his feet. He couldn’t think of a single person he had expected less to see, save for perhaps Father.  

“Well.” The hedgewitch sighed, and flicked her long black braid back over one shoulder. “As it turns out, I also heard a rumour that a certain group of sorcerers headed North today, with a very unusual passenger. From that it was easy to surmise that they are making yet another ill-advised coup attempt. Am I correct in assuming you want to stop this?” 

Impossible hope bloomed in Crow’s chest, painful with its intensity. “Yes,” he said quickly. His begrimed hands were clutching the bars, sweaty and white-knuckled. “Yes, they have Azra- the Council has Prince Azra, and is heading for the Fells, I can’t let- I need to stop them.” He swallowed hard. “Can you get me out of here?”  

“Looking to avoid another diplomatic incident, are we?”  

“Uh, I-"  

But Anathema wasn’t looking at him. She was examining the jail cell, the thick hinges and well-welded bars, then peered at the enormous padlock on the door. At her side the cat began to wash its front paw with studied indifference.  

“Hmph.” She gave a satisfied grunt. “Steel. As I thought.” She set down her lantern, and rooted around in a little drawstring pouch that hung from a broad leather belt cinched at her narrow waist. 

“There’s a ward on the lock; it’ll burn your hands. You can’t pick it,” Crow warned.  

“Luckily, I’m not trying to.” She extracted a small glass bottle and a cylindrical glass vial from the pouch. The bottle was filled with clear liquid, and the vial appeared to be utterly empty. She waved a hand at him. "Stand back.”  

Crow took a hasty step backwards from the bars. “What is that?”  

“In this one, saltwater.”  

Crow watched baffled as she uncorked the bottle of liquid and poured it over the heavy padlock, drenching the metal. She then carefully opened the empty vial, holding it between thumb and forefinger as gingerly as if it was full of hot lead. Leaning forward, she briefly closed her eyes, inhaled, and blew across the open top, as if wafting something towards the lock.  

The metal of the lock instantly turned brown, flaked, buckled with a sharp crack, flaked again, then again, more and more rapidly, until before their eyes it disintegrated into a pile of brown powder. Green light sparked once, then went out as the lock simply ceased to exist. 

Crow had instinctively jerked the rest of the way back and plastered himself flat against the stone wall, staring. “Bloody sodding hell. What the- what the fuck was in that thing?” He’d seen some strange magic in his life, but he’d never seen magic quite like that before.  

Anathema glanced at him, dark eyes eerie and fathomless in the blue light. “Time,” she replied.  

A quick yank pulled wide the deadbolt, and with a screeching creak of disused metal the cell door swung open.  

“Right...” Priorities. We can address the creepy witchy magics later. Crow peeled himself away from the wall and stepped warily forward, staring down at the dark-haired hedgewitch. She was a good head shorter than him, he realised. He‘d never noticed before; she gave the impression of being taller. “Thanks. Er...look, don’t think I’m not grateful, but...why are you helping me? We barely know each other.”  

Anathema sighed. “Because the world isn’t kind to people who think in circles to their lines.” Before Crow could ask her what the hell she meant by that, she continued, “And it’s not only for you. Hedgewitches keep an eye on things, and occasionally one of you does something foolish on a large enough scale to demand intervention. This is us intervening. I don’t relish the idea of the Council gaining uncontested power, do you?”  

“No. Ugh, no.” Crow gave his head a shake and stepped out of the cell. Priorities now. Questions later. He wasn’t one to scrutinize a stroke of luck too closely anyhow, they were too few and far between. “Right, then. If I’m going to do anything I need my power. First and foremost I need to get these damned things off.” He pulled his (by now filthy and ragged) sleeves up to show her the silver cuffs on his wrists. They still prickled and ached deep in his bones, but he’d managed to banish the sensation to the back of his awareness.  

The hedgewitch took his arm and bent close to examine it, and her breath hissed out between her teeth. “Mn. Now that’s a problem.” She tapped the metal with a black-painted fingernail. “These are magically strengthened as well as bespelled. A lot of magic went into these. You sorcerers did good work back in the day.” 

“You can’t just use more of that bottled, uh...time?”  

“Not for this, and besides I don’t have any more ready. But trust me when I say you don’t want it anywhere near your skin.” She straightened with a jerk, lips pursed and frowning deeply. “Drat. I hate it when I miss things.”  

At Crow's feet the cat paused in twining between Crow’s legs to give a short mrah. “Don’t give me that, I can’t anticipate everything,” Anathema replied testily. She looked back up at Crow. “I can’t break these, not without about a day’s worth of effort.”  

“Nggh. There’s no time.” Crow seized his hair and growled in frustration. “I’m a useless lump like this. I guess I could just- argh. I still need to get all the way up to the Fells in a screaming hurry. Do you have a way to do that?”  

An aggravated huff. “With your power, yes. But like this I’m afraid not.”  

Crow almost demanded Then what can you do? out of sheer frustration, but held his tongue. Besides having obviously just broken him out of prison, it seemed unwise to antagonize someone who could make steel shrivel like old fruit.  

“Alright. Alright, fine.” He gnawed on his lower lip and glanced around. The dank, smelly dungeon failed to offer up any masterful ideas. “Right. Maybe we should escape first.” 

“Wise decision. We’ll come up with something outside.” Anathema briskly picked up her lantern, opened the glass pane, and blew on the contents. The blue glow brightened to a more cold-tinged white light, making them both blink. Increased illumination did not improve the view. 

“Somewhere in this place there’s a guard lurking around,” Crow began, but Anathema was already nodding.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s accounted for. But check ahead, will you?” This last was directed to the cat, who promptly turned and trotted casually away down the hall.  

Crow shot her a sideways glance. “Er...the cat can talk?”  

“Newt, if you please, he’s particular about that. And all animals talk,” she replied matter-of-factly, arching a brow at him. “It’s more a question of which ones we can understand.”  

“If you say so.”  

Crow let Anathema take the lead with her lantern, both of them following the small receding figure of the black cat. She led him quickly down the long row of empty cells, then up a long narrow flight of stairs. It was cold and drafty down here; his skin was covered in goosebumps and he had to keep fighting off a shiver. That was new; he usually didn't get cold so easily. At least he didn't have a scratchy bag over his head this time, though that was something of a mixed blessing: the entire place stank. The stone floor was treacherously slimy with damp and old age, like everything else, and patterns of black mildew crept along the rafters above their heads. Clearly not their finest accommodations. Or- hm, maybe this was their finest accommodations; everything in Pandemonium was such shite that it was hard to tell sometimes.  

As they walked, Crow studied her: just a slender figure surrounded by a nimbus of wintery light, long dark braid bobbing at her waist as she moved. He was thinking about all the countless jokes he had heard growing up, smirking little comments about eccentric hedgewitches puttering around their gardens and talking to animals, like senile old mundanes. Never once had anyone suggested that the animals talked back to them.

He was quickly realising that no one in Apollyon had the faintest idea what they were talking about, to an even larger degree than he ever suspected. It made him cautious as he asked, “How did you hear about this all the way up at your house? And how did you know where I was?”  

“I told you, hedgewitches keep an eye on things,” Anathema replied shortly. She held the glowing blue lantern in one hand and her full skirts up off the dirty floor with the other; her wooden-heeled shoes made little echoing clacks on the stone steps. “Ever since the War. It’s what we do.” 

Crow waited, but she did not elaborate. “Fair enough. But that really doesn’t answer my question.” 

“Well…” Anathema hopped over a broken step with girlish agility. “The moment I set eyes on you standing there on my doorstep last month, I just knew that you two were going to be a lodestone for trouble. So I asked a mutual friend keep a close ear out for anything unusual.” 

Crow stopped short. “A mutual- I don’t have any other friends.”  

Anathema cast a glance back over her shoulder, full mouth quirked in amusement. “Is that so? You’ll see, my contact is waiting for us outside.” She hadn’t stopped walking, and Crow hurried to catch up.  

As they finally exited the stairwell they passed the mundane guard, who was standing stock-still at his post, staring into space with wide and vacant brown eyes. His arms hung slack at his sides. One foot was poised in front of him as if he had begun to take a step. Crow stopped to peer curiously at him. He gave the guard's forehead a firm poke and waved a hand in front of his face, but the man might as well have been a statue for all the reaction he got. “Huh.”  

“He’ll be fine. Are you coming?” the hedgewitch called up ahead.  

“And people are afraid of sorcerers,” Crow muttered under his breath, and followed. He stole the man’s cloak first, though, because sod him. 

They exited what turned out to be a large, squat stone building, into the dreary light of a Pandemonium afternoon. Swamp-stink permeated everything, even in the cold air; Crow kept the pilfered cloak wrapped tight around himself as he squinted at their surroundings. He didn’t recognize this particular stretch of crooked, ugly, junk-strewn alleyway. It looked much like every other crooked, ugly, junk-strewn alleyway he’d stumbled upon in this unpleasant city. Deserted, at least, only a few distant passersby at the end of the road scuttling by and minding their own business.  

All he could say for sure was that this wasn’t the main prison he was familiar with, the one at the heart of the city. The Vault, Lord Belz had called it? How appropriately melodramatic. Leave it to the Council to have a secret underground prison on hand, somewhere away from the main Justice Center where they could keep things quiet. That explained the minimal guard.  

“Hello, dear!” a woman’s voice cried.  

Crow drew up short, blinking. He knew that voice. That sounded an awful lot like…  

He turned.  

A woman was indeed standing there at the end of the alleyway with hands on hips, garishly dressed in orange satin and dark green eye makeup. A woman with badly dyed red hair, and a huge smile, and a large black and white bird sitting on her shoulder. 

“It’s such a relief to see you in one piece, luv. You had me worried.” 

“Tracy?” Crow asked dumbly. “What are you doing here?” He looked at Anathema. “Wait, she’s your contact? How do you two know each other?”  

Anathema cocked her head at him, a smile growing on her face. “How do you think?”  

“I...” Dots connected with a delayed clunk, and Crow spun back towards Tracy, staring. “No. No, you can't be serious- what? You’re a hedgewitch?”   

“Retired, dear,” Tracy replied calmly. “More or less. I don’t go in for a shop in the forest, not this decade anyhow. I have so much more fun with the tavern.” She smiled beatifically at him, and then the smile shifted, turned sly. “There is also the benefit of being right in the middle of everything, of course, so Sergeant can keep an eye on things from both sides of the Wall.” She patted the magpie’s- the familiar’s clawed foot, who just stood there looking smugly beady-eyed in the way only birds can.  

“Um.” Crow shook his head, trying to clear it. Everything was happening too fast to process. His worlds were colliding with a bang and making everything more than a little jumbled. “All this time? Wait, wait. So...you already knew I was a sorcerer?”  

“Oh, always,” she replied cheerfully. “The aura is quite unmistakable to anyone with a bit of Sight. But I wasn’t about to spoil your fun, was I? Not as long as you behaved yourself like a respectable gentleman. And you and Francis were always so lovely together.” 

“But…” Crow just gaped at her, feeling more than a little foolish. Years. Years of going in disguise. He’d been so proud of his alias.  

He pinched between his eyes, gingerly avoiding the puffy one. “It has been a very taxing couple of days,” he said with deliberate calm, “and I have about reached my limit for intrigue. Can someone please tell me what exactly is going on?”  

“Like I said, after your nighttime visit I could tell that things would get very interesting around you soon,” Anathema put in. “So I sent a message to Tracy to keep an eye and ear out for any odd goings-on.” 

“I must admit that I already had been,” Tracy said apologetically.  

“Wait, you…hold on. You two have been spying on me?” Crow demanded, outraged.  

“Yes,” said Anathema.  

“No, of course not,” Tracy said at the same time.  

Crow glowered at them. 

“Nothing so deliberate as that,” Tracy amended, smoothing the air with both hands in a placating gesture. “I simply had Sergeant ask the locals – pardon, the local birds, that is – to keep an eye on you. To keep watch for any unusual activity around your part of the Wood, that was all. Just to make sure you and your Prince were alright.” 

Crow cast his mind back to every time he had seen a bird recently. His head began to ache. “You’re saying that... the bloody birds around my tower have been spying on me all these years, and reporting my doings to you?” 

“No no, only these last few months! You can hardly blame me for taking an interest, dear. A sorcerer with an Empyrion lover isn’t something we see every day. It’s the most fascinating thing to happen in nearly a century.” 

“He wasn’t…but...” Crow choked out. He felt as if he was being vigorously smacked from multiple directions at once. “We weren’t even- we were just friends!” 

Anathema laughed. Tracy laughed. Even Sergeant laughed- at least, Crow was pretty sure that was what those little chirruping sounds were supposed to be. Newt just sat there looking especially satisfied. Crow glared at them all, even more outraged. 

“Anyhow,” Tracy finally continued, wiping tears out of her eyes with other hand pressed to her bosom. “I only asked them for the highlights, dearie, but... I must say, it turns out that your ravens are very protective, and quite the gossips,” she said with a wink.  

“My ravens?”  

“Oh yes. And the crows, too. Once Sergeant explained the situation they all took to the idea quite excitedly, and may have become slightly…over-enthusiastic. They had quite a lot to say about you and your Prince. All good things, don’t you worry, you’re very popular.” She patted his arm reassuringly. “Though it may be more accurate to call you their human.” 

On her shoulder, Sergeant fluffed his feathers and made a series of little croaking sounds that definitely sounded amused. Tracy tsked. “Now now, no need to rub things in. He’s had a hard day.”  

“Brilliant. Just brilliant.” Crow dragged both hands down his face and looked sourly at the magpie, wondering if he had been feeding him along with the rest of the flock. “I can’t believe this. Even the wildlife is conspiring against me.”  

“Hardly against you, seeing how we just saved your life,” Anathema pointed out. “Conspiring, yes. And isn’t that lucky for you?”  

“This morning your ravens came and told Sergeant about what happened,” said Tracy. “It would have been sooner, but I’m afraid I've been away visiting friends for a while and only got back today. They were quite hysterical.” 

“Oh.” 

“Which brings us to the reason we’re here,” Anathema said pointedly. “What exactly happened yesterday, other than the kidnapping? Birds aren’t exactly great with human details.” 

“No less so than cats, dear,” Tracy replied calmly. On her shoulder, Sergeant had begun to preen at her hair. 

“Right,” Crow said, pulling himself together. “Right. Shit. Shit!” His world abruptly reoriented itself, and his worry for Azra returned in full force. He gripped fistfuls of his hair to try and calm himself as he gave the women a very brief summary. “So the Council has Azra as a hostage, and is taking another crack at a coup. They think they have some kind of powerful weapon...they took an Artifact from my tower and were saying all sorts of things about destroying Empyrion cities with it, but I don’t see how that’s possible. They’re all madder than rabid rats. More likely they’ll just be killed out of hand, and Azra with them.”  

“What does this Artifact look like?” Tracy asked, frowning.  

“Eh. It doesn’t look like much, just a wooden breadbox. About so large-” Crow held his hands about a foot apart “-lots of carvings in loopy designs, and screams something awful when you open it.”  

Anathema and Tracy exchanged a look. Crow got a very familiar sinking feeling in his stomach.  

“Oh dear,” said Tracy.  

“Yes,” Anathema agreed. 

“Care to enlighten me?” Crow ground out through grit teeth.  

“What you’re describing sounds like a Jehriko Box,” Anathema said, frowning, arms crossed under her chest. “I didn’t think there were any left. You’ve had one just sitting in your tower all this time?” 

“Apparently. I found it in a collapsed old pre-War ruin way over West, years ago.” 

“Never occurred to you to wonder why the ruins were collapsed?” 

Crow glared at her. “Ruins are always collapsed, that’s why they’re ruins! But never mind that, what does the damned thing do?”   

“Simply put, it breaks things. The longer you keep it open the more destruction it wreaks, in a wider and wider radius.”  

“Why would anyone make something like that?” Crow demanded.  

Tracy shrugged helplessly. “They were used to end sieges, bring down castle walls. They’re specially formulated to only destroy non-living things, you see. First glass, then eventually stone and metal, almost like...a portable earthquake. Leave it open long enough and it can bring down an entire city, in theory.”  

Crow threw up his hands. “Brilliant. Wonderful. Of course it can. Wait, how do you two know so much about them?”  

“Because hedgewitches helped build them,” Anathema said with an exasperated sigh.  

“Say again?” Crow asked incredulously. “What are you talking about? It’s an Artifact.” 

“Yes, an Artifact that hedgewitches helped build,” she said patiently. "Before the War it used to happen all the time. Our ancestors were rather short-sighted."  

“Until the sorcerers started using our combined works for ill, to seize power,” Tracy said gravely. “After the War our sisterhood vowed no more collaborations, and we’ve stuck to that promise since. It’s too dangerous. We’re better off set apart.” 

Anathema nodded. “Hedgewitch and sorcerer power is like…oil and fire. It can do some verrry interesting things when mixed together. Lots of Artifacts have hedgewitch magic in them.”  

Crow just stood there staring at the two of them. His head had begun to throb in earnest, and he massaged at his temples. “That... can't possibly be true. I’ve learned our history, and I’ve never heard of any of this.” 

Anathema rolled her eyes behind her glasses. “Of course you haven’t,” she said with a snort. “It’s not the kind of thing your people liked to acknowledge, even back then. After all your spellbooks burned it was probably forgotten post-haste, and we're hardly about to remind them.”  

Crow shoved his hands back into his hair and yanked. “Right. Any other huge revelations I should know about, while you’re on the subject? Go on, nothing will surprise me at this point. Any more world-bending secrets lurking just beyond my sight?”  

“So many,” Anathema said with a wicked grin that put Crow’s best to shame. “But none we have time for right now, don’t you think?”  

Crow blew out an explosive breath, striving for calm. “Fine. Right.” Plan now. Existential crisis later. “They're not going to waste their time on the Wall,” he said, thinking aloud. “They’re going for a surprise attack, straight for the Fells. Everyone is going to be gathered there for the big tournament, all the royals. So they have Azra, they use him to get inside the palace, then lock everyone in and use the box to...kill everyone. Shit.” 

“With a Jehriko Box they could do it,” Tracy said confidently. “It would take a while, but it could bring the palace down.” 

“Hm. I have to admit, it’s not a terrible plan by sorcerer standards,” Anathema commented, sounding vaguely impressed. 

Crow agreed, though he didn't feel like admitting it. “Ugh. I have to stop them, I need to get up to the High Fells immediately. You said you had a way to do that if I can use my power?” 

“Yes, which brings us back to this little problem.” Anathema took his wrist and thrust it towards Tracy for her to examine.  

Tracy bent close in a rustle of orange satin, then shook her head just as Anathema had. “Oh my, yes. These are entirely sorcerer work. We can’t unmake them.”  

“Cutting is no use, either, just look at them - no ordinary blade would do it...”  

“Blunt force, perhaps?” Tracy mused. “Except-” 

“Mm, no, we’d have to whack his hands off too. And no, Newt, they can’t be chewed through...”  

“An acid might be able to eat through eventually, but then there’s the question of his skin...”  

The two hedgewitches kept muttering urgently to each other as Crow began to pace, kicking up greasy cobblestones and thinking furiously. There had to be something... But his skills didn’t involve slicing through magically enhanced metal. He didn’t even have access to the little magic he knew, and you generally needed magic to counter magic. Magic to counter magic... magic to cut magic...   

“The sword!” he shouted, interrupting the flow of suggestions and making both women and animals jump. They all stared at him.  

“What sword?”  

“There’s an Artifact sword up in my tower! It- it absorbs enchantments, and I know for a fact it can cut through metal. If we can go get the sword and use it to cut these...”  He reached automatically for his neck, then cursed in dismay as he remembered, heart sinking. “I don’t have my amulet.”  

“Not to worry.” Anathema reached into a pocket hidden deep in the folds of her turquoise skirts and pulled out a very familiar-looking disc of red stone.  

“My amulet?” Crow asked in disbelief.  

“No, it’s my amulet. It goes to my house, and that’s only a few miles from your tower.”  

He opened his mouth to automatically protest that only sorcerers can use homing amulets, then thought better of it. He shut his mouth and nodded.  

“Right, good. Let’s go, then.”  

Tracy put a hand on Anathema’s shoulder. The little black cat – Newt – ambled over and wound his tail around Anathema’s ankle, purring loudly. The hedgewitch turned and cordially offered Crow her arm, as if they were about to step out on the town together. Crow took it without wasting time on any more questions.  

And to think the Council said he could never learn.  

The drab alleyway swiftly blurred, ran, and resettled into an enclosed space that smelled of musk and sage. Crow blinked and looked around. 

Anathema’s amulet had transported all of them directly into her little cottage. She must have embedded the corresponding amulet right under the floorboards. The place looked exactly as he remembered it, still crammed to bursting full of books and hanging herbs, with possibly a few new potted plant additions. The glowing orange toads in their glass terrarium had begun leaping about in agitation at the group’s sudden appearance. 

A few paces to their right was the long table where Azra had lain injured last time he was here. Crow stared at it, struck with vivid memory, and swallowed against the hot lump that had suddenly leapt into his throat. Breathing became harder; he shut his eyes as the surge of raw emotion swamped him. He suddenly missed Azra very, very much. Like an expanding pit in the very center of his stomach, so hollow that it felt his entire body must collapse around it.

A hand touched his arm. Tracy was looking at him with serious, gentle eyes. “Keep a chin up, dear,” she said quietly. “They’ll want to keep him alive to use for as long as possible.”  

Crow swallowed and gave a short nod, not trusting himself to speak. A warm weight rubbing against his ankles drew his attention down to the black cat once again. Newt stared up at him with what to Crow’s fevered imagination looked like a sympathetic expression. 

“Go,” Anathema said behind them. The dark-haired witch was already rummaging through a cupboard, pulling out various bottles and examining them in turn, and she paused to point at the front door. “Hurry and get the sword, we’ll follow right behind and catch up. I’m just going to collect a few things we can try just in case that doesn’t work.”  

“And I’ll see if we can find out how far North the Council has managed to get,” Tracy said. She looked at Sergeant; the bird chirruped and hopped off her satin-clad shoulder onto the table with a click. From there he flew straight for the door, alighting on the coat rack next to it, and cocked his black and white head at Crow expectantly.   

Crow looked around at the motley group, and his throat unexpectedly clenched up again for an entirely different reason.

In his efforts to hold back the scream building inside him all day, it hadn't fully occurred to him until right this very moment that...he had help. Allies, of a sort, never mind that two of them had feathers and fur. He wasn't entirely on his own.

The feeling was so astonishingly alien that it drew him up short and left his eyes prickling in a very dangerous way.

Oh for fuck's sake, this is not the time to be getting sentimental! You have things to do! 

Crow set his jaw and gave a resolute nod. "Right. See you both there." He stalked to the door and yanked it roughly open. Sergeant promptly swooped through, and Crow followed him out of the cottage into the forest clearing. The magpie shot straight up over the trees without pausing and vanished from sight. 

It was another overcast day in Northern Apollyon, cold with a hint of smoke in the air. The little stream behind the cottage burbled merrily in the quiet. The sun overhead was visible as a hazy glowing ball through the clouds, just enough to point him in the right direction. 

Crow ran.  

He aimed himself Southeast and ran as quickly as his manacle-weakened body would allow him, which admittedly was not all that fast. He crashed haphazard through the autumn-bright Wood in more or less a straight line, barely heeding the puddles that soaked his boots, the slippery fallen leaves underfoot, the stinging branches that whipped across his body and tore at his increasingly ragged clothing. He spared only a single panicked flail for the enormous (and occupied) spider web that smacked right into his face.  

Crow considered himself fit enough, from hurrying up and down all those spiraling stairs every day. What’s more he was no stranger to running, not exactly. The quickening spell had always rendered it effortless, wonderful fun, exhilarating as flight...so it was an enormously unpleasant surprise to discover how absolutely bloody awful regular running was.  

By the end of the first half-mile he was gasping for air. After a full mile he felt as if he was going to die. By a mile and a half death was starting to sound like the better option, yet on he ran. He quickly decided that he hated running more than mosquitoes, Pandemonium, poison, and Heroes all combined. Running was sadistic. The human body was clearly not designed to move like this without the help of magic. Running could go fuck itself. But he didn’t stop moving, even when he was forced to slow to a snail’s pace and the trees started to grow over-bright around him.  

A small, rational part of him knew that he wasn't operating at his best, that he shouldn’t overstrain himself, that he would need every bit of strength he had if he did miraculously get up to the Fells in time, but the much larger parts of him didn’t seem to care. Every fibre of his sweat-soaked body was screaming hurry, hurry, hurry up! It pounded through him with each burning breath and laboured beat of his heart, driving him onward. Forcing new vigor through his protesting limbs.   

If I get there too late...if Azra has been hurt again... 

He ran a little faster.  

When Crow finally burst out of the trees into the clearing, gasping and soaked in chilly sweat, he nearly wept in relief to see his familiar tower ahead: faded black, covered in vines, stabbing tall up against the slate grey sky like an enormous chess piece. Beautiful. The ravens immediately struck up a raucous greeting, filling the cool air with their harsh cries, and he had never been so happy to hear the meddling little things in all his life.  

He staggered up to the thorny hedge and had to stand bent over gasping and coughing with hands on his knees for a good minute before he was able to muster the wind to rasp out the password. In his impatience he made the novice mistake of trying to shove through the archway before it had fully finished pulling apart, and ended up with his tattered shirt caught on the razor-sharp thorns. Then he had to spend precious minutes very carefully extricating himself, and came away with a few new stinging scratches for his growing collection.  

Once free, he made straight for the tower door and yanked at it.  

Wicked green sparks leapt from the handle and scorched his fingers. “Ow! Curse it-” He swore and leapt about, shaking out his hand, and stared at the door in dismay.  

The Council had warded it before they left, the wankers! Unbelievable. No trust. No trust at all.  

Crow swore again and kicked the door, but it was made of iron-banded thick oak, like kicking at a brick wall. A Knight couldn’t have kicked it down, never mind his own narrow physique. He tried anyway, but only succeeded in bruising the heel of the same foot he had hurt kicking at his cell door.  

He made a strangled noise of wild irritation and kicked at the decorative shrubbery to the left of the door instead. This couldn’t be happening. So close, so close to what he needed, and thwarted by something as stupid as a pox-riddled twice damned door! There had to be a way in, there had to be another…way…up...   

...No. 

No. Definitely not that. Forget it.   

He stomped back around to the front and stood there breathing stormily, hands on hips, glaring up at the tower. Far, far above his head, below a cloudy sky and circling ravens, the large, open window to his bedroom. Beckoning. 

“This,” he muttered, “cannot be happening to me.” 

He paced agitatedly back and forth a few times on the grass, swinging his arms about to loosen his muscles. The newest scar pinched a bit as it stretched, but nothing that would be a problem. He wiped his sweaty face clean with his already damp sleeve. He cracked his neck and wiggled his fingers, trying to dispel that damned unpleasant prickling from the manacles. It didn’t make the slightest difference.  

Finally out of stalling tactics, he huffed out a breath, swept his stolen cloak back over one shoulder, and stalked up to the vine-covered walls. Vine covered- except in this one place. Years of hands and feet had worn a jagged plant-free path from the ground all the way up to the window.  

Crow swallowed nervously, flexing his hands and rubbing them dry on his breeches.  

“If those idiots can do it, so can I,” he growled. 

He began to climb the bloody tower.  

The stones were large and irregular with deep grooves between them, so climbing wasn’t really that challenging. Not at first. “Simple,” he muttered to himself, reaching for another ledge. Grit and flakes of black paint shifted disconcertingly under his fingers. “Easy as blinking. Fun, even. I am only a couple of feet off the ground, nothing to worry about.”  

The higher he got, the smaller the stones got, so he quickly found himself relying more on grabbing the vines that snaked around the entire structure. Despite that, it was going quite well, as far as suicidal ventures went. About two-thirds of the way up he glanced over his shoulder- and immediately regretted it.  

Since when was his tower thousands of feet tall? The forest and sky stretched out behind him, below him, above him- too big to even fit into his vision. It felt as though he clung to the very edge of the world with the entire vast universe at his feet. A hideous wave of vertigo swept over him. He squeezed his eyes shut in a panic and flattened his body against the sun-warm stones of the tower as if trying to wedge himself between them. Cold sweat had burst out all over his entire body, soaking his clothes anew, and his heart was trying to make a daring escape from his ribcage. “This is a really terrible time to discover that I don’t like heights,” he muttered.  

A green lizard skittered past his cheek, effortlessly. The scaly little bastard.  

Crow waited until his fingers stopped trembling, then forced himself to keep going, slower now as warm perspiration bloomed on his palms too. Helpful, that. A wind suddenly whipped up, yanking at his cloak and making him feel like he was about to be ripped from the wall. Sweating, shaking, he managed to slowly inch one hand over and unclasp it from his neck, and it fell away in a billow of black fabric. 

“Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down...” he chanted to himself, as he wormed his fingers into the dusty cracks between stones.  

He looked down again. He regretted it.  

“Nnnnnnnngghkk. This is insane,” he panted raggedly. “This is completely insane. What am I doing?” His head was flooded with images of just how his skinny black-clad body would look pinwheeling down to its undignified death, flailing all the way. Amazingly, that mental picture did not help with his nerves. At least, he reasoned, if he fainted first he wouldn't have to be awake for the experience. 

And Heroes did all this while wearing armour? Completely, crouching-in-a-gutter, screaming-and-eating-rocks insane.  

His fingers slipped, and for a heart rending, stomach swooping moment he nearly did fall. The world spun around him. He looked at his hand, and found grease.  

Oh. Balls. Of course.  

Crow looked slowly up, which only served to highlight just how far he still had to go. Twenty feet left. All coated in a thick layer of grease by yours truly, and completely, tried-and-tested unclimbable. It might as well have been a thousand feet.  

"Wonderful. Brilliant. Just brilliant, me. Any other genius ideas?”  

He clung there for a moment, cheek pressed to the dirty stone and thinking furiously. He wasn’t at all confident he could climb down again. He was stuck here like a fly on a wall, except that flies at least had wings.  

Wait. He was thinking like one of them. The idiots always went straight for the window, the most direct path. But he hadn’t greased the entire tower all the way around; he’d given up on the onerous task about halfway. All he had to do was find the place where he had stopped.  

He inched sideways along the tower wall, carefully securing each tiny finger and toehold before moving to the next, plastering his body as flat to the stones as he could while vertigo threatened. Bits of rock and debris flaked off as he got to the lesser-used places, dirt spiraling down past him and threatening to make him sneeze. His sore left foot slipped twice. He finally reached a spot that looked ill-used enough, and tested the rock above him with his fingers. They came away clean- no grease. He let out a slightly hysterical cackle and hauled himself up a couple more inches.  

And Father always said laziness would never pay off.  

Crow heaved himself in through the window headfirst and collapsed onto the floor, face down, arse in the air while the bedroom spun round and round. He just lay there panting for a moment, clutching at the ground with shaking hands and resisting the urge to kiss the familiar, amazingly solid and horizontal floor.  

“This is fine, angel,” he mumbled with face squashed against the wood. “Not a problem. All tickety-boo.” His lips made little clean tracks against the floorboards. The very dusty, beautifully horizontal floorboards. He had never before appreciated just how wonderful this floor was. He should really clean it more often. 

A raven landed on the sill behind him, and let out a craww. Probably judging him.  

“Sod off,” Crow muttered.  

After a minute he remembered that he was, in fact, in a hurry. He peeled himself up off the floor and looked blearily around. The familiar room was dim, the lamps cold and dark. Out of habit he pointed at one to light it, and experienced a wave of awful dizziness when nothing at all happened. He clutched at his spinning head for a moment, then gave it a shake and shuffled unsteadily over on hands and knees to peer under the bed. And there it was: the Artifact sword in its fine jeweled sheath, with silver hilt and round pommel. Still right where Azra had left it when he first arrived, half buried under the saddle bags and covered in a fine layer of dust.  

Crow quickly dragged the sword out and unsheathed it, then laid the naked blade across the carpeted part of the floor in front of him. Without the scabbard the sword really didn’t look like much, especially up close: plain and utilitarian in design, no etchings or engravings, not even jeweled at the hilt. The silver pommel was polished but scuffed. There was a long scratch along the blade, and a very small notch near the handguard. Clearly some royal smith had created the fancy scabbard after the fact, in an attempt to dress it up.  

In short, the sword didn’t look at all like a powerful tool that could cut through magic and metal both, but Crow knew better than anyone that appearances could be deceiving.  

Still kneeling, he held it carefully by the hilt, turned on its side so that the edge of the blade faced straight up and down. Not as steadily as he would have liked; the hilt was worn liquid-smooth from centuries of use, making it hard to grip tightly with his sweaty palms. He laid one manacled wrist atop the edge of the blade, feeling the metals scrape against each other. He sent a brief plea to whatever power heard such things that he wasn’t about to lose some fingers, and very carefully began sawing back and forth.  

There was a brilliant flash of silvery light, and the blade sheared straight through the cuff as if it was nothing more than clay- only his hard-earned reflexes saved him from being slashed. He let out a triumphant whoop and turned his wrist to cut through the other side as well. It was a bit awkward, but he managed to avoid slicing himself, then made quick work of the second manacle as well.  

The moment the second one dropped off his wrist he felt the binding spring free. He gasped and hunched over as his muffled powers came roaring back to life with a vengeance, a dam bursting. Magic gushed through his veins, hot and scalding, and it felt good. His skin crackled with pent-up energy. He hadn’t realised how stunted, how fundamentally altered he had felt until he was himself again. He summoned a handful of fire, just to prove that he could, and with a growl and a twist of his body flung it violently into the fireplace. Red flames splashed all over the grate and onto the stone hearth, filling the room with dancing crimson shadows, and he extinguished it with a snap of his fingers before it could set the carpet alight. Another angry snap sent a burst of heat to every lamp in the room; they flared to fiery life all around him. Acrid grey wisps rose into the air as his clothes began to smoke. 

Crow got slowly to his feet and combed both hands through his hair, pushing it back.  

He had just about had enough.  

All he had ever wanted was to be left alone. He'd tried so damned hard to stay out of things, to keep away from scheming idiots and not cause a fuss. He'd kept his head down. He'd bowed and scraped and played along, endured every snide remark and veiled threat in silence. For all that trouble he had just been handed the most unpleasant day of his entire life, and that was really saying something. In the last twenty-four hours he’d been punched, kidnapped, imprisoned, laughed at by two witches and a bird, climbed a suicidal height, and been slapped with more than a few uncomfortable revelations. The love of his life had been threatened and torn away from him. His home had been robbed. His toe hurt. His favourite black shirt had been destroyed.  

Enough.   

First things first. He quickly changed out of his soiled and torn clothes into a fresh set, not wanting to waste any more magic on repairs. He was going to need every drop. As he pulled on his favourite boots he caught sight of his reflection in the full length mirror. A scarecrow figure all in black. Red hair pulled harshly back from his face, one side marred by a truly spectacular black eye. The lines of his jaw were sharp, his mouth serious. That was good. He was looking to be taken seriously.  

Glancing around, it was strange to see how normal everything else in the room looked. Nothing had been touched yet; he supposed the Council had been too busy getting their greedy hands on the Artifacts to bother climbing the last few flights up here. It also gave him a terrible pang, because signs of Azra were everywhere: His second-favourite pair of leather boots was sitting neatly at the foot of the bed. A leather book on the bedside table, bookmark still in place. The empty teacup and saucer on the desk. All signs that he’d been planning to return.  Crow's jaw tightened; he went to the armoire and pulled a folded doublet from Azra’s drawer, pressed it to his face and allowed himself a short moment to breathe him in. 

The glass of yellow iris flowers was still right there on his desk too, the irises that he had given Azra... only yesterday morning? Before everything went pear-shaped. Crow picked one of the flowers and tucked it into his breeches pocket. For luck.  

A black cloak lay draped over his tall throne chair; Crow swirled it around his shoulders and fastened the clasp with a snap. A slight weight in one of the pockets proved to be Azra’s little deck of gold-backed playing cards; these Crow placed gently on Azra's pillow on the bed. For when he returned. He retrieved the sword from the floor and shoved it back into its scabbard with a jerk; he slung the entire thing across his back under the cloak and buckled the strap diagonal across his chest like a baldric. Last but not least, he retrieved his homing amulet from his desk drawer and dropped the cord around his neck, teeth clenched so hard that they creaked. 

Fine. He would have been perfectly willing to let the Council be if only they had been willing to bloody well leave him alone. But oh, no, they just had to keep poking their arrogant noses into his affairs, didn’t they? They had pushed him around his entire life, tried to take his power, and now they were trying to take away Azra too. No. Not on his watch. Over his dead body.   

Fine. Chaos it was, then. The Council was going to get its wish. He was going to get involved. And they were damned well going to wish that he hadn’t.  

Chapter Text

So. Crow was dressed. He had his amulet, Azra’s magic sword, and a raging temper. Now the trick was to get all the way up to the Fells before sunset, more than forty miles away. He really didn’t see how it was possible; that was an entire day’s ride on a very fit horse, but Anathema had assured him she had a way, and at this point he was beyond questioning what hedgewitches could do. Maybe she had a different kind of amulet. Maybe she knew some forgotten transportation spell. Maybe she could make him sprout wings and fly like an actual crow. Truthfully, he was running out of the capacity to be surprised.  

A stinging sensation on his arm drew his attention; closer examination showed that he was bleeding from a few long, shallow cuts, the ones he’d got when he carelessly shoved through the hedge. Not bad enough to need a bandage.  

But that did give him an idea. A very interesting idea.  

He took an undignified slurp of red wine directly from the decanter on his desk, then wiped his dripping mouth on his sleeve and hurried down the stairs two-at-a-time to the fifth floor. Someone from the Council had clearly opened the (recently left unwarded) door, but to his relief the garden itself was still completely untouched. No doubt they had taken a single look at all the flowers and dismissed it as worthless.  

On the other side of the garden room, affixed to the stone walls next to huge pots of melon-sized purple roses, were several wooden shelves. They held neat rows of small clay jars, all carefully labeled in black ink: seeds from every flower he grew in here, along with a few select fertilizers and insect repellents. Crow ignored all of these and pulled down a much larger jar from the highest shelf, older than the rest with a crack running down the side that he’d never bothered to repair. The faded label read, in his own handwriting: Hedge. It was about halfway full of large black seeds the size of his thumb nail.  

He frowned down at them, chewing the inside of his cheek in thought.  

The hedge was one of his proudest magical accomplishments. He’d slowly tinkered with the vine over the years, mostly when he was bored, using the spells in his book to blend a simple briar weed together with the most useful characteristics of other plants. Slowly modifying and refining them into something much more interesting. The result was thick, woody vines armed with wickedly long thorns as well as the grasping tendrils of your typical creeper vine. This ensured that the hedge would latch and tangle round itself, creating an impenetrable wall that Crow could shape and build upon. It had proved extremely effective for defense.  

Weeds really wanted to grow, so they didn’t take nearly as much raw magic as other plants. That was an intentional choice, as Crow usually had to grow them in a real hurry. It had saved him a direct confrontation on more occasions than he could count: all he had to do was stand there and keep chucking seeds at the place the Hero was hacking with his sword, re-growing and filling in the gap as quickly as it could be opened. It was exhausting work, but less power-costly than throwing pure fire. And three hundred pounds of armoured muscle chopping away on the other side was one hell of a motivator.  

He wasn’t sure he could grow them quickly enough to be an effective offensive weapon, but it was the most unusual magic he possessed and probably the only thing the other sorcerers had never seen before. Surely they could be useful to snatch a few moments of surprise, at least.

He grabbed a double handful and stuffed them into his breeches pocket.  

Crow spun down the rest of the stairs in record time and blasted the damned door right open, shattering the ward, just because he was in that sort of mood. Then he had to take the time to sheepishly shove the door back into place and fix the broken hinge with a mending spell, because he really couldn’t afford to leave the tower open like that.  

He strode out onto the Rookery grounds with the sword strapped across his back, cloak flapping, more furious than he could ever remember being in his life. His feet left scorched footprints in his wake as his boots struck the dry grass. Above him the sky had darkened from simply overcast to an ominous murky colour. Even as he looked up the clouds were thickening, shifting and changing shape as more reinforcements rolled in on the stiffening wind. That wind carried a sweet, pungent zing that stung at his nostrils, and there was an electric tension in the air that lifted the hairs on his arms. 

Perfect. Right now a thunderstorm suited his mood just fine.  

"Over here!”  

He looked to his right and was startled to see Anathema and Tracy standing just inside the ring of the hedge, waving at him. How did they get in?   

As soon as the question presented itself the answer did, too: the damned ravens. The meddling little birds must have given Tracy the password, via Sergeant. Of course. Just like they had been giving her detailed updates on everything lately, including, presumably, his bedroom activities... Thinking of all the times he and Azra hadn't bothered to close the shutters, and – oh, shit – one time in particular right in front of the window... Crow felt his cheeks burn hot.  

When all this was done, there was going to be a conversation.   

He shoved his embarrassment aside and stalked towards the women, head held high. Tracy’s bright orange dress stood out almost violently against the black and green of hedge and grass.  

"Did you climb that thing?” Anathema immediately asked as he approached, pointing to the tower. Newt sat at her feet, green eyes slitted in feline contentment. 

“Yeah,” Crow grunted, and suppressed a shudder.   

“Ha. I told you!” Tracy said triumphantly to the younger witch. “The ravens know what they saw.” On her shoulder, Sergeant opened and closed his beak with a faint clack.  

“I guess I just didn’t want to believe it,” Anathema replied, shaking her head with hands on hips. “I’m amazed you’re still alive.”  

“That makes two of us.” Crow grimaced. “But I didn’t have a choice, the door was warded.”  

“Why didn’t you just let us break open the door?” Anathema wanted to know.  

Crow stared at her. “What? But... back at the dungeon, you said you didn’t have any more of that time stuff.”  

“When the entire structure is solid metal, sure, that’s the only way. But organic materials like wood are much more easily dealt with. If you had waited just a few more minutes...”  

Crow could feel his face turning red again. “I...that’s... I was in a hurry! And I got the manacles off, okay?” 

Anathema raised her hands in surrender. “It was only a suggestion.”  

“Right,” he huffed. “Right. Well, I’ve got the sword and I’ve got my power back. Now I’ve got to get to the Fells before anyone does anything rash.” A rumble in the Northern distance punctuated his words. The storm was beginning already, then. With luck it would stay tucked in the clouds and not bother to rain.   

“You still have time,” Tracy assured him. “Our contacts say that your Council’s carriage has only just reached the edge of the High Fells, though that report was from a little while ago, and birds don't always have the most exact understanding of human borders.” The magpie gave an indignant peck at her ear, which she ignored.

Crow felt that terrible panicky lurch in his stomach again, and felt his face go white. “They arrived already?” Even with the Council’s enormous head start, he’d hoped to have more time than that. “But-” 

“Yes, it’s sooner than we’d anticipated as well. They have a non-sorcerer driving the carriage; he must be helping them swap out carriages as they go to keep up the pace."    

Hastur. Crow ground his teeth together. “Right. You said I have time. You really can get me there?”  

“We can help,” Tracy said firmly. She looked at Anathema and nodded.  

Anathema took a deep breath, and let it out. “Very well.” 

From one of her skirt pockets Anathema drew out a small glass bottle, teardrop-shaped, capped in silver and filled with shimmering pearly liquid. It almost seemed to shift in the light. A neatly inked label simply read, ‘Vitality’, in flowing script. She hesitated, then handed it to him with an air of slight trepidation.  

“What’s this?” Crow asked.  

“The breaking of a three hundred-year-old pact,” she said wearily, and crossed her arms. “A special formulation. In hedgewitches and non-gifted folk it simply gives them energy, allows them to go without sleep as needed. A magical stimulant, if you will. But in sorcerers…with the way your magic works, it is a power amplifier. It will refill and increase your reserves exponentially, enough to let you use that running spell of yours the entire way without rest. In this particular case I’ve blended it with sugar and a few other nutrients, several somethings that should help with the fact that you haven’t eaten all day. It would be better to eat, of course, but...” She shrugged philosophically.  

For a long moment Crow could only stare down at the innocuous little bottle, staggered by the implications. The ability to enhance your magical power and stamina, even temporarily? Something like this would change everything. Sorcerers’ finite natural reserves were the biggest thing keeping them in check, limiting how much fire they could throw and how much they could do in general. A potion like this could turn the entire tide of the centuries-old stalemate, give sorcerers an insurmountable edge, even with their limited spell knowledge. Sorcerers would kill for this, go to war for this.  

It was...terrifying, like being casually handed a bolt of lightning. 

He finally found his voice. “This...exists? You can do things like this? I can’t… I’ve never even heard of a potion like this.” 

“That,” Anathema said dryly, “is very intentional. We don't make it often." 

"Even back in the old days it was kept quiet and used sparingly, only for the most vital of works," Tracy said. Her green-painted eyes were serious. "It’s something best forgotten by all sides.”

“It has been forgotten,” Crow said, shaking his head. “I can't- The question of how we did some of the things we did…it’s been a lost mystery for centuries.”  

Anathema gave an enormous snort. “Well, it wouldn’t have been such a mystery if they had asked us, now, would it?” she said acidly. “That is,” she amended, “if we had felt like telling them. Which we wouldn’t have.”  

“Certainly not,” said Tracy. “It’s far too dangerous.”  

I'll say. Crow gulped. He was struck with the sudden feeling that he may be getting in over his head. “So…why are you telling me all of this?” he asked slowly. “I’m a sorcerer too.”  

“Ah, but a traitor sorcerer,” Tracy said cheerfully. “Something tells me that you aren’t planning to run over and tell the other ones about it, now, are you dear?” 

“What she’s trying to say,” Anathema said, patting his arm, “is that we trust you.”  

Crow stared at them both, bewildered and touched in equal measure. 

“Mind you, we are making an exception only because it’s an emergency,” Anathema added, fixing him with a gimlet eye, round spectacles glinting. It was a lot more intimidating than it should have been from someone that small. “We are not going to just brew it up for you whenever you like.”  

“Right, right. Of course.”  

She seemed mollified by that, and nodded. “Just be sure to take small sips.”  

“Right. Er...wait, is this stuff dangerous?”  

“Only in vast quantities,” Anathema said. “We make sure of that. A bottle’s worth won’t hurt you one bit. But if you drank it too quickly it might be...” she paused delicately, “...overwhelming.”  

“There will be a price, though,” Tracy warned in lecturing tones, holding up a finger. “You’re partly borrowing from your own body, and you can’t cheat the body of energy forever. After all this you’ll need to sleep, for, hmm, probably a day?”  

“A solid day at least,” Anathema confirmed.  

“Makes sense,” Crow said, looking down at the bottle, turning it over in his hands. He didn’t need to cheat his body forever, just for a few more hours. Just to get through today. After that, he could either sleep all he liked in Azra’s arms, or- or it wouldn’t matter either way.  

“Here.” Tracy pulled a small wooden jar from a pocket hidden somewhere in her orange dress. They both seemed to have an unlimited number of pockets tucked away in those skirts. “That eye can’t feel comfortable, and if you show up looking like that you’ll scare the life out of poor Francis.” She leaned close enough to smell her perfume and dabbed a bit of very familiar pale green ointment around his puffy eye. Crow's nose wrinkled - sage and mint - and he blinked in surprise as he felt the swelling abruptly deflate. He suddenly could blink properly, and his vision was no longer fuzzy on that side. He prodded gingerly at it, and found that it was now more or less shaped like an eye should be.

"There." Tracy stepped back and held him at arms length to examine him. "My, my," she said appreciatively. "I must say, luv, you do look rather...dangerous. I daresay he'll be very impressed." She gave him a coy wink and slid the jar of ointment back into her pocket. 

Azra’s words from that day he’d been stabbed came back to him. ‘Hedgewitch-make, I’m sure of it, though Gabriel won’t admit it.’ Crow almost laughed. Hypocritical royal bastards.  

A thought suddenly smote him; he straightened and slapped his forehead. “Oh shit. Serafina!” In his single-minded focus he hadn’t given the horse a single thought.  

"What?”  

“I completely forgot- Azra’s horse- there's a horse in the paddock around back.” He pointed. “She hasn’t been fed since yesterday, do you think you could-”  

“We’ll take care of her,” Tracy said immediately. “We aren’t going to let an animal come to harm.” 

“Thank you,” Crow said fervently, relieved. “And...thank you.” He addressed both women now. “For everything. I...just, thank you.”  

“Well, of course,” Anathema replied, arching an eyebrow. “Us circles should stick together, don’t you think?” 

Crow removed the cap of the white potion and sniffed at it. The stuff smelled vividly of fresh crushed citrus and star anise, pricking at his nostrils; the scent alone set his heart beating faster.  

“Well then.” He raised the bottle to them in salute, and just a touch of nervousness. “Wish me luck. I guess it’s time to go make some trouble.”  

“Good luck,” Anathema said. “Have fun storming the palace.” The growing wind caught at her braided hair and turquoise skirts, whipping them about. Thunder cracked ominously again, louder than before, and a faint flicker of silver touched the dark clouds above. 

“Do be careful, dearie,” Tracy added with a smile. “And say hello to your lovely young man for me.”  

Crow ran. Again.  

Anathema had not exaggerated. The first gulp of that potion had been a shock. It sent what felt like a thousand lightning bolts racing under his skin, making him gasp and jerk straight upright like a marionette whose strings had been yanked. His weariness vanished. Everything sharpened to a knifelike clarity; blue-edged flames seeped out of his skin and shimmered oil-like around his hands. Even the hedgewitches had seemed a bit surprised by that. He’d had to spend a moment focusing and drawing all the raw magic back inside so he didn’t light his clothes on fire. It was hard; the magic didn’t want to go in, it wanted out. His body was practically bursting with it, so much pressure that it felt like he might split apart at the seams. He was thirteen years old again and invincible, power raging uncontrolled through him and boiling his blood; it was going to punch right through his chest in brilliant arrows of light if he didn’t use it right now. The magic wanted to be used. It needed to be used. So he obliged.  

He was forced to run in fits and starts at first, forced to keep a measured pace so as not to dash himself flat against the trees. But once he pushed through the Gate and exited the last grove of trees above the Wall, he came at last to an unbroken stretch of road.  

Empyrion had excellent roads, unlike Apollyon, well-tended thoroughfares that made it extremely easy for horses or carriages to pass. Even little roads like this in the middle of nowhere were broad and smooth, with no holes to catch his feet or clumps of greenery to create tripping hazards. Perfect for running. 

And run Crow did. Fast as a galloping horse, and for much longer than any horse would have been able to maintain the pace. The quickening spell was a relief, blurring the world around him as he ran, trees and sky and the occasional startled farmer smearing together into long streaks of colour and shadow, accented by the occasional flash of white lightning that rippled through the storm above his head. And what a storm it was. A dry storm, so far, though that wouldn’t last. Steel grey clouds blanketed the open sky as far as the eye could see, churning with unshed water. The setting sun lit the horizon to the West with a fiery golden glow through the haze; jagged blue forks scorched the fields and hills to the East. Between these darkening vistas Crow flew, swift as the wind, eyes fixed steadily Northwards like the needle of a compass. Skirting around the larger towns and villages, sticking to the more rural edges of Empyrion where there was less to crash into.  

None of the striking bolts were close enough to be a danger, mercifully, but he kept half an eye on it. The last thing he needed right now was to be struck by lightning; in his amplified state he wasn’t even sure what would happen, and he didn’t want to find out. Quite possibly he would simply explode.   

At one point he tried to take a more direct path and cut through some fields, but quickly gave up on that after his foot snagged on a protruding root. At the speed he was going this sent him flying; he tumbled head over heels a good three or four times like an uncoordinated acrobat, and only by pure luck did he do it over open grass instead of rocks and avoid breaking all his bones like a bag of smashed crockery. Shaken, he staggered upright, retrieved the sword where it had fallen, and made his way back to the roads, bruised and significantly more bedraggled.  

There weren’t many people traveling on the road, not at this hour and in this weather. He ignored the shocked exclamations of the rare wagon or pedestrian he passed, their voices barely having time to register before they were left far behind. There was only the endless shhhhhhhh of the wind streaming past his ears, the bump of the sword strapped to his back, the thud of his boots against the packed ground drumming a steady counterpoint to the storm.  

He stopped every several miles to rest, and breathe, and take another small sip from the little glass bottle.  

The quickening spell used an exceptional amount of power, and he usually would have only made it three or four miles before collapsing into a drained, unconscious heap. Under the influence of the potion he figured he’d already covered about fifteen miles, and he didn’t even feel tired. Each time he stumbled shaking out of his run, another sip roared through his body like a fresh night of sleep and three cups of strong coffee, and brought him surging to his feet.  

Even bursting at the seams with energy, he could feel the strain underneath it all. This madcap pace wasn’t natural, but he didn’t care. He had willpower to spare. Time was the true enemy. The sun was his clock, a fiery hourglass slowly sinking below the horizon: once the light was gone he wouldn’t be able to see enough to run. Azra’s face loomed in his mind’s eye, taunting him with what could happen if he didn’t get there in time. For all he knew Azra could be suffering, enduring torture, at this very minute. As soon as the sorcerers realised that he wasn’t quite the asset they believed him to be...  

He’d spend every last drop of himself to get there before that happened.  

Stay alive, angel. I’m coming.  

He downed another, larger swallow, set his teeth against the dizzy explosion of power, and ran faster. Flames sprang up where his feet touched the ground, leaving a charred and flickering orange line across the darkening landscape to mark his path.  

Azra was irate.  

He sat, bound at the wrists and hooded yet again, squashed uncomfortably between two sorcerers in the back of yet another horrid little carriage. The fifth carriage of the day, in fact, not that he was keeping count. They were still clattering along at top speed, the way they had been doing all day.  

He shifted on the thinly padded seat, grimacing. It was even thinner than the one in the last carriage, he thought crossly, little more than a piece of wood covered in cloth. His own backside had significantly more padding. The cheap, rickety carriage ensured that he felt every single rattle and bump of the road, too, leaving him achy and uncomfortable after hours and hours like this. His wrists were sore as well, though he’d finally managed to wriggle the bonds loose just before the last carriage exchange. He now sat with wrists pressed firmly together to conceal it. It didn’t make much practical difference, but it felt nice to have even a sliver of control over the situation.  

A bony elbow prodded at him. “Sit still,” a nasal voice snapped. Dagon, then. Dreadful man.  

“Perhaps if you chose a more comfortable transportation,” Azra replied tartly, voice muffled in the hood.  

Another bony jab in the gut, hard enough to bruise. “Silence, royal scum,” Dagon hissed. 

Azra rolled his eyes, and fell silent.  

The sorcerers had finally fallen silent as well, fortune be praised. They had spent the first several hours droning on and on about their plans to take the palace, and all of Empyrion, in excruciating detail, just as if he were not right there in front of them! Azra sighed. Their clear dismissal of him as any sort of threat rankled, even if he knew they were right. It was a painfully familiar feeling. 

The only brief respites came when they would stop at some little town or another for that awful Hastur to procure a new, equally horrid carriage for them with fresh horses. The cloaked and hooded sorcerers would then hastily bundle Azra inside, throw the sack back over his head, and off they would go again. He hadn’t known there were so many substandard carriages to be had in all of Empyrion. He had no idea exactly where they were, but they must be very close by now at the pace they'd been setting. The thought, ridiculous as it was, brought him a sense of relief. He was beginning to forget what it felt like to not be trapped in this rattling little box. His only consolation was that Hastur, sitting in the driver's seat and unprotected from the cold weather, must be even more uncomfortable.    

Funny. In all the stories he had ever read, the tales of coups and kidnappings and other such dramatics, he had never envisioned them being quite so…tedious.  

He could almost hear Crow’s dry commentary. I’m sorry, is the kidnapping not up to your lofty standards?   

The thought was so absurd that it made him chuckle to himself. Quietly. Oh, what he would give to hear Crow's voice right now.  

He had been terribly frightened at first, to be sure, as would anyone who found themselves kidnapped, hooded, gagged, and facing possible death. It had been the most singularly horrifying experience of his life. He’d been forced to just sit there, blind, helplessly chained, terrified for Crow's sake and unable to even say a word to comfort him. His dear, wonderfully brave love. Azra shut his eyes for a moment as a pang of sorrow and yearning swept through him, sharp as a dagger. Crow had been trying to keep a bold face on it for him, that much was clear, but Azra knew him well enough to see past that. His poor sorcerer had been terrified.  

Then Azra had been hauled who-knows-where with magic, spent an uncomfortable night in a small cold cell, fretting himself sick for Crow’s safety and for poor Serafina left all alone back at the Rookery, fretting over the thought of whatever these sorcerers planned to do to his kingdom...

But one could only stay desperately sad and afraid for so long. And after a full day of not yet being murdered, after realising that they planned to simply imprison Crow for life instead of killing him, after hours and hours crammed into the back of five horrid little carriages in foul weather with three sorcerers (who, he might add, were rather overdue for a bath) and listening to them pontificate on and on about their wicked plans, his hands constantly tied, a sack over his head that smelled as if it had been used to carry horse dung, breathing his own breath with a disgusting rag occasionally shoved into his mouth, and not offered a single thing to eat all day, like complete barbarians... it seemed that he had reached his limit. Terror and worry and grief had finally given way to a solidly heated temper. And under that temper, a bone-deep sense of enough.   

It was all just...so supremely unfair. He had already gone to all the fuss and trouble of making his decision, for heavens sakes! He had found his beloved sorcerer at last, defied his brothers, left his crown, hauled his things South… and now after all that these absolutely dreadful people were trying to take it all away. It simply could not be borne. Why, oh why, were people always trying to take away the things he loved? For as long as he could remember people had been grabbing books out of his hands, or dismissing servants he had befriended, or telling him not to eat so much, or selling his things. Everything he had ever cared for had felt like it could be snatched away at any moment, and he’d finally, finally worked up the nerve to take some happiness for himself. Only to have it snatched away almost immediately.  

No. He'd had enough of bullies. He was sick and tired of being dismissed, of being a helpless pawn shoved about in his own life. He was no longer the crying child who had watched his braided and beribboned pony led away to be sold.  

Azra sat a bit straighter in his seat and lifted his chin mulishly, pressing his lips together. Well, then. He would simply have to be brave, and take charge of things himself. There was no Crow coming to save him this time, no sense in sitting uselessly by and holding out for some dramatic rescue. It was up to him to stop whatever nonsense these wretched people attempted, and save as many lives as possible. 

And after that…somehow…he would come back for Crow. If he had to tear the sorcerer city apart stone by stone, he would find him and bring him home. Even if he had to bargain with Gabriel for soldiers to do it, not matter what the cost. But first he had to survive. 

If he could only keep things from spiraling out of control...perhaps they could all come out of this in one piece.  

Crow staggered to a halt in a cloud of steam just outside yet another town, breath razing his lungs, and fumbled out the bottle of potion from his pocket. He was slightly disconcerted to see that it was more than half empty already. No matter. He had to be nearly there. The towns he passed were getting progressively nicer and larger, which must mean that he was approaching the Fells.  

Patches of heavy rain had begun interspersing with the thunder and lightning, slowing him down. The furious heat radiating off his skin kept him dry, evaporating away the water as fast as it could soak him, but the driving lines of wet sank into the earth and turned it to mud. It made his footing a lot more treacherous. Maddening, but he couldn't afford to slip and break an ankle right before the real trouble began. 

He glanced down and winced. His favourite boots were now boots only in the loosest sense of the word. The soles were worn paper thin, and they were more grey than black now from scuffs and a thick layer of grime. Bare toes peeked through gaping holes in the front where the leather had melted or worn out entirely. No mending spell would be able to salvage them.  

Priorities.  

He squinted through the rain at the wooden sign in front of him. Before him lay a crossroads, and he couldn’t remember for the life of him which one was the correct route. The arrows both indicated town names that he didn’t recognise. Useless.  

A faint sputtering sound drew his attention, and he looked to his right.  

An old man stood there not a dozen feet away, wide-eyed, stopped dead in his tracks with mouth agape. He was twig-slender with knobbly knees, dressed like a merchant, and clutched a rain parasol unsteadily in one hand and an armload of packages to his chest with the other. A small, equally-nervous-looking dog huddled quivering at his feet. 

“Which is the way toward the High Fells?” Crow demanded without preamble.  

The old man raised a hand that trembled like a leaf in a hurricane, and pointed wordlessly to the path on the left.  

“Right. Thanks.” Crow gave a polite nod and gulped a fresh mouthful of Anathema’s potion. The fog beginning to creep over his thoughts abruptly cleared. He gave his head a shake and took a deep, deep breath.  

“I- I say- Good sir, your cloak is on fire!” the man burst out in a reedy voice, with the shocked tones of someone who can’t believe he has to actually say it.   

Crow looked down. Eh. So it was, and not for the first time. The rain should put it out. He dismissed it as a trivial detail, and without further comment leapt into motion again, blazing past the man who only had time for a single squawk of alarm before he was gone and left far behind.  

“Remember,” Lord Belz said grimly, yellow eyes boring into Azra's own. “Any hint of treachery, any attempt to signal for help, and it will not end well for whomever it is you are speaking to.” 

Next to her, Dagon sprouted a small green flame in his hand and nodded slowly at him, as if he were too stupid to grasp their meaning. Lord Ligur only glared.  

It was nearly dusk. Thunder still crackled outside, a low rumbling of discontent that perfectly echoed his own mood. Their carriage had pulled to a merciful halt at the beginning of the long, gravel-dusted pathway that led straight up to the palace gates. The gates, Azra knew, where only a minimum of guards would be standing watch at this hour. No help likely from that quarter. 

Azra sighed. “Yes, I gathered that.” They didn’t need to worry. If anyone was going to bear the brunt of this confrontation, he did not mean it to be his servants. It had taken a great deal of convincing to persuade the overzealous sorcerers to take the stealth approach, rather than simply marching him right up to the gates with daggers out, but thank goodness he had succeeded. The palace guards were far more decorative than functional, at least against a threat like this, and would only blindly attack and get themselves killed. 

“However, this will draw attention.” He lifted his bound hands before him, and raised his eyebrows.  

Lord Belz gave a curt nod to Lord Ligur, who drew a dagger from his black leather coat pocket and cut the rope free.  

Azra used his freed hands to finally put himself in order a bit; the familiar ritual of it was calming. He nervously straightened his sweaty, rumpled doublet and re-buttoned his leather jacket, and smoothed his hair as best he could. No doubt it still looked appalling. He touched his empty throat wistfully- his blue and lavender cravat had been lost at some point in all the shoving around. A pity, he’d particularly liked that one. Even a simple kerchief would have been an improvement, but in times of great hardship one must make do. 

“Enough.” Lord Belz gave him a sharp shove with the heel of her hand. Azra turned and glared at her.  

“Yes alright, there’s no need to keep prodding at me,” he said testily. He had already been poked and jabbed so many times that he was going to be covered in bruises by the end of this ordeal. 

The three sorcerers wedged themselves into the seat across from him, leaving him alone on his side of the carriage. They pulled their cloak hoods up, concealing their eyes from any casual observer who might peek inside. They all still bore the marks from their encounter with the ravens as well; Lord Belz's cheek was puffy and swollen. Good, thought Azra. Serves them right. 

Lord Belz opened the carriage door and called out brief instruction to Hastur, and they began clattering their way up what Azra most desperately hoped was the last leg of their journey. If he never saw a carriage again after this it would be too soon. 

Soon enough they pulled to a stop again. “Halt! State your identity and purpose!" bellowed a man outside. 

Azra recognised the voice of the gate commander. A good man, if a bit stodgy. Certainly no one he wanted to be harmed.  

He lifted the curtain and poked his head out the carriage window, blocking the view of any of his companions, and gave the guards his most pleasant smile. “Good evening, Commander Vimes. It's only me; if you would please open the gates?”  

Vimes, a sturdy, disproportionately grizzled man of indiscriminate age, looked taken aback to see him. He immediately whipped the cigar he'd been smoking out of his mouth, flung it away and quickly straightened into a crisp salute, armour clanking. “Ah. Ahem. Good evening, Your Highness. You are arrived just in time for the opening banquet; everyone has gathered into the great dining hall. Shall I send someone ahead to announce you?”

The Tournament opening banquet! The very event where they had planned to formally announce his engagement. It seemed he would be attending after all; Azra nearly let out a nervous giggle at the sheer absurdity of it. 

"No, thank you Commander, that won't be necessary. I would much prefer to make an inconspicuous entrance, given that I am arriving late." 

Another salute. "As you wish, Your Highness." A slight hesitation, and Vimes added delicately, “The King has instructed me to request your immediate presence.”  

Oh dear. “I imagine he has,” Azra replied evenly. “Thank you.” 

The commander hesitated again, and cast a dubious glance over the hunched and rather gargoyle-like figure of Hastur in the driver’s seat.  Azra held his breath. No doubt the man was wondering what on earth he was doing in a shoddy carriage like this instead of arriving on Serafina, as usual. But there was no obvious foul play, and the guards were not generally known for their critical thinking skills. Azra could almost see the mental shrug as the man turned and ordered the gates open. 

Azra sat back, and let out a slow, relieved breath. That had gone quite well, if he did say so himself.  Chaos averted so far.  

Crow had never planned to come back to this place. 

It wasn’t raining here in the Fells, at least; the salty air was colder, and the heavens still flickered and rumbled, but any actual rain seemed to have either moved out to sea or stayed further South. It made for better running.  

No tedious carriage ride for him, not this time. He charged right through the tidily paved, already lantern-lit streets of the upper-class city district at the speed of a galloping horse, past bakeries and jewelers and bookbinders just closing up their doors for the evening, past glassmaker’s shops still busy with artisans sweating over glowing hot furnaces. He tore right down the middle of the mostly-empty main square, dodging around clusters of slow-moving pedestrians and the occasional carriage that loomed before him, drawing screams and crashes and shouts of alarm every step of the way.  

No one tried to stop him; he was moving so quickly that most people didn’t even have time to make sense of what they were seeing, and far too quickly for anyone to stop him even if they had. Mostly people just screeched and got out of his way. One well-dressed man in a plumed hat wasn’t quick enough on his feet, and ended up slammed aside into a fruit cart as Crow thundered heedlessly past.  

Once out of the city proper he reached a broad road paved in white marble, bracketed by lush green lawns and manicured gardens, leading in a winding path up the hill to the palace grounds. And at the end of this road, finally: a long, torchlit path that stretched like an arrow straight to the edge of the white cliffs, where the palace rose up tall against the sky.  

Crow was irritated to see that the palace of the High Fells looked even more spectacular than the last time he’d been here. The light of the sinking sun filtered under the heavy stormclouds and set all the glass windows and crystal mosaics aflame: brilliant with copper, fuschia, gold, and a thousand other colours he had no name for, colours that even his flowers couldn’t match. Dazzling against the cloudy mauve sky behind it, nearly too bright to look at. Typical.   

As he raced down that final stretch of road he pulled out the bottle of potion, took another sip, and crammed it back into his pocket without slowing. He’d already ruled out trying to speak to the guards. They would only call for reinforcements and fill him with enough crossbow bolts to make a porcupine envious, and he did not intend to give them that chance.  

From all his time with Azra he had surmised that to these people, living so far North, sorcerers were stories. They were the yellow-eyed monster under the bed, the cautionary tale, the fables told by candlelight to frighten and entertain. Magic was a thing of simple curiosity, tools and luxuries purchased by the wealthy. Typical for a kingdom that had seen nothing but unbroken peace and prosperity for centuries. Just for once, that might work to his advantage. He was aiming for a bit of shock and awe, here. He’d be willing to bet there hadn’t been any real conflict, nevermind any active magic seen in the High Fells since before the Wall went up...but he was about to change that. 

The tall golden gates ringing the palace were closed tight, the minimum two guards standing calm and quiet at their posts. No sound of disturbance, no shouts or whistles or raised alarm at all. Didn’t that just figure. So they still hadn’t realized what must be happening inside right this minute, had no idea that the whole bloody Northlands was under attack.  

Well, he could also change that.   

Crow bared his teeth and put on a burst of speed, sprinting dead on up the main road towards the gates, cloak flying in the driving wind, feet pounding the gravel, leaking magic all the way. The two guards were just standing there at rather slack attention, relaxed and somewhat bored. Probably near the end of their shift and thinking longingly of dinner. One of them was gazing off the other direction entirely, yawning to the back of his gloved hand.  

Even from a distance, Crow could tell they were the breed of guard that was hand-picked primarily for their ability to be professionally unfazed. Royal guards usually were. There was little that nobles liked less than disruptions to their cosy lives, after all, so these guards were charged to maintain order and calm at all costs. The no-nonsense, seven-generations-in, prosaic sort of guard that could look at a rioting crowd of peasants, blink once, and simply ring for reinforcements to round the inconvenient creatures up.  

These men turned and finally noticed the oncoming Crow, and for a moment they only stared uncomprehendingly. It must have been quite the sight: A black-garbed figure with cloak flared out behind, shredded boots flapping haphazard against the road, face set in a manic rictus of determination with yellow eyes aglow, raring straight for them at the speed of a galloping thoroughbred while trailing a cloud of thick black smoke, flames flickering along the ground behind him and lightning flashing in the sky above.  

Even professionals have their limits.  

And then Crow threw the first fireball.  

Knock knock.  

Chapter Text

The fist-sized ball of red fire shot directly through the gate between the guards, splashing harmlessly upon the stones of the courtyard.

To Crow’s surprise, the two men held their ground, though they turned pale as milk and clutched their weapons.  

Fine, then.   

The next ball of fire was the size of a man’s head, and whistled towards them with a sinister high-pitched eeeeeeeeeeee as it gained momentum. 

The two guards screamed as they threw themselves to either side in a clatter of plate mail. Without dropping the quickening spell, Crow pointed at the gate ahead and snarled, “Irronar”: the basic unlocking spell, the one that worked on anything unwarded. He followed it up with a gust of wind that rippled before him like a shield and slammed the unbarred gates open, and he charged right through without slowing. 

And then he was through, through the gates and far into the courtyard before the guards had even finished hitting the ground.  

There were rows and rows of fine gilded carriages crowding the main courtyard, dozens of them parked in lines on the cobblestones, all fine paned glass and glossy paint jobs. No doubt from all the visiting kings and their courts. As he passed, Crow lobbed another fireball at one of them, sending it up in a huge blaze of light and heat. The carriage in front of it promptly caught as well, flammable varnish and wood going up with a whoosh, and another, one by one, their close proximity making for a perfect chain of disaster. Voices rose. Yelling. Panic. A lone, vaguely familiar figure leaped from one of the driver’s seats at the end of the line and ran screaming from the wreckage, coat tails aflame, to douse himself in the nearby horse trough. Crow spared the whole thing only a glance.  

There. That should keep everyone busy for a couple of minutes.  

Behind him Crow could hear more shouting, then the shrill sound of a whistle blowing as one of the no-doubt-traumatized watchmen recovered their wits enough to make a fuss. Now he’d done it. They’d rally and be after him soon, armed with crossbows and spears and all sorts of unpleasant pointy things, all stirred up like a nest of angry hornets.  

But not quite yet: the hubbub was already fading into the distance as he zipped round the side of the palace, too fast to stop. Towards the back of the building was another set of marble stairs leading to what looked like one of the lesser entrances, or perhaps a private entrance; there was certainly no one around. Good enough for his purposes.  

As Crow ran up the steps one of his poor boots finally gave out, his foot punching clean through the sole. He grimaced and shook off the sadly flapping piece of leather. He left it there on the stairs and kept running, one foot bare.  

He shoved through the double doors in a dramatic burst of wind and cut loose the quickening spell, skidding a bit as his mismatched feet sank into the plush red carpet. His bare toe caught; he tripped and staggered directly into the arms of a white marble statue, flattening himself against it with an oof.

He jerked his head up and looked around, panting. He was in an empty, opulent hallway with large gold-framed paintings all along the walls, lined with more of those stupid marble statues he’d seen the night of the masque, the kind in the ominously heroic poses. He looked up into the carved stone face of the statue that had caught him, and received a shock: it was Azra. Kind of. The mild features had been chiseled to a strange parody of themselves, and were fixed in the kind of arrogant toothy grin that usually made Crow want to punch someone. A quick glance at the other statues confirmed that they depicted the rest of the royal family, all equally insufferable-looking. The sculptor had added a few inches to Azra’s height and removed more than a few from his waist. There was a brand new cleft in his chin. It was quite possibly the creepiest thing Crow had ever seen. 

“Ugh.” Crow shoved away from it in disgust and hastily wiped his hands on his breeches. At the base of the statue was an engraved bronze plaque; he squinted at it: “Prince Azra the Chaste,” he read aloud. The other statues all sported titles of “The Gallant” or “The Magnificent” and other such nonsense.  

There was something very, very seriously wrong with these people, but there was no time to puzzle over it. Priorities. He figured he only had a few minutes before the commotion he’d created outside filtered its way into the palace itself. For this brief, shining minute he still had free rein.  

He looked around. Shit, but he’d forgotten just how huge this place was. Big as an entire village, twisting corridors everywhere...and it belatedly occurred to him that he didn’t have the faintest idea where everyone would be. He’d had the vague plan to just burst into the palace and that everyone would all be right there, conveniently assembled for the confronting...  

He ran down the statue-lined hallway, pausing briefly to shove over Gabriel’s statue with a crash, and turned the corner to find himself in a different hallway that looked mostly the same, except that this one held only a lot of alarmingly elaborate chairs of different sizes. Probably a sitting area, or a receiving area, or something equally useless. Palaces seemed to have a lot of places designated for doing nothing in particular. Crow ground his teeth. He was going to have to ask for directions.  

He sprinted down one empty hallway, then another. No one. Where the hell was everyone? The one time he wanted to run into someone, and of course he had to pick a deserted wing with not a soul to be found. Didn’t that just figure. Folktales and stories never mentioned anyone having to run around like an idiot looking for someone to confront.  

Finally- there! A weaselly little man wearing gold and silver livery at the end of a narrow corridor, carrying a silver serving tray in white-gloved hands. Crow pounced on him and grabbed him by the back of his embroidered tunic, prompting a startled yelp and a clatter as the tray fell to the ground.  

“Where is the king and the rest of the nobles? Where is the tournament being held right now?” Crow demanded.  

“Why sir, they are all at banquet, of course,” the man began indignantly, then looked into Crow’s eyes. He stared blankly for a moment, then his own eyes suddenly widened in terror as he registered the yellow colour. He opened his mouth to scream- and Crow clapped a hand over it.  

“I don't have time for this,” he said shortly. “Where is the banquet hall?” He gave the servant a hard shake by the scruff of his neck, making his silver spectacles slide down his nose. “Point if you can’t speak, damn you!” Smoke began to rise from the carpet where his bare foot touched it.  

“Th-th-that way,” the unfortunate man stammered, indicating the hallway to his right. “End of c-corridor... second left...double doors...”  

Crow released him without comment and ran. 

It had all gone about as well as he had any right to expect, Azra thought resignedly.  

He had been equally relieved and irritated by the fact that they didn't receive a single challenge, by guards or otherwise, on their entire trek through the palace. Not a one! One would think that three ominously hunched and hooded figures lurking in his wake would have seemed at least slightly out of the ordinary, even for a Tournament day, but no. Every single guard and servant just bowed or bobbed polite curtseys and allowed them to pass by unremarked. There hadn’t even been any guards posted outside the entrance to the banquet hall; all of them were already inside. The security in this place, he was realising, was truly abysmal. It was a wonder they hadn’t been invaded sooner.  

The formal banquet hall was the second-finest room in the palace: a huge rectangular chamber lined on one side with white pillars and tall arched windows that let in the light of the falling sun. Sheer gold hangings framed each window, tied back by long tassels of braided gold velvet. The opposite wall displayed intricately woven tapestries glinting with silver and gold thread. Countless large oil lamps encased in glass ringed the room along the walls, an extravagance, so many that the entire area would still be quite well illuminated once the sun fully set. Enormous gold chandeliers dripping with thousands of teardrop crystals drew the eye upwards, sparkling, the refracted light of dozens of tiered candles throwing tiny rainbows on the high frescoed ceilings. Two enormously long tables stretched parallel down the length of the room, with a smaller, arched Head Table at the very front for the five kings to preside in their usual pretentious way. 

The High Fells only had their chance to host the Tournament of Kings every twenty-five years, so naturally Gabriel had spared no expense. The room was decked out in all the splendid finery they owned and then some. Specially commissioned banners emblazoned with the coat of arms of each kingdom had been hung on the wall behind the Head Table. The tables themselves had been made into works of art, lavishly laid out in rich shades of blue, purple, and gold – Elysian colours, in a painfully transparent bid to impress Azra’s wealthy future in-laws. Warm candlelight sparkled on the shimmering gold tablecloths, the elaborate gold candelabras and gilded platters, on the royal purple table runners and lapis silk napkins edged in gold thread. Vases of deep blue glass held fresh-cut lavender flower arrangements.  

Today it seemed as if half of Empyrion was crammed into this one over-decorated room, royals and nobles and servants and guards, not even counting the musicians sawing away in the corner.  

When the sorcerers burst dramatically through the double doors, eyes blazing, dragging the unhappy Azra with them, the first thing Azra noticed was not the long tables before him filled with hundreds of nobles, or the Head Table to their left. No, the thing that caught his attention was the desperately enticing smell of roasted meats and fresh-baked bread. It was enough to make him dizzy.  

And indeed, at first no one seemed to notice their little group either. Lord Dagon and Belz stood there holding a knife to Azra’s throat, expectantly looking around, while Ligur lurked behind them holding the satchel with that weapon, but everyone in the room went about chattering and laughing and eating without even glancing in their direction.  

Lord Dagon had irritably pulled a large, curiously engraved brass ring from inside his leather coat and hollered through it, demanding immediate surrender. The device magically amplified his voice hundredfold and sent it booming throughout the room, loud enough to shake dust from the marble pillars and painted ceilings. 

A few heads had turned, laughed, and returned to their festivities.  

The Council didn’t take kindly to being ignored. Lord Belz stepped forward and let off a blast of bright crimson sorcerer fire more than twenty feet long, sweeping over the heads of the diners and setting all the tall purple flower arrangements aflame. A few especially lofty hats ignited, too.  

That got everyone’s attention.  

Amid all the hysterical screaming one nobleman’s immediate reaction had been to leap up from his chair, vault acrobatically over the banquet table, and charge right at the sorcerers with jeweled dagger drawn. Two other burly noblemen had followed suit, holding gilded cutlery as improvised weapons.  

Now Azra stood there next to Lord Belz, staring wide-eyed at the three small piles of ash before him. They were all still smoking faintly, topped with a few scattered pieces of jewelry and the odd silver button.  

I never liked Sir Merrick , Azra thought with an internal sigh. They’d trained together a time or two, and the Knight had taken perverse pleasure in knocking him down at every opportunity (and then bragging about it later). Blustering, mean-spirited hothead that he was, it had come as no surprise at all that he had been the first to snap. The other two men had been unfamiliar to him.  

“Anyone else?” Lord Belz asked into the horrified silence. A crack of thunder outside lent extra menace to her words.  

No one took her up on it.  

The sorcerers quickly barred the door and took the much-subdued room in order. Lord Dagon paced up and down the row of tables and used the voice amplifier to shout a truly unnecessary amount of threats, commanding everyone to stay in their seats upon pain of death. Lord Belz and Lord Ligur seized the five kings from the Head Table, ignoring their furious glares and spluttered insults, then while Lord Ligur tied their hands with magic, Lord Belz went and separated all of their immediate heirs from the rest of the crowd and hauled them whining and protesting indignantly to the front. As it turned out, everyone was quite willing to point out their royalty when faced with threat of incineration. The very loud threat of incineration.  

Azra was bound too and shoved unceremoniously into the cluster of about two dozen angry, frightened royals, and now was just one of many hostages sitting here before the Head Table with their wrists tied. Again . Unfortunately that didn’t mean he’d been forgotten: Lord Belz had spared an especially pointed, venomous glare just for him, one that felt uncomfortably personal and promised punishment later. Azra didn’t believe for a moment that they were planning to let him live, regardless how this played out. Not after his role in “subverting” Crow, as they no doubt saw it.  

He’d deliberately chosen a spot near the very edge of the group to avoid going anywhere near his brothers, who sat on the opposite side and clearly had bigger things to worry about. He wasn’t even sure if they had noticed he was there; if they had then they had yet to acknowledge or even look at him. How typical. Like everyone else they were all dressed in their finest clothes, adorned with as many fripperies and Artifact jewelry as they could physically fit on their person without making it difficult to move. Gabriel wore his best coat, deep purple lined with cloth of silver, with more silver adorning his fingers. The crown resting on his head was a heavy thing fashioned out of white-gold and sparkling with his signature square-cut purple gems. He looked very odd sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring determinedly off into the distance with a hard expression, trying to act as if the entire sordid affair was beneath his notice. Azra rolled his eyes. No doubt Gabriel was absolutely seething inside, he thought with a touch of satisfaction. Michael wore head-to-toe white satin and a permanent sneer, staring at the sorcerers with a glint in his eye that did not bode well. Sandalphon was red-cheeked and looked as though he were barely sober enough to stay upright.  

Azra had absolutely nothing to say to any of them. The letter he’d planned to send was still tucked in his innermost pocket, against his chest, but this seemed like a bad time. He shifted uncomfortably on the marble floor, giving a nervous tug at his leather jacket. He’d planned to never see this place or these people again, and all the opulence only made him ache for Crow’s tower, with its simple comforts and quiet atmosphere. And Crow, of course. He missed Crow so fiercely that it was creating a pit in his stomach.  

He distracted himself from that by focusing on the other pit in his stomach, the pit caused by having had almost nothing to eat for the last twenty-four hours.  

Only a few feet away, at the end of the nearest banquet table, stood a gloriously elaborate subtlety: a massive ginger cake sculpted into a replica of the High Fells palace, complete with sugar-crystal mosaics. Tiny balconies and details modeled from chocolate, dusted with edible silver powder; caramel-dipped hazelnuts served as the gold tower peaks. All of it close enough to smell the rich vanilla frosting, and Azra's  echoingly empty belly gurgled loud enough to be heard across the room; a slender nobleman sitting next to him shot him a slightly alarmed look. Edible art pieces were traditional for huge banquets like this; it gave the royal chefs a chance to show off as well as showcase the wealth of the hosts. This one meant that they had just been about to start on the dessert course when they were interrupted. The table was already laden with silver bowls full of jewel-like glazed fruits, ornamental figures of marzipan and glossy pulled sugar, cream pastries piled high... 

Azra swallowed as his mouth filled with saliva. It was a ridiculous thing to be thinking about right now, of course, but blast it all, if he was going to fight for his life he’d much rather do so without his head woozy from hunger!  

Meanwhile that dreadful woman Lord Belz prowled back and forth before the Head Table, black leather coat flapping, voice amplifier in hand; she had been ranting and raving and listing their many endless demands for a good five minutes. Lord Dagon and Lord Ligur stood to either side, each holding a ball of flickering green fire in their palms.  

“You shall instruct your soldiers to stand down,” Lord Belz was shouting. “Every single guard and soldier shall disarm themself before us and leave their weapons here. Then they must all leave the grounds. That goes for any troops you may have outside as well. If we see any sign of soldiers near the palace, we kill a royal at random.” She glared down at the group at her feet, just to make the threat clear. “Within the week, a sorcerer shall take up residence at each of your palaces. All heirs of the crowns will be kept in the dungeons as collateral...”  

Azra was only half paying attention. It didn’t really matter what their demands were, he knew full well that the kingdoms would never comply. The sorcerers were far overestimating the nobility’s loyalty to their monarchs. The only way this could possibly end was in disaster, with nearly everyone dead (and him most certainly, especially dead) if he didn’t think of something extraordinarily clever very soon.  

More distant thunder crackled outside, accompanied by the occasional flash of lightning through the windows. Next to him, the duo of young Elysian princesses began crying loudly into their gloved hands, squeaky hiccupping sobs that dripped tears all over their green and yellow silk gowns.   

Azra sighed again. He’d been doing that a lot today.  

At least that dreadful gag was no longer in his mouth. And at least there were never any children present at these events, one less thing to worry about.  

And heaven knew there was still plenty to worry about. Looking anxiously around at the hundreds of frightened, glassy-eyed nobles sitting frozen in their gilded chairs, Azra realised with a sinking feeling that as if everything wasn’t already quite bad enough, hardly anyone in this room was sober. He’d forgotten what it was like at these large banquets. All those silver flagons on the tables were filled with the finest liquor money could buy, and by this time in the evening everyone would have been drinking heavily for at least a couple hours in preparation for the final round of mad revelry and dancing late into the night. The alcohol was bound to either render them especially useless or over-inflate their confidence in their own fighting skills, both of which were a recipe for disaster. Even stone cold sober, these pampered nobles were accustomed to tournaments, games of sword and fist that followed proper rules of engagement. Play-fighting. For all their puffery and strutting around in armour, most of these people had never so much as been threatened in earnest before. In a real fight against magic, with true danger and fear involved… 

The guards along the periphery of the room weren’t much good either; they stood helplessly at their posts, unable to act for fear of provoking violence and getting a monarch killed. The servants had all immediately fled through the service entrance, the one that none of the nobles knew about. That was a relief, at least. The musicians sat on their little raised platform clutching their instruments. No likely help from that quarter.  

Azra swallowed nervously and flexed his wrists, trying to loosen the ropes the way he had the last ones. A trickle of anxious sweat began to work its way down between his shoulder blades. It was entirely possible that he had miscalculated. He’d been counting on help from at least one of these people, but looking around he saw only confusion, open fear, or belligerence. None of that boded well for a clever solution to the situation. And he needed one, desperately, because if he didn't survive then there would be no one at all to help Crow. What would Crow do in this situation?  

Something brave, no doubt. Something brave and extraordinarily clever, neither of which Azra was feeling at the moment. What he was truly feeling was hungry, and worried, and...lonely. He felt very alone and far from home. 

No doubt about it. The Council was here.  

Crow stood panting before the closed double doors, shaking out the still-smarting hand that had just received a nasty shock from a very strongly warded handle. Probably the work of two sorcerers layered atop each other, from the feel of it.  

The doors leading to the banquet hall were a work of art, polished and elaborately carved all over with the same whirling sunburst motif he had seen on the ballroom floor at the masque, with the gilded and jeweled winged crest making up the center. It would split neatly down the middle when opened.  

He couldn’t hear any screams on the other side, so no clues were forthcoming there. But of course, if they had unleashed the Jehriko Box yet he would definitely know; he’d only opened it the once, briefly, but it wasn’t the kind of sound that one forgot. If they hadn’t unleashed the Box then that meant Azra was probably still alive and being used as a hostage. But surely not for much longer...  

Wards weren’t foolproof; they only applied to the lock, so in a sense they were only as secure as the strength of the door itself.  That left only one option: he would have to blast down the doors. 

Crow examined them dubiously. These were big doors, half again as tall as he was and as thick as his waist. Which was admittedly not terribly thick, but still. The kind of doors that would usually require multiple strong men with a battering ram to get through. On a normal day the idea would have been laughable, but perhaps with the help of the potion? ‘Amplify his power exponentially’, that was what Anathema had said, and so far that had proven true, so surely that should be enough to open the damned things if he really put his back into it.  

Crow moved a few paces back and braced himself in a half-running stance: knees bent and ready, leaned slightly forward, left arm outstretched. The scar on the back of his hand tingled in anticipation.   

Hang on, angel.   

He took a final deep breath, leapt forward and hit the door with the hardest rush of angry fire he could summon.  

Azra was beginning to panic.  

He’d spent a lifetime learning to read the mood of a crowd, and this one was getting restless again. Nothing deadly had happened for an entire fifteen minutes or so, after all. In his experience noblemen were generally comprised of two types: the kind that liked to leave all their battles to someone else, and the kind that were simply champing at the bit to stride forth and fight every battle singlehandedly, for glory. Three of the latter were now out of the picture for good. Luckily kings tended towards the former, but there were still enough left of both to be a problem. The sorcerers’ demands were being met with a lot of indignant mutterings and snorts of derision, especially from the crowded banquet tables. One of the older kings sitting near him, a brawny man with a mop of untidy grey hair and a red nose from too much drinking, was looking stormier with every word from Lord Belz.  

“Never!” cried a man somewhere in the crowded tables, interrupting her. It would have been a bit more impressive if the voice hadn’t cracked in fear at the end. The sentiment was echoed by all the nobles around him, dark mutterings of “Devils,” and drunken whimpers of fear intermingling.  

“Silence!” Lord Dagon pointed dramatically to the piles of ash over by the door. “That is what will become of anyone who defies us. Take note, Northlander scum. We will not warn you again.” He glared down his hooked nose at the crowd. 

Azra shifted in his seat and gave another frustrated yank at the ropes around his wrists. Blast it, they were not coming loose, at all! Had they used better rope this time? Things were escalating too quickly; they’d only been here for a few minutes and already things were threatening to veer out of control. More hot sweat began to trickle down the back of his neck, and he swallowed back sharp dismay as he realised that he simply didn’t know what to do. He’d been so sure that he would think of something, that if he could only get into the palace without incident he could find an opportune moment, somehow, to...snatch the box from them, perhaps? Destroy it? But now that he was here, try as he might he just couldn’t see a way out of this. What exactly had he been thinking? Any action he took would only egg on the already-touchy nobles, and get himself or someone around him killed. He hadn’t even managed to free his hands. He could only sit here like a lump, helpless and useless to anyone, making not a single whit of difference. Just like his brothers had always said.  

A pang went through him, and he swallowed back another knot in his throat. Oh dear. The sorcerers had been right to dismiss him after all.  

He scowled suddenly as his stubborn side gripped him by the ear. Of all the times to start listening to my brothers, this is certainly the worst, he told himself tartly. If he was going to do that then he might as well give up Serafina and Crow both, and marry Lady Urielle at once!  

More muttering moved like a wind through the assembled nobles, louder than before, and now Azra could see a few of the especially arrogant (or drunk) younger ones sizing up the sorcerers, the single dagger they each wore, weighing the odds again. “Bother,” Azra muttered. All it would take was one person to set off a chain reaction. Gabriel wouldn’t try anything, no, he had far too much self-preservation instinct for that, but Michael… the Crown Prince was eyeing the sorcerers with that familiar gleam that meant he was contemplating something especially stupid. Azra’s mind flitted back to the time Michael drank an entire pitcher of wine and decided to ride Gabriel’s brand new (and very wild, ill-tempered) stallion, lovely animal, never mind that it had been forbidden. He’d leapt onto its back, yanked the reins hard enough to bruise its tender mouth, and struck the horse’s sides with both spurs. The enraged animal had promptly thrown him to the ground and given him a few well-placed, derisive kicks, breaking both his arms.  

Michael had worn exactly this look before that, too. And he wasn’t the only one.  

Azra gulped, and adjusted to a better position in case he had to move quickly. He could tackle someone down if need be, bound hands or no, but he was only one man and not nearly the largest one here. There was absolutely nothing he could do if people decided to lose their heads en masse.  

He felt more beads of sweat spring out on his forehead. His heart was making a drum of his poor chest. A room full of drunken, arrogant, angry courtiers, some of whom were also armed... Oh, but this was tenuous indeed; the room was a tinderbox waiting to be struck. Everything shivered on the edge of absolute chaos, and the slightest wrong move could send the entire situation spiraling out of control.  

It was at that exact hushed, tense moment that the doors to the banquet hall exploded.  

Crow had slightly overestimated exactly how much force would be required to open the door.  

He hadn’t tried to really throw sorcerer fire yet under the influence of the potion. Not with any kind of intensity; the fireballs outside the palace had been mostly light, for effect. He imagined that with the potion’s help he could probably summon enough force to crack the heavy doors, break them just enough to render the ward useless, if he tried very very hard.  

So he was entirely taken aback by the howling vortex of blue-white flame that came blasting out of him.  

The doors didn’t open. They didn’t merely break. They shattered like kindling.  

He’d already started running forward as he threw the fire, expecting to have to ram the doors with his shoulder, but instead ended up sprinting through a hail of flaming bits of wood like flying daggers, followed by a huge gout of black smoke. It probably looked quite impressive. Or would have, if his clothes hadn’t caught fire along with it.  

So it was that he burst through what had once been the doors preceded by a deadly hail of jagged wood, missing one boot, screaming like a madman in surprise as much as determination and flaming like a bat freshly escaped from Hell.  

Absolute chaos broke loose.  

A lot of things happened in rapid succession.  

The smoke from the explosion promptly filled the entrance in a thick roiling cloud, obscuring him from immediate view.  

Next, Crow stumbled and fell to one knee- just in time for an apple-sized ball of incandescent sorcerer flame to fly hissing over his head. That would be Lord Belz, then, always the quickest on her feet, and he recognized the look of her magic. It had a uniquely angry feel to it.  

Screams filled the air. There was a great commotion and clattering of overturned chairs as a roomful of overdressed nobles proceeded to panic. They leapt up and embarked on a mad scramble towards the edges of the room, away from the fire, away from him, just away in general, whatever direction had the path of least resistance. They all made a ridiculous amount of noise while doing it, too. There was an additional commotion as the dozen guards around the periphery tried to run inwards, towards the fight. Unfortunately this caused them to collide head-on with the tide of screaming nobles running away from the fight. So mostly they cancelled each other out.  

As he staggered to his feet Crow swiftly yanked the heat out of the flames eating away at his clothes, extinguishing them and wreathing him in more smoke. If that kept up he’d end up fighting the rest of this battle stark naked. That would make for a story or song, all right, but not the kind he wanted to feature in. 

When the initial billow of smoke cleared he was able to make out the three sorcerers crouching there only a few yards away, facing the door with one arm flung out for balance and other hand held defensively before them. Lord Belz was at the front, brushing splinters off her long black coat, with Lord Dagon right beside her. At their backs Lord Ligur faced the opposite direction. He’d conjured up a thin rope of dull red sorcerer flame, and was concentrating on holding it hovering at waist-height around a tight cluster of nobles...hostages, and probably royals from the crowns and circlets he could see. Crow’s already-pounding heart leapt. Surely Azra was in that group. So close.  

Two pairs of yellow eyes fixed on him, and widened. Twin expressions of sheer bewilderment spread across Lord Belz and Lord Dagon’s faces, and it nearly made Crow laugh aloud.  

He gave them his cheeriest grin and a little wave.  

Bewilderment lasted only a second or two before both faces twisted in fury, almost in unison.  If looks could kill, Crow would be nothing more than a greasy blot left on the marble floor. 

“You!” Lord Belz snarled. The raven-claw scratch on her cheek looked painful. “How- You dare to interfere?”  

“Traitor!” Lord Dagon shouted. “What do you think you are doing?” 

“Causing trouble!” Crow hollered back. His skin was still buzzing with power that itched to be used, so he scratched that itch. He pointed at Belz and sent a concentrated blast of white fire corkscrewing towards her, just to make it clear how upset he was. He meant it mostly as a distraction to buy himself time to think, but like with the door, it came out with a kind of furious percussive force that he’d never felt before. He was forced to rein it back a bit or risk hitting the hostages too.  

Belz didn’t move. She just let the fire come at her, then at the last second used a contemptuous flick of her own sorcerer flame to deflect it. It should have worked; a stronger sorcerer’s magic could overcome that of a weaker one, so Crow’s white flame should have simply bounced away. Instead it slammed right into her flame and knocked her backwards, sent her staggering. She wheeled back and crashed into Lord Ligur, and nearly knocked him down too. The ring of fire around the screaming hostages went out briefly, then flared back to life as he focused again, face screwed up in concentration. Belz regained her balance with difficulty, her spit-yellow eyes wide with shock. 

Ha. Maybe that will give them a bit of pause. Crow’s attention was briefly caught by a large leather satchel slung over Ligur’s shoulder, the only thing any of them were carrying. That had to be the Jehriko Box.  

Lord Belz and Lord Dagon each drew a long dagger from their belts and spread out a little, expressions wary now, facing him but keeping close to the group of hostages. Crow groaned. Knives. How he hated knives. They knew he couldn’t risk throwing anything too powerful without accidentally killing Azra or one of the other royals.  

Speaking of, where was he? He kept scanning the crowd in Ligur’s circle, trying to catch a glimpse, but they were too tightly packed and there were a lot of tall men. Azra was still hidden from view. If Crow could just grab him...  

He tried to use a short spurt of the quickening spell to dart around the side, trying to get a glimpse of Azra within the group, but he immediately caught his bare toe on a piece of the broken door littering the ground and tripped, hissing in pain. No more running for him. There were far too many obstacles in here and not nearly enough space.  

Circling back towards the doorway, Crow nearly stepped in a couple piles of ash that looked horribly familiar from his own battles with attackers at his tower, and moved quickly away with a grimace. Yech. That was inevitable, in a situation like this. He could only hope that it had been people who deserved it, and try not to contribute to more of them.  

He turned his attention back to the problem at hand and growled in frustration. This is the part where it would have been nice to have a plan. They were at a bit of a stalemate, and he was painfully aware that his options were limited. He didn’t know how to wield a sword without hurting himself, and sorcerers generally didn’t fight amongst each other with magic. They didn’t have many fighting magics, for one; by far their most battle-applicable skill was sorcerer flame. Since they couldn’t incinerate each other with that, any violent disputes mainly consisted of brawls. He’d seen a few of these fights as child when those famous sorcerer tempers flared: skinny adults rolling around on the ground and slapping away at each other while their clothes lit on fire. The elder sorcerers would have to attack him with simple flesh and steel like any mundane. 

A powerful blast of fire hit a piece of shattered door lying in front of him, sending it spinning through the air and ripping at his left sleeve, and Crow flinched away.  

Right. And they could do that. He could still be impaled by projectiles and sharp bits of wreckage as easily as anyone, and if a blast sent a table flying at him it could still knock him out or crush him flat. He’d have to watch himself.  

More smoke was boiling into the air from the burning furniture. A bit of heat on his arm alerted him that ack, his sleeve was on fire again; he quickly yanked the heat from that too. They weren’t using their best shots, he noted – sorcerer flame was more than capable of instantly incinerating cloth upon a single touch, but it looked like they were carefully rationing their energy. Not everyone had the benefit of bizarre hedgewitch allies. If they spent themselves before they won, they would have to flee.  

Crow ducked as a flaming chair flew over his head; this one smashed violently against the wall behind him and set an elaborate tapestry aflame. Shit. Even their less-than-best shots were pretty good. A lifetime of practicing magic for battle application apparently came in handy, and it was three on one. Even with the potion, his best bet was probably to let them tire themselves out, then grab Azra.  

Speaking of Azra...Crow had been scanning the group behind Belz every chance he got, but he couldn’t see a single head of hair pale enough to be the prince, and it was starting to send serious prickles of worry through him. Where the fuck was he?  

When the door blew off its hinges, Azra yelped and recoiled just like everyone else for a moment. A large splinter zzzzipped past his face, grazing the tip of his nose. An especially large piece of the door shot clear across the room and hit the opposite wall with a loud bang, narrowly missing striking the group of royals and scattering them like ninepins. Smoke poured into the room, making him cough; shards of burning wood rained down on all of them, setting some of the royals’ clothes alight.  

What on earth? Azra thought frantically. Was it the outside guards? Had the Commander realised what was happening at last and mounted some kind of defense? He wasn't sure if that would be an improvement. On the average day the palace guards simply marched around and around the palace, looking very splendid shining in the sun, but not good for much else. Besides, the entire guard was decked out in their most elaborate and uncomfortable ceremonial armour for an event like this. It sported a lot of little points and twirly embellishments that looked very impressive for company but probably made sitting down impossible, never mind leaping around in a crowded area with limited visibility. Dreadful stuff, armour. 

All this flitted through his mind in an instant. Then he realised that it didn’t much matter what exactly was happening, because for this one glorious moment his captors were very thoroughly distracted – Lord Belz and Dagon were pointing at the door from their crouching positions, shouting to each other as they grouped into a defensive triangle, with only Lord Ligur paying attention to the hostages– and all the royals in the room and around him were screaming bloody murder and leaping to their feet...and this was his chance! 

Azra promptly threw himself flat, tucked his arms in against his body and rolled away along the floor. The room spun around him, chandeliers and smoke and floor all blurring together, and he bumped his head on something hard, and at least two people stepped on him, but he persisted. He rolled and rolled until he vanished under the nearest banquet table, obscured by the long gold tablecloths that brushed the ground. He halted his roll and lay there facedown, panting and dizzy, trying to catch his breath.

So far, so good. Not quite the courageous escape he’d envisioned, to be sure, but sometimes speed took precedence over dignity. The important thing was that he was out of sight, and no one seemed to have noticed him go.  

He couldn’t stay here. A table and gold cloth certainly weren’t any kind of protection against anything, and he had no intention of just waiting to be found and killed. First things first- he needed to free his hands. He quickly shuffled along under the table on his knees and elbows, down the long 'tunnel' of the covered table. A small corner of his brain noted with surprise that it was actually a lot of small tables pushed together, fancy that.

A couple of noblewomen had apparently had the same idea for a hiding place and were huddled weeping a few yards down, full skirts puffed absurdly around them like mushroom caps. Azra pushed past them with a polite “Beg pardon, madams,” keeping an eye out for anything remotely sharp. Nothing. Plenty of spilled food, and he resignedly accepted that his stained clothes were probably going to be a complete loss, but no one had been courteous to drop anything useful. What he wouldn’t give to have that blasted sword of his right now!  

Over all the screaming he could hear the dull crackling roar of the sorcerers throwing fire. There was a blaze of light that shone through the tablecloth, followed by a crash. Then another. What on earth were those ridiculous people up to? What could have possibly happened? He lifted up the gold tablecloth and tried to peer out, but from this vantage point the world had become an impenetrable sea of knees and feet and full rustling skirts scrambling everywhere. The Empyrion nobles, inebriated, unprepared, and faced with terrors from storybooks, had apparently proceeded to lose whatever sense they had left. They were all running frantically about the room like an overturned anthill, yelling and panicking and crashing into one another. Azra rolled his eyes and sighed.  

Useless as they all were, cruel as they’d always been to him, he didn’t want to see his people killed. He owed them that much, especially given his own part in this absurd situation. If he could only free his own hands then surely he could do something helpful, possibly help defuse things...  

His pondering was rudely interrupted as the section of table he was hiding under was abruptly flipped over. Desserts and lavender flowers and delicate crystal stemware went flying with a tinkling crash; an enormous tiered cream cake flipped over and hit him square in the face. He opened his mouth to yell, and received a mouthful of whipped cream instead. He spluttered and swiped at his face but couldn’t see a thing. The hiding ladies were screaming at the top of their lungs in a frequency only meant for canine ears, men were shouting nearby, booming bursts of sorcerer flame were going off somewhere over near the doorway, and the blinded Azra thoroughly expected to be murdered on the spot with half a cake still plastered over his head.  

By the time he frantically wiped the frosting from his eyes he could see that – oh, for heavens sakes – the table had only been flipped by a group of shouting noblemen to create a barricade. It had been working perfectly well as a hiding spot as it was! To add insult to injury, he had been left on the wrong side of it. The only positive side of this was that the flipped table had dumped a large dinner knife onto the ground just a few feet away from him. He lunged for it. There was a bit of a conundrum as to how to use the knife with his hands tied, but he managed at last by sitting down and awkwardly propping the knife between his booted feet. The blade was dull; he had to saw vigorously away at the rope for a good few minutes, sweating profusely.  

Books never mentioned anything like this, he thought irritably. In books, knives are always sharp. And the ropes are always looser. And there’s usually a conveniently timed visit by a benevolent fairy...or perhaps the sudden appearance of a dashing Hero with a sword, bursting through the fiery maelstrom in a blaze of courage to save the day... He looked hopefully around, but the world refused to oblige.  

On second thought, that was probably for the best. Those little piles of ash by the front stood in mute testament to the end result of those kinds of theatrics.  

A great clattering and chorus of screams from the front of the room alerted him to some new nonsense going on. Oh, what now! He shook his head and kept sawing. He could only hope that his brothers hadn’t just been summarily executed. 

Finally free, Azra got to his feet, panting and triumphant, and narrowly avoided a silver bowl of jellied fruit as it went whistling past his ear. He stepped delicately aside and used a nearby purple cloth napkin to wipe the worst of the cream cake from his face and hair. 

It really had been quite a long day.   

As he cleaned his neck he noticed that he stood before a section of banquet table that was still upright...and loaded with food. In a fit of pique he seized a small chocolate tart off one of the plates and crammed it whole into his mouth, no time for delicacy. He chewed quickly and swallowed, already reaching for a nearby covered silver dish. Lifting the lid, he discovered an entire berry trifle and immediately scooped some up into his mouth, using his fingers like a complete lout, beet-red with embarrassment but far too hungry to care. The buttery sweetness of the cake was pure bliss; his eyes nearly rolled back in his head, and he groaned in relief as new strength seemed to radiate outward from his stomach. Heaven. He gulped some water straight from a silver pitcher and furtively used a napkin to clean his hands again, still blushing furiously. That never happened.   

The food had done its job, though, soothing the shakes in his limbs and clearing his head. Heartened, he turned his attention to the rest of the room.  

Oh dear. All of Gabriel’s hard work was in ruins. In a very short time the elegant banquet hall had become something of a war zone, or obstacle course. The carefully laid tables were overturned, chairs lay toppled and flung every which way. The entire room was filled with smoke. Every wall was covered with paintings and wall hangings and myriad decorations that were enthusiastically catching fire, one after another. Hardly a loss there, he’d never liked most of those tapestries anyhow. And now some kind of new pale grey murk was pouring into the air, obscuring clear view in all directions. More sorcerer tricks, was it? He couldn’t see a blasted thing going on near the doors; some of the glass lamps on that side of the room had been smashed, dimming visibility further.  

The vast majority of the nobles had fled from the fiery commotion, but there was really nowhere to flee to. The conflict was blocking the only doors, even the servant’s entrance from the kitchens. Like every other servant’s entrance in the palace they were hidden, built in as a rotating panel that blended seamlessly into the wall, to spare noble eyes the unsightly display of the hired help coming and going. Azra had found that other nobles didn’t have the slightest idea that the entrances even existed, never mind where they were. Presumably they thought their food and essentials simply manifested like morning fog.    

The end result was a couple hundred panicked, drunk nobles bottled up in the hall, running aimlessly around the back half of the room and batting at the walls like frightened rabbits in a box, unable to get out.  

To his alarm, some of the more vainglorious noblemen were rallying, if you could call it that, crouching behind the makeshift table fortress and flinging anything they could find in the direction of the sorcerers. That was who had thrown the bowl of jelly.  No one wore proper weapons to a banquet, so they were arming themselves with whatever improvised weapons they could find – carving knives and daggers and even, in one case, a very large candelabra. Some men were holding large serving platters in front of them as shields. 

Azra pressed his lips together. Well. Suffice to say that his hopes to defuse the situation were now moot. Chaos reigned supreme. What's more, it looked like people were starting to get ideas into their heads, and no good could ever come of that. Matters were now solidly out of his hands. Without his Artifact sword he had no chance of attacking the sorcerers directly; that would only get him turned into a nice, crispy roast.  

He gave his head a shake. He really needed to stop thinking about food.  

Very well. The new plan was simply to stay alive, and help others stay alive until real help could come, and that meant it was high time to move away from this spot as quick as he could. If the sorcerers found him he would no doubt be killed on sight, and then be no good to anyone. Especially Crow.  

Crow and the Council had only got to exchange a handful of shouted insults and mostly-useless blasts of flame before their pissing match was cut short. Behind Crow came an almighty clattering sound that drew everyone’s attention: the palace guards had arrived at last. The new guards, that is, the ones that Crow had so dramatically provoked outside, the ones that still thought they were chasing a single solitary attacker.   

The phalanx of oblivious, armoured guards charged right through the shattered doorway, and both Crow and the Council turned to face this new threat.   

Unfortunately, the very first thing the guards saw was Crow, standing right there before them in plain view: soot-streaked, garbed all in black with a sword strapped across his back, looking every bit as shifty and sorcery and yellow-eyed as one could expect. And their immediate reaction was to take one look at him, automatically raise the crossbows they held, and fire.   

Crow hit the ground so fast that he knocked the wind out of himself and clipped his chin, years of instincts dropping him before he had to even think about it. The cloud of bolts whizzed over his head close enough to catch at his hair, missing him – to fly directly towards the Council with their group of royal hostages instead. 

The hostages screamed and recoiled as one. Lord Belz threw out a hand with a wordless cry, and every single crossbow bolt stopped abruptly in midair a few feet from her. They bounced off nothing and clattered to the ground all around her; Lord Dagon incinerated the bolts with a contemptuous sweep of his arm. Lord Belz was left panting from the effort it had taken.  

Of course. Crow huffed from where he lay flattened on the floor, equal parts irritated and relieved. If there was anyone confident or delusional enough to make the damned shield spell work, it was these three. The first and only time he’d ever tried it he’d been shot. Ugh, but he hated crossbows! He couldn’t help but be grudgingly impressed, though – a shield strong enough to stop over a dozen bolts at once, spread out over a large area like that? It took the kind of power and iron will that few possessed. It was a sobering reminder that Lord Belz was not the Head of Council for her sparkling personality.  

The guards had pulled up short, gawping, and didn’t seem to know what to be more horrified by: seeing three additional sorcerers standing there before them, the fact that a sorcerer had stopped their most powerful weapon cold with a wave of her hand, or that they would have made pincushions of all their royalty if she hadn’t. While they were still standing there frozen in multilayered horror, Lord Dagon whipped up a whirling funnel of green fire and sent it spiraling towards them with deadly intent, hissing as it went.   

The guards clearly hadn’t signed up for this. They screamed and scattered. 

Scattered or not, the arrival of the guards had changed things. The odds were now against the would-be usurpers: they were heavily outnumbered, with small chance of survival if they didn’t run... or change the rules of the game. Crow could see the very moment that the three sorcerers realised it, too. They all exchanged looks, then began backing slowly away, herding the crowd of royals before them within the fiery circle. As they went Lord Belz reached into her long coat and pulled out a bottle of clear fluid; she pulled the cork from it and thrust the bottle out before her like a knife. Crow couldn’t hear the spell she used, but a second later smoke began to pour forth. A long, thick skein of pale smoke, unraveling and expanding from the bottle to billow through the entire room around them, shrouding everything in nearly opaque murk.  

Well. That’s a new one. So they had come prepared after all, and decided to fight. Crow groaned, and used the cover of the smoke to shuffle off on hands and knees to the side, leaving the guards and Council to work out their differences. He’d half-hoped that with their element of surprise gone the Council would cut their losses and run, but he should have known better. These were the same people who had stubbornly built a city three times over in the same nasty impractical swamp until it stuck. Pragmatism was not a sorcerer strength.  

He had to hand it to Belz, though- the pale smoke was a brilliant move, one that rendered the guards’ crossbows completely useless even if they did manage to reload. They couldn’t very well fire blindly into the room; between the royal hostages and all the screaming running nobles they were far more likely to shoot a princess than they were to hit an enemy.  

Judging by the clunks of wood against stone and the sounds of drawn metal, the guards were planning to wade into the fray armed with swords and pikes instead. Crow groaned again. They would make for nice, pointy torches once the sorcerers started chucking more fire around. 

But he couldn’t worry about that right now. While the Council was backing away he’d finally got a good long look at all the hostages, and now he had a much bigger problem, one that made his stomach twist: Azra was officially not in the group of royals.   

A cold knot settled into Crow’s gut, and he tried to swallow with a mouth that had gone suddenly dry. Surely the Council had used Azra to get into the palace...and they would never just release him, knowing how much he meant to Crow. Not ever. They were far too angry and vindictive for that. So...where was he?  

He spent a fruitless second kneeling there by the wall, mind racing, trying and failing to think of any explanation that made sense. A horrible possibility was trying to push at the edge of his mind; he shoved it roughly away and got to his feet. Azra was somewhere else in the room, that was all. Crow just had to go look for him...   

“My lord,” a frantic voice said right behind him, and a gloved hand touched his shoulder. “Please move to the back of the room with the others, it’s far safer-”  

Crow rounded on the guard and gave him the full benefit of his yellow-eyed glare. “Do I look like a ‘lord’ to you?” he snarled. The guard yelped and reeled backwards, vanishing into the smoke until he hit something with an unseen clatter of armour.  

Crow forgot him and stalked away, looking frantically around through the heavy smoke- if that was indeed what it even was. The damned stuff was nearly solid white, and not choking like smoke should be; it behaved more like fog that swirled and shifted in patterns as people moved through it, a thick gauze that obscured one moment and revealed the next. The edges of the room were only visible as shifting tones of muted white and gold firelight that diffused through the air and made it easy to get turned around.

He kept having to dodge clumps of elaborately dressed nobles who were still running around screaming with no apparent cause. Did they think the screaming was helping? Crow thought wildly. Maybe the noise was something that just occurred naturally when nobles moved in groups, like geese. 

Ordinary dark grey smoke from burning décor still spilled into the air, too, mixing with the white and adding to the confusion, making people cough. Chairs were scattered everywhere, creating tripping hazards. Crow barked his shins more than once. He came upon more clusters of terrified and dandified nobles here and there, some barricaded behind sections of tables, others huddled against the wall with arms over their head. Well-meaning guards moved through the room and tried to corral everyone into some kind of order; Crow ignored them. He only darted from group to group in growing agitation, peering at faces. Occasionally a noble would get a look at his eyes, but he never stayed in one place long enough for them to do more than gasp in horror. 

He couldn’t find Azra. Everything was on fire, and he couldn’t see, and all the shouting and crackling of sorcerer fire were reverberating off the walls and blending into a roaring in his ears, and he couldn’t find Azra.   

Crow's mind leapt unbidden to the piles of ash he had stumbled over by the doors, and he violently shoved the horrible thought away again. No. That couldn’t have been... The Council wouldn’t have- no. They wouldn’t do that, they would have wanted to use Azra, surely… But once they had all those other royals to use instead... Crow swallowed around the sick knot that twisted up in his throat, in his chest, in his stomach, heavy and now hot as lead. 

“Azra! Azra, are you here?” he yelled. His voice cracked a little as real fear touched him.    

All the way here, from the moment he’d stepped out of that jail cell he’d kept his feelings tightly coiled inside of him. Tense and ready to strike. Now, looking around, he only felt brittle.  

He hadn’t let himself even consider the idea that he might already be too late. He couldn’t be too late. He’d escaped, climbed the awful tower, got here as quickly as he could against all the odds, and it couldn’t end that way. He’d been so sure that if he could only get into this room... 

But he was here in the room, and there was nothing but acrid smoke and chaos all around, and he still couldn’t find Azra, and he was alone. Brittle became paper thin and fragile. If they'd hurt him...

He couldn’t go back, not to the way things used to be. He couldn’t go back.  

“Azra!” he shouted hoarsely again, louder. His breath crouched solid in his chest, the knot was drawing strangle-tight. He stumbled heedless through the smoke and overturned tables, shoving the occasional noble out of his way. The fog was much thinner on this side of the room; he could actually get a decent look around. “For the- for fuck’s sake, Azra! Where are you?”  

And then...he stopped dead; his heart squeezed in a vise at the same time something flooded brilliant inside, because – miraculously, impossibly – there Azra was. Between one shifting billow of smoke and another, like a mirage. All the way at the other side of the room, helping a fallen noblewoman in a blue dress back to her feet with patient care, pointing her back towards the relative safety of the far wall. Dirty and disheveled, clothing stained, minus a cravat, but unmistakably, beautifully alive. 

“Azra…” All that came out was a breathless, choked sound.  

Azra couldn’t have heard, but somehow he turned- and saw him. His mouth fell open. His face did the most incredible things, an entire sunrise of astonished joy and wonder, and his lips formed Crow’s name. He took a single faltering step. 

Crow was already running, vaulting over a fallen chair, using a short reckless burst of the quickening spell to propel himself across the last stretch of space in one long leap. There was a breathless non-instant, a gap in time, then a crashing together as he barreled straight into Azra and seized him round the neck in a furious hug.  

The air was knocked out of him with a shocked “oof”. Crow felt Azra sway backwards on his feet like a willow bending in the wind, then snap upright again as he caught them both. And then that hideous twisting knot in his chest had released as thoroughly as if it had never existed, terror and anger falling away into joy, because he had Azra in his arms again. Azra was holding him wrapped so tight, his body soft and sturdy, an anchor point in the storm, with too many layers of clothing scrunched under Crow’s fingers and feathery curls pressed against his closed eyes. Perfect and familiar and right.  

Then they were gasping, jumbling words over each other as they both tried to speak at once.  

“Oh my darling, what-” 

“You’re alive. Fuck. You’re alive. I-” 

Crow shoved his hands into Azra’s hair and kissed him, hard. Azra’s hands were on his face too, fingers clutching, and Crow pushed him stumbling backwards into a little indentation in the wall behind yet another hanging tapestry. This had the added bonus of hiding them from view. Crow pulled away for just a second to look at him, at his adorably smudged face, but Azra was having none of it- he yanked Crow back and kissed him again, hard and desperate. And again, with soft lips, pressing eager kisses on his mouth and nose and cheeks. It hurt, a wonderfully sweet, healing, true pain all through the left side of Crow’s breast, making him whimper in relief even as his eyes began to burn...  

“I was- I was afraid I was too late,” Crow choked out, voice thin and wavery. “I couldn’t- I thought-” I thought you were gone. His face crumpled; it hurt too much to say aloud, so he just buried his face in the crook of Azra’s neck and clutched at him, gasping. He felt lightheaded, his chest was heaving like a bellows but he still couldn’t catch his breath or get enough air, try as he might, and he didn’t understand why that should be the case now of all times, when he’d been perfectly in control the entire mad dash here. Stupid. His clothes were smoking again, the water on his too-hot cheeks sizzling and going up as little wisps of steam.  

“Oh my dearest.” Azra leaned back against the wall and held him close, murmuring reassurances in his ear. “I’ve got you. Just breathe, shh.” His voice was not entirely steady either. He didn’t flinch away from the rising smoke, but only held Crow tighter and rubbed his back comfortingly.  

Crow nodded and snuffled into Azra’s neck, grateful beyond words for the small piece of privacy to pull himself together. It would have been horrifying to be caught sniveling by any of this lot, but no one had any attention to spare for two people standing quietly in a corner, stealing a moment of peace. And no one else mattered anyway, not with his face tucked into that soft perfect curve and Azra’s lips against his ear. Home.  

“‘Love you,” he mumbled. That was a priority; he’d thought he might never have the chance to say it again. And now once wasn’t enough; it was ready to tear its way out of his chest if he didn’t give it a voice, so he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Azra’s with a sigh, cradled his face gently in his hands. “I love you. I love you.” Sighing it out with each breath, and for once the word did not feel strange on his tongue. 

“I love you more than I can possibly say,” Azra said fervently. 

And for that single, shining moment in the midst of chaos, all was serene.

A loud boom against the far wall made them both jump. Time reasserted itself; the sounds of the still-chaotic room abruptly came back into focus and reminded them where they were. Crow dragged in a couple deep breaths through his nose, finally calmer, and chuckled quietly. “It’s good to see you, angel.”  

“I was so worried.” Azra was smiling incredulously at him, pink cheeked and bright-eyed, and kept gripping his arms as if to make sure he was real. He had a little red scratch across the tip of his nose. “I thought- But I should have known it was you. What are you doing here, you ridiculous thing?” 

“I promised, remember? Wherever you are. No matter what.” Crow couldn’t stop looking at him and grinning like a fool. The prince looked tired, even in shadow, but completely unharmed. Beautifully whole. Crow kissed the scratch on Azra’s nose and brushed a thumb over the little smile lines bracketing his eyes, rubbing away a bit of soot that had settled into them. They were gorgeous. He was gorgeous. When all this was over Crow was going to write him a poem, common sense be damned. “I came as quick as I could. Are you alright?”  

Azra beamed, face all aglow as he stroked Crow’s hair. “More than alright, now. But how are you here?” he demanded. “The last time I saw you- well, heard you, you were locked up miles and miles away, and had those dreadful things on your wrists...” He looked down, and Crow held both forearms out to display the lack of manacles. “How did you escape, and- good heavens, what happened to your poor feet? Are you hurt?”  

Crow looked down, too. His solitary boot was a half-melted, shredded mess of leather. His bare foot was covered in dirt and, to his surprise, blood. He hadn’t felt a thing.  

The sight yanked him back to earth. Escape. Right. Still gotta do that. Crow took a deep breath and shook his head to clear it.  

“I’m completely fine, but that’s a long story; no time to tell it right now.” He poked his head out from behind the tapestry and glanced around. No one was near their area, and they seemed to be in a bit of a lull. Voices still rose and fell, but it wasn’t the cacophony of before. No sorcerer fire flared in the gloom. The Council must be regrouping, trying to get things back under control.  

“C’mon. We have to get out of here, we’ve both got huge targets on our backs. Let me take you home. I have my amulet, we can go right now, we can pack and run off somewhere no one will ever find us...” He was already reaching under his shirt as he spoke, keeping one hand firmly gripped to Azra’s arm – he wasn’t letting go of him... 

“But- wait, darling, wait.”  Azra laid a hand on his wrist. "We can't leave yet. What about the other sorcerers?”   

Crow stopped, and slowly released the amulet. Ah, shit. The Jehriko Box. In his excitement he’d completely forgotten.  

There was a distressed wrinkle etched between Azra's brows. “Almost every noble in Empyrion is held captive in this room. And all the way here, that woman- Lord Belz? She was talking about how if they failed to take the kingdom, they would use that device they stole from you to bring the entire palace down. Could that little box really do such a thing?”  

Crow nodded, reluctantly. That sounded like their style, alright. Vindictive to the last. “Ehhh yeah... yeah. Apparently the noise it makes can break things, even buildings. In my defense, I didn’t know it did that,” he added.    

Azra nodded and took a deep breath. He was pale, but his mouth had firmed into a determined line. “I do want to go home, truly, more than anything, but...” He put his hand against Crow’s cheek, looked into his face with large, pleading eyes. “I cannot just abandon everyone here to be conquered or killed, even if they can be dreadful sometimes. And there are hundreds of other innocents living in the palace as well, servants and children. They deserve better.”  

And Crow knew what was coming, even before Azra swallowed hard and asked, “Will you help me stop this?”  

And there it was. One part of Crow wanted to shake him; all his hard-earned survival instincts screamed to grab Azra and drag him away to the safety of the Rookery right the hell now before things went pear-shaped again, that it was time to keep their heads down and run, request be damned... but every other part was about to explode with love for this man, this kind, absurdly brave prince who was unlike anyone else he’d ever met, the antithesis of everything Crow had ever been taught to value, this prince who rescued unwanted horses and befriended servants, who saw the good in absolutely everyone, even a dangerous hereditary enemy who had just flung fire at him... and of course Azra was going to stay and try to save everyone. With or without Crow's help.  

Because that was who Azra was. Not the pompous, self-aggrandizing type of useless Hero that only loved the glory of charging forth with banners waving, but an ordinary type that actually mattered, that actually helped other people despite their own fear and at their own expense, and Crow hadn’t even thought that people like that really existed, and oh, didn’t that just figure!  

“But…but we- you- garghhh.” Crow made a sound somewhere between a growl and a laugh. “You’re the most ridiculous, beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, you know that?” he said, and grabbed him by the front of his stained leather jacket. He yanked the startled Azra forward and kissed him properly this time, wrapped him up in both arms and kissed him with all the fierce love and pride swooping through his body. 

Because of course the answer was yes. The answer had been helplessly, inescapably yes, ever since that first startling smile by the Wall, the smile that had made Crow feel just a little bit less alone, though he didn’t even realise it at the time. The warm, gentle smile that had shaken his entire world to its core and bound up his heart in ways he was still only beginning to understand. 

Right now what Crow understood was that he was about to do something very stupid and arguably Heroic (though fortune knew that was a shaky line, one probably defined by whether or not you survived), something that put him solidly in the path of lots of people armed with sharp objects who wanted to kill him, and he didn’t even mind. Burning to death, and ecstatic about it all the way, he thought giddily. I really have gone mad.   

He finished kissing Azra and released him with a slight jerk. “Of course I’ll help. Obviously. What do you take me for?”  

And the way Azra smiled at him… In that moment Crow felt like he could burst into flight. The hedgewitch potion with all its blazing intensity didn’t hold a candle. That one look of adoring, relieved gratitude made it all worthwhile, was worth more to him than any accolade he could have ever received from Father and all of Pandemonium combined. Even if it did mean that they were both sorely lacking in self-preservation, but what the hell did that matter? He'd rather be mad like Azra than sane by anyone else's standards.

Crow fumbled at the buckle on the leather strap across his chest, fingers clumsy from adrenaline. "Here. In that case you’re going to need your sword.” He’d completely forgotten about it until this very moment, in fact. Ah, shit. I could have used it on the door. Too late now.

The damned weapon had slid down under his cloak and hung awkwardly off to his side; he finally removed it with a sigh of relief.  

Azra just beamed at him, face alight as he took the sword. “My goodness. I never thought I would be so happy to see this thing,” he said, weighing it in his grip with a satisfied air. “I suppose there’s a first time for everything. It's such a relief to have a weapon that will actually be useful.” He quickly buckled the belt round his waist, straightening it just so.  

 “Oh-" he said suddenly, looking up. "Is Serafina alright?”

“Not a scratch,” Crow assured him. “I left her in good hands.” 

Azra put a hand on his chest and let out a huge relieved sigh. “Oh, thank heavens. And I’m very curious to hear that story later.” He reached up as if to adjust his cravat, then let his hands fall with an aggrieved expression as he realised he wasn’t wearing one anymore. “Alright. I suppose we should go over there and see what exactly we are dealing with. I want to end this nonsense so we can go home and have dinner.”  

Crow had to laugh at that. “I'll settle for a good, stiff drink,” he said, grinning.   

“Yes, please. Besides.” Now Azra’s eyes flashed, and a bit of steel entered his voice. “They tried to hurt you for no reason at all. They are the ones who came looking for trouble. We aren’t the ones who should be forced to run.”  

“Too right,” Crow agreed fervently. “Too right.” The fury he’d felt back at his tower flared anew. He’d spent his entire life retreating, avoiding and hoping to be left alone, and what good had that done him? It was time to insist. “If we can get that Box and the hostages away from them...that should do it. I doubt the Council is interested in becoming martyrs.” 

“Indeed.” Azra swallowed nervously, but the stubborn set of his jaw did not waver. “I suppose I should be the one to try and get the hostages away. And perhaps...you can go for the Box?" 

“Yeah. Your brothers would only try to kill me otherwise.” Crow sighed and dragged a hand down his face, then unclasped his tattered cloak from his neck and let it fall to the ground. It would only get in his way. 

"Right, then. Ready to live dangerously?” 

“Yes. I daresay I am.” Azra held out a hand towards him. 

Crow took it. He lifted the hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles.  

“Stay close, angel. I’ll keep you safe.”  

Azra straightened his shoulders, and drew the Artifact sword with a long silvery shhhhhing of metal. He hefted it before him and gave Crow a gently arch look. “I was going to say the same to you, my dear.”  

Chapter Text

They stepped out from behind the tapestry together, hand in hand.  

The elegant banquet hall had been transformed into a smoky hellscape. Theirs seemed to be the only tapestry in the room left unburnt, and that only because the chain reaction hadn’t reached it yet. All those delightfully long, flammable wall hangings had made a delightfully long, flammable path for the fire to travel, and were either reduced to ash or still smoldering in a sullen sort of way, sending more smoke drifting out into the already fog-choked air. Crow could taste it on his tongue. Other furniture had been ignited when various oil lamps were smashed. It was lucky that this ridiculous room was made of solid marble, he thought, otherwise the entire place would have gone up in flames by now. As it was it had only grown oppressively hot and stuffy. The elaborate table decorations lay strewn across the floor from the panicking crowd, flowers and fancy food and porcelain all trampled together into an indistinguishable mess. Overturned banquet tables zig-zagged here and there.  

Everything seemed to be at a stalemate for the moment. No balls of fire were lighting up the thick haze on the far side of the room, which meant that the Council was saving their strength. Crow knew they would fight until they had exhausted every other possibility. They must know they wouldn’t have another chance like this, to get so far into Empyrion again, and what did they have to lose at this point?  

The trapped nobles had more or less settled into in frightened, coughing clusters along the edges of the back half of the room, unable to get to the door near the front without passing by the furious sorcerers. They were visible only as indistinct silhouettes in the fog. Men and women alike were yelling shrilly for someone to do something, but there didn’t seem to be any clear idea of who that “someone” should be, or the “something”, for that matter. Guards moved from group to group, trying their best to appear useful but mostly just getting berated.  

Crow and Azra picked their way through the wreckage towards the front, holding tight to each other’s hands and keeping to the center of the space to avoid everyone else. No one paid them any mind; Crow kept his magic tucked firmly away for now. Broken glass crunched under their feet as they walked; he had to step carefully to avoid the sharp bits with his bare foot.  

Actually- as they approached, it turned out that not all of the nobles were at the back end of the hall. They came upon some of the younger, more stalwartly drunk noblemen who had barricaded themselves behind a piece of table flipped onto its side, facing towards the sorcerers. Just far enough away from the action to be safe, yet close enough to claim valor, Crow thought wryly. They were arguing loudly about which of them would be next to charge in.  

Crow rolled his eyes. He leaned close and muttered, “Are they always like this?”  

"They're usually far worse,” Azra said with feeling.   

The swirling fog was thicker and the light was dimmer over here; some of the wall lamps on this half of the room had been smashed, spilling flaming oil over the floor. The Council had torched everything around them to create a charred, smoky radius of destruction for about thirty feet in all directions. Within this scorched wasteland pieces of tables burned hellish red, bathing the entire area in a sinister red glow; crumbled embers and smoldering debris lay scattered across the floor like spilled furnace coals. Little piles of ash dotted the floor, about half a dozen of them; not armoured, Crow noted. The guards had shown far more common sense than their lords. No doubt most of those guards were contemplating a nice career as a farmer or baker after this.  

Lord Belz’s voice still bellowed out occasionally, desperately trying to get a handle on the situation, yelling at everyone to stand down and surrender their weapons. She must have lost her amplification Artifact at some point, because her voice was its own ordinary volume. 

The guards had retreated far beyond the edge of the burned circle and now hovered helplessly about, weapons in hand. They were clearly unwilling to approach and be burned to death for The Cause, yet equally unwilling to entirely abandon the trapped royals. Azra went up to each one and ordered them to the back of the room. They were all more than happy to obey.  

“There,” he said firmly, returning to Crow’s side. “Now we don’t need to worry about them getting in the way.” He frowned in anxious thought, lips pursed. “I think my best chance is to creep round the side, and get behind them...but we will need a distraction.”  

“Leave that to me,” Crow said. “I'll deal with the Council and keep them busy. Their fire can’t hurt me, so I’ll be just fine. You keep that sword ready, if they see you they’ll try to flame you. Once the hostages are away I’ll go for the Box.” 

Azra gave a tight nod, and put a hand on his arm. “Some of them have knives; they can still stab you just like anyone else.” His eyes were worried, his cheeks high with colour.  

A quick glance around to make sure that no one was close enough to see; Crow lifted Azra’s chin gently with his fingers and leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. Azra leaned into it, slipped a hand behind his head to hold him there. He tasted like sugar. 

Azra held the kiss for three long heartbeats, then let him go. “Do be careful, my love.”  

Crow's mouth quirked in a crooked smile. “You know me. I’m always careful.” 

He turned and strode into the burning circle of destruction to confront his demons.

Crunch. Step. Crunch. Step.  

Walking forward, Crow was surprised at how calm he felt. Every other time he’d ever faced the Council over the years he’d been stretched thin with fear and anxiety, and they hadn’t even been trying to kill him then. Speaking to any sorcerers in Pandemonium always made him feel like a dog with its hackles up, a defensive tension between his shoulders that was completely involuntary. But now he was not afraid, except for Azra’s sake. He supposed that a day of constant near-death experiences tended to put things in perspective.  

Mostly he just felt resigned. He should have always known it would come to this, known that the Council wouldn’t let him just gallivant happily off into the sunset without a fuss. All his life he’d only ever asked to be left alone, but they couldn’t even give him that. He was just so...tired. He was tired of constantly trying to justify his own existence and of trying to keep his mouth shut, of trying to eke the bare minimum out of the world. Truly, he'd thought alone was the best scenario he could hope for, was all he needed. You didn’t hope for more than need when everyone saw you as either a disappointment or a menace to be exterminated. But now he had more, something he wanted... and he was not about to let it go.  

And finally, urgh, but he was just plain tired. Under the fizzing energy of the potion he was exhausted mentally and in every other way possible. He wanted to roll right into bed with Azra and sleep for a month. Fortune willing, after this he could do just that.  

His fire posed no direct threat to the Council, so his best chance, he knew, was to simply provoke them. They didn’t know he had backup or a plan. He hadn’t known he had that either until a minute ago. If he could just provoke them so badly that they couldn’t focus on anything else, Azra could get round and free the hostages.  

Crow snorted to himself. Shouldn’t be a problem. If there was one thing that came completely naturally to him, it was provoking people. He’d been doing it all his life without even trying. How hard could it be? Sorcerers were not known for their levelheaded restraint. 

Lord Belz’s continuous, increasingly-desperate-sounding shouted orders made it easy to find them. The thick fog had dispersed a bit in their immediate area, leaving only a haze that hung in the air. The Head Table had been knocked over and shoved out of the way. The three sorcerers stood spread out a little before it, facing out towards the rest of the room, with the royal prisoners corralled a couple paces behind them. The hovering ring of red fire still burned. It was barely wide enough to accommodate the group, and the royals had packed as closely together as possible to avoid brushing against that fiery line, which Crow knew would sear to the bone at the slightest touch. No doubt they’d figured that out for themselves.  

Lord Belz stood at the front, because of course she did. She held a slender dagger loosely in her right hand, tip pointed towards the floor. They were all covered in soot, sweating, and even in the reddish light they looked paler than usual. Ligur looked sweatiest of all, raven-scratched face set in concentration as he focused on keeping the magical ring active. And yet they stood tall and undeterred, cuts and dirt and all; their yellow gazes were resolute as ever. Dramatic bastards.  

Those hard gazes fixed upon Crow as he stepped into view.  

“Well, well,” Lord Belz said flatly. Her low voice was hoarse from shouting. “You again.” 

“Yeah, me.” Crow stopped about fifteen feet away from them. No one attacked him, not yet. Powerful as they were, they had all been throwing a lot of magic around today, and sorcerers weren’t designed for extended combat. Even with three of them sharing the burden, they had to be getting tired.  

“Not a step closer, or we will kill your Prince,” Lord Belz warned.  

Crow almost laughed. They didn’t even realise that Azra had escaped! Now was not the time to draw attention to that, though, so he just stood there with hands at his sides. “Look, it’s time to put an end to all this, before you start a full-scale war and get everyone on both sides killed. Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?”  

Lord Dagon scoffed. “We have the situation in hand,” he said. “The palace is ours. We have their leaders. Things have been set in motion that cannot be halted, not if they don’t want to lose their precious kings.”  

Keep them talking.   

Crow sighed gustily. “You know, I always knew you were all mad, but if you really think this harebrained scheme is going to work, you’re far more delusional than I thought.”  

“The delusion is yours if you can’t see how close we are,” Dagon snapped. “We are a thread away from reclaiming our birthright.”  

“Our glorious Destiny is finally at hand,” added Lord Belz.  

Crow did burst out laughing now, an unrestrained cackle, and felt a wild glee in doing it. When was the last time someone had actually laughed at the Council to their faces? From the stunned looks on those faces, probably never. He managed to swallow his laughter enough to keep talking. “Right! Right. Destiny. Father talked like that a lot, too. Namely right before the last time he went out to fight with you lot. How did that turn out? Was Destiny out of town that day?”   

“This is different,” Lord Belz replied coldly. “Our past attempts served a purpose; they taught our enemies to fear us. Now, they will bow to us.”  

“Mmhm. And you think...what, that if you can take the five palaces, all these people will simply accept sorcerer rulers? There’s a lot more of them than there are of us, and even you must have noticed that we aren’t very popular.”  

“One sorcerer is worth a hundred mundane clodhops,” Lord Belz said. Her face was calm, but her yellow eyes glittered with a fanatical light. “They will have no choice but to submit to their natural superiors, or be destroyed.”  

“’Natural superiors’,” Crow groaned, and rolled his eyes. “Listen to yourself. You live in a bloody swamp. D’you have any idea how stupid you sound?” Against all reasonable expectation, he was actually enjoying himself. He didn’t expect to convince them of anything, but curse it, it felt good to finally stop humouring them. He’d bitten his tongue for years while they said the most absurd things, he’d swallowed every snide comment about Heirs and ‘inadequate power’ and failed legacies. Now, finally, the restraints were off and he could speak his mind. It really was too bad that there was no pointy-haired scribe documenting all this, for once.  

And far more importantly, his taunts were having the intended effect: all three pairs of eyes were fixed angrily on him... completely on him, and not on the blond prince who was stealthily making his way around the far side of the room, keeping to the wall, using the smoke as cover. Crow could just see him as a swirl in the haze along the periphery of his vision.  

Encouraged, he kept talking, nearly ranting. It wasn’t difficult. He just said some of the things he always muttered to himself and the swamp rats as he stomped out of Council meetings.  

“All my life Father and you lot prattled on about Destiny and glorious causes and taking our rightful place, but we lost the War back then and we’ve lost every single battle we’ve ever tried since! So y’know what I think? I think sorcerers’ rightful place, our Destiny, is to be exactly where we are. That’s us, the Lords of One Smelly Swamp City! Or three of them, if you count the ones that sank. Here's an idea, maybe you should try to make something worthwhile of Pandemonium instead of spending all your time reaching beyond your grasp.” He scoffed and gestured broadly to three of them. “I mean, you’ve done a shit job of ruling Apollyon, what makes you think you’d be better at ruling all of Empyrion too?”  

“Silence, brat,” Lord Dagon snapped. 

“Why are you doing this?” Lord Ligur spoke for the first time. Under the anger he sounded genuinely baffled. He still held the leather bag with the Box slung over one shoulder. “Don’t you want to see our people rise to their rightful place, like your Father strove for? You insisted at your tower that you were not plotting against Apollyon, so prove it. Join us.”  

Lord Belz nodded, yellow eyes never leaving Crow’s face. “Yes. It was one thing to fraternize with the enemy, quite another to actually raise your hand against us. Stop this foolish rebellion; work with us to finish this, and we will consider a reduced sentence. If you also agree to make an effort to furnish us with an Heir that carries your bloodline, we may even consider giving you your freedom.”  

Crow snorted. “How kind.” For once he made no attempt to hide the revulsion he felt at the idea.  

Dagon’s bristly eyebrows drew together. “Ungrateful brat.”  

Yeah, yeah. Azra was behind them now, a little to the right and crouching behind the Head Table; he was just visible through the smoke as a head of pale hair peeking above the table’s edge. Only a few feet away from the cluster of hostages. Crow exhaled slowly. This was it. He had to keep the attention on himself, at all costs. The idiot royals weren’t helping, what with their sudden flurry of whispering and pointing.  

“I mean,” Crow said loudly with a shrug, “I’m sorry to decline such a generous offer, fellows, but I’m going to have to anyway. Somehow I doubt my ‘efforts’ in that department are going to result in any Heirs. And I’m not going back to Pandemonium, thanks, but you should. Right now. Go back to your swampy city and leave these people be."  

“You would fight for Northlanders against your own?” Ligur demanded, apparently still trying to get a handle on the concept. 

Crow sighed. “Eh. I’m not really fighting for them. I just want to go home," he said frankly. "But conquering these people won’t bring our lost magic back. And all of this, the Great War, the Wall, everything, it only started in the first place because we decided we wanted to seize more power. Those glory days you keep jawing on about?” He shook his head. “Never existed. Not the way you mean.” 

“Enough. This is your final chance,” Lord Belz said. “There is no need to throw everything away. You can still be your father’s son. You can still make your side proud.” 

“Naaahhhhhhhhh,” Crow said, drawing out the word as long and insolently as possible. He conjured up a walnut-sized ball of white-hot fire and bounced it on his palm, sending shadows leaping. “Done that already, thanks.”  

“Arrogant whelp!” Lord Dagon yelled suddenly, losing all composure. Green flames skittered out of his clenched hands and over his arms like insects, reducing his shirtsleeves to ash. Dagon always had been the most high-strung of the bunch. “You useless, impotent little shit, you dare to threaten us?”  

“Yep,” said Crow, and expanded the fiery ball until it was larger than his head, a miniature sun.  

He’d expected that to tip at least one of them over the edge, and it did: Lord Dagon snarled incoherently and hurled a ball of seething green fire at Crow’s head.  

Crow was ready for it. He bounced it away from him with a blaze of his own fire, and it ricocheted away to hit the wall instead.  

Behind the three sorcerers: a flash of silver in the gloom.  

Azra’s magic sword swung through the air and sheared straight through the ring of red flame. The ring made a snapping sound and vanished. The clump of royal hostages, who had been standing frozen and mostly silent during all this, immediately broke and ran, flocking en masse to the side and shrieking like brightly-coloured birds. 

Lord Ligur had gasped and whirled the moment his magic failed. The other two followed suit to find themselves facing Azra, who had stepped in front of the fleeing nobles and was backing away in their path, sword defensively raised before him in both hands.  

“No!” Lord Belz threw out her hand, and a slender line of fresh red flame lashed forth like a whip towards the backs of the retreating nobles, at the same time Lord Ligur simply threw a gout of fire. Azra didn't even flinch - he swept the sword through the air and caught both attacks on the blade, just as he had done during his first ever fight with Crow. And just like that time, the sword sucked the magic right up like water being drawn into a funnel, and burst into flames.  

All three sorcerers advanced in earnest now, throwing attack after attack, but Azra just kept backing hastily away in the wake of the group, step by step in a wide arc to the righthand side, catching each subsequent blast of magic thrown, until all of the hysterically screaming hostages had run past Crow to vanish into the thick white smoke, the very smoke that the Council had called up to hide themselves. 

“No!” Lord Belz shouted again, this time full of rage.  

“Ha!” Crow laughed aloud, a high and delighted sound, and just like he’d hoped all three sorcerers turned their furious, desperate gazes away from Azra and onto him instead.  

“How dare you!” 

“Traitorous snake!” 

“This is your fault!” 

“Yup,” Crow agreed, and took a step back. He also grinned and made the most obscene gesture he knew, a real gem that he’d learned at age nineteen in a seedy tavern, one that was absolutely guaranteed to start a fight. Just to make sure he had their undivided attention.  

Lord Belz looked most livid of all, her fingers were talons at her sides. “We could have taken the palace! We could have taken all of them!” she cried, and summoned a ball of sullen flame between her hands that pulsed blood-scarlet with fury. “After all these centuries, we were this close!” With a backhanded sweep of her arm she flung the ball violently at Crow. A useless waste of magic on her part, a purely emotional response that he barely managed to duck. Screams echoed behind him in the fog as the fireball hit who-knows-what.  

Lord Dagon was shouting, too. “Everything your father wanted, everything he worked for, you’ve destroyed it! Traitor! ”  

Crow backed further away, and as he did his heel turned on a bit of debris and he lost his balance. He didn’t fall, but as he was righting himself Lord Dagon sent a line of green fire directly at his face. He easily swatted that away, but before he could bring fresh magic to bear, Lord Belz blasted him with a tongue of black-edged red flame that engulfed him from head to waist.  

Crow’s shirt turned to ash in an instant, his hair flew wildly around his face as the leather tie burned too. It felt like standing in a hot, dry wind. The cord holding his homing amulet around his neck disintegrated to nothing and the little red disc clattered to the ground. He quickly scooped it up and stuffed it into his thankfully-still-intact breeches pocket instead. That was one thing that he couldn’t afford to lose; if the breeches went too then he would have to start getting very creative very quickly.  

Well, he’d wanted them provoked, and he could safely say he had accomplished that. All three Council members were stalking towards him now with murder in their faces and fire flowing round their hands, clearly on the verge of losing control. Belz twirled the stiletto dagger in her hand as she advanced. Her eyes were wild in her pale face, as were Dagon’s. Lord Ligur held a knife too, looking slightly less unhinged but shiny with sweat.   

Crow gulped and backed slowly away, bending to pick up a broken chair leg as he went. It couldn’t hurt to have a physical weapon to defend himself with too. 

Lord Dagon was still yelling. “And after everything we gave you! Forty years of wasted investment in you!”  

“Thirty-fucking-eight!” Crow hollered back, temper pricked, and threw the chair leg at him. He missed.  

In retaliation Lord Dagon blasted flame at a chunk of broken table on the floor between them, sending it flying towards him.  

Enough of that! Crow simply incinerated the piece of wood midair with a wave of his hand, out of patience with the tactic. He did the same to the next one, and the next, and effortlessly deflected the billow of dull red fire that shot towards him from Lord Belz, sending it zipping away through the fog, then seared the chair that followed it right out of the air, all in rapid succession. His own flame burned so fierce and hot that all the furniture vaporized into ash, which settled over him in a thick cloud of dust and turned him pale grey. He shook ash out of his hair like a dog shedding water, coughing and swiping at his eyes. He looked up to find all three sorcerers had stopped, and were staring at him.  

He rubbed his dusty hands together and favoured them with a wide, maniacal grin. Right. Enough retreating. Azra was in the clear, and there was no need to conserve power or hold back any longer. He could feel his magic humming bright beneath his skin, and it was about time he used it. 

Wear them down.   

He pressed his hands together, then pulled them apart, creating an oblong strip of shimmering blue-white flame. With a shove of his arm he sent it zipping towards them, the shape stretching and leaping almost like a lightning bolt. It smacked against Belz’s shield in a flash of competing energies and shoved the three sorcerers back.  

Again. Crow attacked in earnest now and hammered at them before they could recover, throwing hard lances of that oddly-percussive fire as fast as he could manage it, keeping them off balance. Each bolt of flame stronger than the last, shot after shot, forcing them to focus entirely on defense. It was that or be slammed back across the room like a battering ram; as it was the strikes still knocked them back a step. The world became a swirling mass of thick white smoke and bright blazes of different coloured light. Missed shots lit more debris behind them on fire, adding regular smoke to the murk.  

Shielding took a lot of power. Even sharing the efforts between the three of them, the Council sorcerers began to tire. Their deflections grew weaker; parts of Crow’s attacks began getting through their defenses to scorch their clothing. He could see their faces growing pale and sweaty, the disbelief in their eyes as their magic began to falter, and then to fail.  

Flushed with triumph, Crow pointed at their shoes, used a spell to yank the laces right out of them the way he had Azra’s clothes their first night together. Ligur and Dagon both stumbled and went to one knee as their boots fell open.  

Lord Belz’s boots had no laces. She raised her dagger unsteadily and lunged towards him with a snarl, but a blazing line of white fire from Crow melted it right out of her hand. She stood there hunched and gasping for air, coarse black hair falling in her face, staring at the puddle of bubbling metal on the ground.  

“Why?” she wheezed. “You could use your power to fight for our side.”   

“I told you. I’ve already chosen my side,” he said, and conjured up another fiery ball.   

Lord Belz exchanged a long look with Dagon, then looked back up at Crow, sweating, face drawn, and in her yellow eyes was pure venom. “On your own head be it,” she hissed.   

She moved - too fast! Crow instinctively flinched and braced himself to deflect, to defend himself against the spelled rush, but she shot to the right instead – directly towards Azra, whom Crow hadn’t even noticed standing there. Far to the side, near one of the pillars, holding his Artifact sword and anxiously waiting to see if Crow needed help.  

In a blur of magicked speed Lord Belz was suddenly there next to the prince, and before anyone could react she struck hard at the wrist holding the sword. Azra cried out in surprise and pain, and the sword went flying away out of his hand to vanish into the smoke somewhere behind Crow. 

And Crow’s stomach twisted in horror, because he knew then what was about to happen, but time seemed to stutter and slow like spreading honey as many things happened at once –  

With a final shout of effort the kneeling Lord Dagon summoned a huge column of sorcerer’s fire before him, a blazing pillar at least six feet tall and wide as three men, heat radiating off it like a forge –  

Lord Belz seized Azra by the front of his jacket – and Crow reached out, but he was moving far too slow to stop it –  

With a look of tooth-bared, crazed triumph Lord Belz yanked, a motion that had the full rotating power of her hip and entire body behind it.  

Azra stumbled forwards, turned sideways as he tried to stop his momentum and catch himself, teetered with arms flailing for an endless instant – and fell directly into the pillar of roaring sorcerer flame.  

The prince had time for only a single shocked gasp, then he was swallowed up.   

“NO!” Crow screamed. His knees went out from under him, he didn’t feel himself hit the floor.  

Dagon let the flames go with a huge gasp and bent double, sickly-white and panting for air.  

Azra was just standing there in a half-crouch, right where the fire had been, blinking in shock as what had once been his nice clothes crumbled off his body in little curls of ash. Large black flakes peeled away and fell as he straightened. He was the flushed pink of one who had spent just a bit too much time in the sun, soot-smudged with eyes as big as saucers staring down at his outstretched, no-longer-manicured hands…but apparently unharmed.  

“Good...good heavens,” he said faintly.  

Everyone stopped and stared. Crow sat there on the floor speechless, wondering if he had truly snapped at last. Dagon looked like he might simply faint. Ligur gaped in shock.  

No one looked quite as shocked as Lord Belz. She stared at Azra as if she was doubting the fabric of reality. “That…isn’t possible.” She came forward and prodded at him with a bony forefinger, first on the chest and then on the soft swell of his stomach. 

“That is quite enough,” Azra snapped crossly, slapping her hand away and making more little black flacks drift into the air. He’d been wearing so many heavy layers that he miraculously still had something on, but it was hardly the outfit he’d started with.  

Belz kept staring at him, wide-eyed, and when Azra glared at her she took a slow step back. “But...your eyes are blue,” she said, still sounding stunned. “You aren’t a sorcerer.”  

“Certainly not.”  

Crow didn’t stop to ponder the mystery of it. Shattering relief swiftly turned to pure rage, so visceral that it manifested as a physical pressure in his chest and fingertips.  

They’d just tried to kill Azra.  

The bastards had tried to burn Azra like a torch.  

The edges of his vision misted red, molten heat flooded his veins. His hand flickered with blue flame against the marble as he slowly pushed himself up to his feet.  

“That,” Crow snarled at Lord Belz, enunciating each word, “was a mistake.” 

A clench of his fingers and “alamak” conjured a gust of wind, stronger than anything he’d ever been able to make before, a hard fistful of air that whirled through the smoke from the opposite direction and shoved Azra staggering away from the Council members. Crow grabbed his arm and hauled him the rest of the way back to stand just behind him, and Azra was saying something, but Crow couldn’t hear what it was over the roaring in his ears. He reached into his breeches pocket and pulled out a large handful of until-now-forgotten hedge seeds. At the same time he also flicked off the cap to the hedgewitch potion, drained the last swallow in a single angry jerk of his head, and let the bottle fall with a crash.  

He’d never truly opened the taps before. Part of him had always half-cringed from it ever since he was a child, terrified of burning someone by accident or destroying things he didn’t want to destroy. And if he was entirely honest with himself, part of him had always held back out of fear of what he might be able to do. He’d built up a kind of self-imposed barrier in his mind, limited himself to half-hearted efforts out of fear that he would somehow succeed in raising the dead, long after it was apparent that he couldn’t. And then after that...twenty-two years of making his magic as small as possible so as not to draw attention.  

He may not have necromantic powers after all. He may not be able to raise mouldy old corpses or summon horrors to do his bidding, may not have inherited any grand and fate-changing magics. But he liked to think that, if nothing else, he had just a bit more of an imagination than the rest of this hidebound lot.  

And what’s more, he had loads of practice.   

He flung his handful of black seeds outward from left to right, scattering them in a line across the floor at the Council’s feet.  

With a titanic effort he summoned every single ounce of power he possessed and then some, threw every bit of borrowed strength from the potion into it plus plenty of his own: decades of iron-hard determination and willpower honed to a sharp edge. The sheer grit-teethed tenacity that kept him re-growing the stupid hedge long past his exhaustion point as an attacker determined to murder him hacked at it with a sword. He threw into it all of his fury, his frustration at years of sneered not good enoughs and useless magics, every moment he’d ever been told unwelcome through turned shoulders and hastily averted eyes, dropped voices and snide whispers. Every time townspeople had shrunk back from him in fear, glared at him like he was a monster. Every time a part of him had been afraid that they might be right.  

He drew all that emotion into a roiling ball and honed it to a knifepoint, holding it within him as the pressure built and built to a fever pitch; it blazed white-hot in his chest. Ghostly blue flames bled from his skin and crawled with deliberate grace over his scarred chest and shoulders, down to wreath his forearms, shimmering, yet he kept drawing more. All his worry for Azra, bolstered by all the astonished joy that had preceded it, the way his very blood and bones had sang the first time Azra threw his arms around him and kissed him in Eden… and in reaching for that ocean of feeling found something deeper than fury.  

All this flashed through his mind in a breath’s time. And when he had absolutely nothing left to put in he dropped into a crouch, slammed his outstretched hand down on the floor, hammered that knifepoint right through the barriers and snarled the first useless spell he had ever learned from his book: 

“Fulmedesh.”   

Grow. 

Thorny vines exploded from the seeds, whipping up into the air like angry snakes, shoving debris aside and even cracking the marble tiles with the force of their growth. Thrashing and frantically throwing out handfuls of green tendrils in every direction, tendrils that swelled and grew at a frenzied pace into dark woody vines thicker than a man’s thumb, studded with glistening black-tipped thorns. An entire year’s worth of natural growth crammed into a moment, something that would have usually taken him a month to create with magic.  

Crow had chosen this type of briar for his hedge for several reasons: It set down strong roots in the weakest of soils, didn’t need much water or light, was tough enough to break rocks given time, and above all because the thorny little bastards were bloody hard to kill.   

He’d taken that promising start, and over two decades of tinkering had carefully blended them with the fastest-growing weeds and the clingiest, most tenaciously destructive creeper vines he could find.  

The end result was something stubborn and viciously sharp that naturally wanted to grab things.  

And the only things handy were the three Council sorcerers standing there.  

Tendrils seized their legs and threw loops round their chests quick as blinking, twining up each limb as eagerly as if it was a trellis. In only a few heartbeats the sorcerers were thoroughly snared in a writhing, spreading tangle of green. They panicked and thrashed and tried to fight back with fire, but for every vine that crisped and burned a dozen fresh tendrils burst forth in its place, reaching out with grasping fingers. Tendrils thickened to vines, vines thickened to strong vines, looping around each other and stiffening to form a solid structure. A very prickly, swiftly darkening solid structure that expanded like a thunderhead to stretch almost the width of the room, consuming tables and chairs and any objects in its path with a roar. At some point the hedge plunged a vine down through the crack in the floor and grew there too, widening the path, splitting marble, seeking earth and putting down knobbly roots, Crow knew, in vast networks below. As the hedge solidified and rose up crackling before him it lifted the three trapped sorcerers clear off their feet, holding them struggling uselessly a few feet above the floor as they screamed and cursed at him, fighting to keep thorns away from their faces and throats. Already the sorcerers were bleeding from multiple lacerations on every limb of their body as the vines wrapped around their arms and legs. The few erratic bursts of fire had long since sputtered and died as their reserves of magic finally ran dry. They dangled there like shriveled fruit before him, trapped and helpless, with chunks of burned clothing hanging off their bodies.  

Lord Dagon wrenched a hand free with an enraged shriek and threw a final weak spurt of dull green fire towards Azra, where he now stood a few feet away from Crow. The fire struck Azra’s head before he could move away but had no more effect than to ruffle his hair.  

“How the fuck are you doing that?” Crow muttered to him out of the corner of his mouth.  

“I haven’t the faintest idea!” Azra was slightly wild-eyed.  

A few errant seeds had stuck to his palm; Crow flicked them at the swiftly growing tangle before him and fed them a fresh bit of power, and was surprised when purple flowers began to burst into bloom as well. Oops. A clematis seed must have got mixed in there at some point.  

Soon the vines were too thick and stiff for the prisoners to move.  

“I wouldn’t struggle, if I were you,” Crow called over the yelling. “I’ve run into those thorns a time or two, and I’ve still got the scars.” He called up a column of flame in his hand and just held it there, flickering. Mostly for effect. But he could always ignite the hedge with them trapped inside it. Once the hedge caught, it wouldn’t be sorcerer fire any longer, and they had no defense against ordinary everyday flames. 

For a bare instant he almost did it. Dark red still hazed his vision; magic pressed at his fingertips, churned in his chest, demanding to be used. They deserve it, he thought wildly. They would do it to me; they tried to do it to Azra. I’ve used fire on people dozens of times before, so why not them, if anyone deserves it...they always taught us to be vicious towards our enemies, and they’re a threat-  

A hand touched him, slid cool fingers through his own burning ones. Calm cut through the red haze as he felt Azra step close to him, a solid comforting presence at his side. Crow looked down at their hands. Blue flame still danced over his fingers and wrist where they laced together, and he gazed wonderingly up into Azra’s face. But the prince didn’t seem to feel it; he was looking at Crow instead. Not in fear, or horror, or even worry, but only gentle awe. Beautiful. Then Azra smiled at him, and it was like being smiled at by the entire damned sun, a sun that had caught him in its orbit one unexpected spring day and shone its light into all the dark corners of his life. And Crow loved him, loved him helplessly and absolutely with every single ragged piece of himself.  

The column of fire in his hand flickered, and faded out.  

A garbled sound made him tear his eyes reluctantly away from Azra. Lord Belz was staring at them both from inside the hedge, bleeding hands clamped around a still-growing vine and holding the thorns away from her throat, and in her wide yellow eyes was a very familiar expression. People had been looking at him like that his entire life, but it was a completely novel look from a sorcerer.  

“How are you doing this?” she demanded hoarsely. Her already-pale face was now grey with exhaustion. Sweat had made clean trails through the grime. “What manner of creatures are you?”  

“The angry kind,” Crow growled, turning his attention back to business. He dredged up the memory of his father, of that haughty confidence that he had worn at all times, and let it settle over him like a cloak. A pinch of focus, and flames roared up again in his free hand, this time in the shape of a huge fiery raven, so bright it hurt to look at. Showing off just how un- drained he was. A little bit of showmanship never hurt anything. He was looking to make an impression.  

“You know the power in my family bloodline. You have no idea what I can do. And you really have no idea what he can do.” Crow grinned a wide grin with all his teeth, stepped closer to Lord Belz (without releasing Azra's hand), and put every bit of cold menace he had into his voice. “And if you don’t want to find out, I think,” he said slowly, enunciating each word, “that it would be better for everyone if we were to be left alone in future, don’t you?”  

Her yellow eyes were wide, her soot-streaked face contorted in shock, and rage, and…fear. She nodded once, a tight and furious gesture, then wrenched one hand painfully free and snatched at a silver chain around her neck. Still immobilized, she whispered something, and the telltale ring of red light sprang up in midair around her hanging feet.  

Dagon, seeing the writing on the wall, quickly followed suit and vanished as well, leaving only Lord Ligur thrashing where he hung. He was at the very front edge of the thicket, away from the others and not entangled quite as badly, and wasn’t that too bad for everyone else, because just before his own amulet whisked him away, Ligur managed to use one hand to yank the Jehriko Box out of its tattered satchel, throw open the lid, and shove it away from him with a single push of his wiry arm. It bounced through the thorns and hit the open floor with a disproportionately solid clang for its size, as if it weighed much more than it should.  

Uh oh. 

An instant later an unholy shriek exploded from the Box, a sound like the dying wail of a rabid banshee, only a hundred times louder. Even expecting it, Crow recoiled. He’d forgotten just how hideous the damned thing was. It was the kind of sound you could almost see. All around the room people flinched and cried out and clapped their hands over their ears as an invisible force blew the glass windows outwards, shattering. 

Azra was shouting something at him, Crow could see his mouth moving, but whatever it was was lost in the howling. “What?” he hollered.  

Azra tapped Crow’s chest, pointed to the Box, then tapped his own chest and mimed holding a sword, and- before Crow could grab him, he’d let go of his hand and turned to hurry away into the smoke.  

“Wait!” Crow tried to yell, but he couldn’t even hear himself. Gahhhh!   

That’s it, he thought frantically. After this, I’m tying a rope around him. I’m putting him in a box and locking him in the Rookery until he can learn to not dive headfirst into dire peril at every turn...   

With a frustrated growl he turned his attention to the immediate problem. The Jehriko Box was an unending wail in his ears, and it only seemed to be growing louder. The ground hummed under his feet. Everything in him wanted to cover his head and get away, like every other sane person was probably doing, yet against all common sense he moved towards it instead. There was an invisible force pressing back, expanding outward from the open Box in circular waves. It didn’t hurt, but it felt like trying to run through a mild current, a current that was only gaining in strength. He realised he could see it, a rhythmic rippling in the air almost like a heat shimmer.  

Crow ground his teeth and pressed forward through it, untied hair billowing wildly. He threw himself down on the floor to scrabble at the open lid, and discovered another problem: the damned thing wouldn’t close. The lid remained firmly open despite all the strength Crow could bring to bear on it, hauling uselessly away. He couldn’t even get his fingers under the edge of the wood to pry it up from the marble, the entire Box seemed to have fixed itself to the floor. "Oh, come on!" he shouted. He supposed that made a kind of sense; no good having a weapon that someone could simply slam shut or pick up and run away with once fully activated. Ingenious, really. Stupid, shortsighted, ingenious wankers, complicating his life yet again...  

The marble floor all around the Box was already cracked, a spiderweb pattern of jagged lines radiating out from the Box for six feet in all directions, deep gaps right underneath tapering to thin hairline fractures at the furthest points. To Crow’s alarm he could see those fractures lengthening before his eyes, spreading further and further out into the room the longer the noise went on. Brilliant. Curse it, I just want to go home!  

He tried destroying it next, with the hottest, most concentrated blasts of sorcerer fire he could possibly summon, but it didn’t have any effect at all. The fire just washed over the wood, impotent as water. And all the while the Box screamed and screamed, and now Crow could see hairline cracks starting to work their way up some of the nearest marble pillars. The very air shook. Crystals rained down from the chandeliers above like falling stars, exploding into glittering fragments as they hit the marble floor.  

In desperation Crow began throwing every spell he knew at the Box, shouting spells of unraveling and unlocking and unsticking, spells of hot and cold and even the damn wine-to-water transmutation, unable to even hear his own voice above the roar, in the faint hope that any of them might do something, anything. But the cursed Artifact remained stubbornly unaffected. 

Movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him to the danger at the last second- he spun round and threw himself out of the way just in time to avoid the thrust of a guard’s spear. A whole cluster of guards stood there, weapons in hand and wearing the resolute look of men about to fight for their lives. Clearly they had seen Crow hunched over the whatever-new-devilry-this-was, wildly throwing magic around, and decided that he was up to No Good. The irony of that was enough to choke him with indignation.  

“What the- can’t you see I’m trying to save your useless lives?!” he hollered as he dodged and wheeled; his back was up against the hedge and he didn’t have much room to maneuver. The words were lost in the howl of the Box at his feet just like everything else. In the meantime the cracks on the pillars by the windows were deepening, and one of them toppled out of the corner of his eye. A second later one of the enormous glittering chandeliers fell with a crash, a thunderous roar that he could feel even if he couldn’t hear it, thankfully on a bit of the floor far from everyone, sending bits of glass flying through the air and clattering against the guards’ armour. Candles rolled everywhere, igniting whatever bits of debris hadn’t yet been ignited.

It all only made the guards more desperate in their efforts to kill him. The damned spears were heavy metal, too thick for him to melt quickly as he had the daggers, and the guards wore mostly sturdy leather instead of nice unravellable fabric, so his options were limited. Crow threw heat into a couple of the weapons, making many of the attackers drop them with a yelp as the metal smoked and turned red-hot, but some of the guards wore heavy gloves too. Crow was forced to set one of them on fire to make him retreat, but another immediately lunged into the gap he left and stabbed another spear at him. Crow grabbed the spear below the point to hold it off, struggling with it as he flamed at three more guards, trying to keep from being pushed back onto the sharp thorns. Then someone threw a knife that grazed a red-hot line of pain across his left temple – curse it, why was it always his left side – and a fist came out of nowhere with a blow that felt like the entire world hitting him – and he grit his teeth and did not scream, just as he never screamed, because screaming was for people who expected help to come... 

And then- somehow Azra was there. Again. Charging right out of the maelstrom of fire and whirling smoke, and he had his sword held before him in both hands.  

His face was screwed up in determination, storm-blue eyes flashing. His hair and disintegrated black clothing were flying in the Box-created wind like...like some kind of fantastical Hero, of course. And that nearly made Crow’s heart leap right out of his chest, made him want to laugh at the same time it made his throat choke up, and curse it, he did not have time to be feeling stupid things when people were throwing sharp bits of metal at him!   

Azra’s sword sliced right through the spear Crow was grappling with, along with two others that were close enough to catch the swing. He knocked an incoming spear away and parried another sword thrust, then pivoted to plant his foot square in the center of the nearest armoured chest, the solid kick throwing the guard back into his fellows and clearing a space.  

Then without a second of hesitation Azra whirled, and with a powerful twist of his body and a two-handed overhead strike brought the Artifact sword down – directly onto the screaming Jehriko Box.  

The Box shattered. There was a blinding explosion of light, and the bloody awful noise finally stopped. An instant later an invisible wave of force exploded out from the ruined Box, sending Crow, Azra, and everyone nearby flying backwards through the air in all different directions. 

The absence of sound was a shock in itself.  

Crow lay there on his back with the room swooping around him. The blast had caught him on his righthand side and spun him like a top all the way across to the right side room against the pillars, and now the damned room didn’t want to stop spinning. That was fine. He was content to lie here spread-eagled and dazed for a while. He’d earned it.  

He did so for a good few minutes before realising that he had landed almost directly among a scattered group of nobles. They’d all been flung to the floor when the Box went off. No one seemed to have noticed anything amiss about him yet. Maybe if he just kept quiet...

The wrecked banquet hall was oddly silent at first. Even those who hadn’t been in the blast radius were just sitting or standing around, blinking in confusion, just beginning to try and make sense of what had happened. There were scattered coughs and a moans from the injured, but after a while Crow could hear the murmur of conversation rising too. Voices all around saying the same sorts of things: "That blond prince saved us, freed us, it was him…” “Ran right up and defeated them, chased the bastards off right there…” “Yes, it’s true, Prince Azra, I saw it…” 

Crow slowly sat up, ears still ringing. His first attempt to stand was unsuccessful, and he decided that he really, really liked this particular piece of floor. No harm in enjoying it a while longer.

He realised he could see perfectly clearly, now – when the huge windows blew out all of the smoke had escaped, and the air was finally free of grey. Outside, a spectacular post-storm sunset was apparently trying to make up for lost time by pouring a wash of brilliant golden light directly through the west-facing windows. A last hurrah before the sun dropped below the horizon. Fresh, salty evening breeze rolled in; he breathed deep of smoke-free air and looked unsteadily around. 

How about that. They’d done it. Azra had done it, single-handedly, as far as these people could tell, but he was more than fine with that. Sure, clearing out that enormous towering hedge on the other side of the room would be no picnic, and much of the room's furniture was still on fire... and there was going to be a bit of remodeling needed, no doubt about it - that wall over there did not look structurally sound at all, and a pillar or two or five had been toppled, and one of the great tiered chandeliers lay crashed upon the marble floor, listed over on its side like a grounded ship... and the tapestries were more ash than cloth – but what of it? The palace was still standing! The coup had failed. Against all odds, he and Azra had actually won, saved Empyrion, and-

A loud gasp to his right. A rather large, florid woman wearing what had once been a glittering yellow gown pointed dramatically at his face. “It’s- It’s a sorcerer!” she squeaked out, hiking up her grey skirts. 

Ah, shit.  

“He’s one of the assassins!” a man shrieked from somewhere within the crowd.  

Scattered screams. Rising consternation. Two nearby guards staggered to their feet and lifted their swords, but they were bowled over by the stampeding group of nobles before they could do anything useful. Someone threw a pear, and it splatted harmlessly against the wall next to Crow.  

Doesn’t that just figure. Bloody ingrates.   

He flamed halfheartedly at a guard or two that did manage to get close, and they cringed away.  

“Die, fiend!” thundered a new voice behind him. Crow twisted around. Oh, for-  

Michael. The idiot Prince (and where had he even come from?) was rushing towards Crow with a sword raised, murder in his eyes. He wore what had once been solid white but was now covered in black scorch marks. Who knew where he had even found a proper sword in all this mess, but he had one now, a monster of a blade that could easily slice a man in half. From the floor like this Michael seemed ten feet tall, insane, and terrifying. 

Crow automatically pointed a finger at him- and hesitated. Azra wouldn’t want his brother to be burned to a crisp. And truth be told, the entire idea sickened him. He was sick to death of death. In a split-second flash of inspiration he used an unravelling spell instead, threw it hard at the ankles of Michael’s embroidered silk breeches in an attempt to trip him. 

Instead, to his surprise Michael’s entire stupid outfit instantly unspooled in an explosion of white silk thread from his ankles right up to his shoulders, including the undergarments. The heap of it tangled up all his limbs as he rushed forward, and the Prince went down like a felled tree. Facedown into a piece of table right at Crow's feet, breaking through the already damaged wood and crashing to the ground. His sword fell from his hand and bounced away.  

Good enough. “I suggest you stay there,” Crow panted to his prone (mostly nude) form. Sweat had burst out on his forehead.

Everyone gasped and recoiled. A couple of the more timid guards quickly scurried forward, picked up the unconscious Prince by the arms and started dragging him off.

More guards had noticed the common and were starting to make their way towards him. Time to move.    

Crow used the brief respite to get to his feet, heart still hammering. Priorities: now he needed to find Azra. Under siege or not, he wasn’t leaving here without him. 

The force of the blast flung Azra all the way across the room, skidding painfully along the floor until he fetched up against the far wall, right next to the gap where the hedge didn’t quite bisect the room. In a stroke of spectacular luck he’d managed to skid through some of the fallen tapestries along the way, cushioning the blow, so rather than breaking all his bones against the wall he simply had the breath knocked out of him. He lay there on his back in the brand new silence, stunned, ears ringing.  

“Ow,” he said softly. The sword had come to rest a little ways away from him. It just lay there, humming against the marble in an oddly tuneful way and smoking slightly.  

Still not the worst Tournament experience I’ve ever had.   

The dizzy thought trickled through his mind and made him giggle aloud. It was absolutely true. How ridiculous. Perhaps he was a bit punch-drunk.  

He stared up at the frescoed ceiling with dreamy patience and waited for his head to stop humming like a struck bell. As soon as he could think straight, he would go find Crow, and they would leave together. Beautiful, powerful Crow, who had appeared out of nowhere to save the day, against all odds... And that first unexpected glimpse of him amid the smoke! Oh, the sight had made his heart trip in his chest. A disheveled, sooty mess, standing there with his red hair and his black cloak streaming around him, all cheekbones and luminous golden eyes and smudged shadows. He’d looked...oh, he’d looked simply…  

After a moment’s hard thought Azra realised he did not have a word quite remarkable enough to encompass how splendid Crow was. He would have to come up with a new one. Suffice to say, even the memory of that one glimpse was quite enough to steal his breath.  

Gauntleted hands slid under his arms, interrupting his musings. A guard hauled him swiftly over through the gap in the thicket and carefully set him upright.  

“Thank you,” Azra said automatically. He staggered on his feet, light-headed, and looked blinking around to get his bearings. He was in the smaller half of the room, where the Head Table had been. It was much brighter over here; in addition to the window light, apparently the enormous hedge had sheltered most of the oil lamps from the Box's damage. The somewhat dimmer and more populated half of the room was on the other side of the hedge to his left, where the stunned quiet was already starting to fill with raised voices again. He gave his woozy head a shake and turned around – to find himself face to face with Gabriel.  

“Oh...fuck,” was what came out of his mouth.  

The king stood there towering over him, arms crossed. He did not look happy. 

Azra shut his mouth and gulped. He felt suddenly a foot shorter and twenty years younger.  

Behind Gabriel stood a cluster of guards and, a few paces away, Sandalphon, who was sitting on a somehow-still-intact chair with a vague expression. He didn’t appear hurt, only very drunk.  

Gabriel's fine clothes were torn and scorched, and he was missing his crown, but his intimidating presence was undiminished. He looked neither drunk nor injured, naturally. No doubt he had managed to find the safest corner of the room at the first possible opportunity. Gabriel was a firm believer in risk, as long as it was being taken by other people.  

He also looked furious under his usual arrogant calm. He stared down at Azra with disapproval all over his handsome face.  “Well, well, if it isn’t the latecomer. I suppose you think you’ve been very clever.” 

“I...I’m sorry?” he said dumbly.  

“You should be. Are you finished making a spectacle of yourself?” 

“A spectacle,” Azra repeated, nonplussed. “What-”  

“Yes. A simple guard assignment, that was all it was. And instead you let yourself get caught by our mortal enemies and used against us. It’s a complete disgrace.”  

Oh. Azra winced, and he felt his confidence shrivel as guilt smote him. That had just enough of his own thoughts in it to pinch. “Well, ah, you see,” he stammered, “they had that- that, ah, weapon, and they were planning to murder everyone in the palace if we didn’t come to an arrangement, and...and I didn’t have my sword, you see, so I was trying to deescalate things without...ah...” His voice trailed off, and he gulped again. He always found it hard to articulate his thoughts around Gabriel, and he was hardly in his sharpest frame of mind at the moment. He brought his hands in front of him and began twisting his ring, trying to think. “I, ah...”  

The frown deepened as Gabriel looked Azra over, seeming to see him for the first time. “And what happened to your clothes?” he demanded.  

“I don’t know,” Azra said honestly. The memory made his head spin harder; he hadn’t begun to make sense of it. That ghastly column of fire...  

Gabriel dismissed it with a disgusted shake of his head. “Never mind,” he said, the tone of his voice clearly conveying that he did not have time for this. “And stop fidgeting. We’ll discuss your penance later, but right now you need to clean up the mess you’ve made. You are going to take that sword of yours and finally make yourself useful.” 

Azra had been looking at the floor and wringing his hands. Now his head jerked up. “What?”  

Gabriel tilted his head impatiently towards the hedge. “There’s still one left out there. Go kill him.”  

Azra stared. “Kill him? But- no no no, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. He wasn’t working with the others!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course he is.” 

“Gabriel, I know him. We met when I was on guard duty, I’ve known him for as long as I’ve been going down there. He’s my friend, and he came here to help us.”   

Behind Gabriel, Sandalphon guffawed drunkenly. "What? What nonsense are you spouting now?"  

“It’s not nonsense, it's true!” Azra exclaimed indignantly, frowning at his brothers. “He was fighting them off for us while I rescued you! You were both right there, surely you saw it.”  

“I saw two factions of sorcerers fight amongst themselves,” Gabriel said impatiently. "I don't know what you think you saw, but you were mistaken." He wasn’t even looking at him, as usual. He turned towards the guards and began issuing orders. “Get some more lights in here. Take your men and position them throughout the room, be sure to block the door. Corner the sorcerer but keep him alive, I would like to set an example. With this defeat we’ll have trounced the devils so thoroughly that they’ll never dare to set foot in Empyrion again.” 

We? Azra thought, not without irritation. 

Gabriel’s voice was brusque as he added over his shoulder, “And calling it a rescue is a bit much, even for you, Azra. You helped mitigate the situation that you created, nothing more.”  

Azra suddenly realised what really had Gabriel so put out. He’s humiliated that he was captured, and afraid that I’ll get all the credit for saving them. A huff of quiet laughter escaped him. Of all the absurd things to worry about.  

The king had his back to him again, still giving orders, making plans. Sandalphon was trying to buckle a dagger to his belt, without much success. The guards were nodding and filing out one by one to obey Gabriel's instructions. 

Azra stood there, silent and already forgotten by everyone. He straightened his shoulders and licked his lips. "Gabriel," he said. 

No one responded. 

“Gabriel, I have something to tell you,” he said loudly.   

“Later,” Gabriel said, no patience for him as always. The last of the guards were saluting and hurrying off to do as he bid, leaving only one behind with them, and the king started buckling a sword at his waist. “Now, the guards will keep him cornered and wear him down, so it shouldn't be any trouble for you. I need you to take that magic sword of yours and-” 

“No,” said Azra firmly, interrupting his brother for the first time in his life. “No, I most certainly will not do any of that.” 

Gabriel finally turned to look at him, and his brows drew together. “Don’t be a coward. The guards can finish him off if you're feeling that squeamish.” 

Azra twitched as if shaking off a biting fly, and met Gabriel’s eyes squarely. “I certainly am not going to help you kill him, and I certainly will not be marrying Lady Urielle, either. Because I am leaving now, with Crow. The sorcerer. For good.”  

Gabriel scoffed. “This joke is in very poor taste, Azra,” he said shortly. 

“Oh, I have never been more in earnest. I am in love with him and I am going to go live with him.”  

Gabriel didn’t move or otherwise react at first. His violet-blue eyes lingered on Azra for a long, awkward moment. He seemed to be waiting for someone to laugh and shout “Fool's Day!” No one did. “What?” he demanded at last.  

“I’m not sure I can say it any more clearly.”  

Gabriel mouthed soundlessly for a second, then said, “You cannot be serious. He’s a sorcerer.” As if Azra had simply failed to notice. 

“Yes.” Azra beamed. “He is, isn’t he? A very nice sorcerer, though. One who I have fallen in love with, who risked his own life to get here tonight and rescue me, and in doing so helped to save us all.”  

The disbelief on Gabriel’s face slowly shifted to amusement. “Oh Azra. Do you truly believe that?” Behind him, Sandalphon began snickering uncontrollably, cheeks red. 

“Excuse me?” said Azra.  

“I knew you had a weakness for those ridiculous books, but I never dreamed that you would so thoroughly lose your grasp on reality.” Gabriel shook his head pityingly, mouth curved into an incredulous smile. “Listen,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a small child. “This is the real world, not a silly story. Whatever fantasy you have built up in your head, the sorcerer has not fallen in love with you. Sorcerers cannot love, and he certainly didn’t come here to save you. Whatever he did suits his own purpose, never doubt that. You are far too old to let some pretty magic turn your head.”  

Azra jerked back as if stung. “I have not had my head turned, thank you.” Sharp irritation coloured his voice now. Oh, how he hated that smug, condescending tone; his brother always knew just what to say that would cut deepest. “I am quite capable of telling fantasy from reality, Gabriel. The only thing I am far too old for is listening to you.”  

The amused expression curdled, became something shaped like a smile but did not feel like one at all. 

“And it is the truth, whether you want to believe it or not,” Azra continued tartly, bulling ahead. “Crow did risk his life to come here and stop the other sorcerers, and if there is one like him there could well be others, given half the chance. And if you gave half a fig for the welfare of our people, you would consider a bid for peace, for the greater good of all our lands-” 

“Do not dare lecture me about the greater good, little brother,” Gabriel said tightly, cutting him off. All trace of false smile was gone now, replaced by something dangerous. His violet eyes had gone hard. “Have you lost your senses? Look at what they can do, what they have done!” He gestured to the destroyed room, the thorny hedge next to them, with an incensed sweep of his arm. “The greatest good anyone could do for the world would be to exterminate every single one of those filthy, unnatural creatures once and for all, starting with that one!”  

Azra stared at his brother with lips pressed hard together. The ice was back, jagged and cold along his spine; his hand was a fist at his side. There was a long and deafening silence as the two men stared each other down.  

“I think, Gabriel,” Azra said at last, with heavy disapproval, “that Nature is much wider and wilder a thing than you credit it.” 

Gabriel gave him a vastly irritated look. “Azra, I think you should just keep your mouth shut for the rest of the evening. You aren’t thinking clearly, and you will only embarrass yourself in front of your betrothed.”  

“I am thinking clearer than I ever have in my life,” Azra snapped. “And I am not asking. I am leaving.” He walked over to where the one remaining guard stood holding his Artifact sword, staring into space and pretending not to listen. Sandalphon was still just sitting there snickering helplessly, and Azra rolled his eyes. Sandalphon always got like this when he was truly drunk, but he still preferred it to his brother's usual dry mockery. 

“You are not going anywhere!” Gabriel thundered, the veneer cracking at last. A muscle twitched below his left eye, and his fists were clenched at his side. “You will not make a spectacle of yourself, or humiliate this kingdom with your naive foolishness!"

Azra snorted. "Humiliate you, you mean?" 

"I forbid it!” Spittle flew from Gabriel's mouth; his face was turning red. 

Azra looked at him in mild alarm. “What exactly are you going to do? Lock me in my room?”  

“If need be,” Gabriel spat. He laid a hand on the sword hilt at his waist, then pulled his hand away as if thinking better of it. He took a deep breath, and with an obvious effort his face smoothed once again like a rippled pond going still, settling back into its customary calm arrogance.  

“Well,” he said crisply, regaining his equilibrium. “The stress of your impending nuptials has clearly unbalanced you, little brother. I should have known better than to send you for guard duty unsupervised. I cannot say it surprises me, that you have fallen prey to the Enemy’s...wiles, but fear not, there’s no harm done yet. All can be forgiven. Yes.” A firm nod, and Gabriel fixed him with a stern look as he wagged a chiding finger in Azra’s face. “Get over there right now with that sword of yours, and we’ll say no more about your little indiscretion. No one knows about any of this nonsense except us, very luckily for you, and it is going to stay that way. No need to tell Lady Urielle’s family at all about your embarrassing little...lapse in judgment.”  

Azra just stood there, and looked at him. “I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I said, at all.”  

They were interrupted then by one of the guards hurrying back around the hedge and up to them, a portly man with a long white mustache that had been entirely ripped off on one side. His armour was scorched. 

"Your Majesty. Your Highness." The man bobbed a quick bow to each, half-mustache fluttering, before facing Gabriel. "We can confirm that the other sorcerers have fled, Your Majesty. All save the one, and we have him surrounded. He doesn’t seem to have enough power left to kill, he’s just been keeping my men at bay."  

“Ha! Excellent work,” Gabriel said triumphantly. He strode over to the opening in the hedge, then turned to Azra and flashed all his white teeth in a broad, confident grin. “And so good triumphs over evil once again. Come, Azra. Kill him and end this madness, as is your duty. Take your place in this kingdom in earnest. You know what you need to do, what the right thing is.”  

“Yes…you’re right. I do indeed,” Azra said with a long, resigned sigh. “I just need a moment to get ready. Two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” He felt very calm.  

Gabriel hadn’t even waited to hear his answer. He and Sandalphon had already left.  

Azra reclaimed his sword from the guard, and borrowed a leather belt from him as well since his own had been destroyed by the sorcerer’s fire (no time to wonder about that at the moment). He carefully buckled the sword at his waist, cinching it tight. He tried to straighten his disintegrating clothing but only ended up pulling off handfuls of it, so he shrugged and smoothed his hair instead. 

A final nod to the waiting guard, and he followed his brothers out onto the floor. 

Crow was running out of time.  

Once people noticed that there was a sorcerer lurking amongst them it was impossible for him to vanish again, not with all the covering fog gone. A cluster of guards had finally made their way through the crowd and started harrying him with spears. They were white-faced, and sooty, and missing pieces of clothing, clearly frightened and unwilling, but they approached him anyway. 

Guards now faced him with spears in hand, at least two dozen of them, and he found himself confronted by a forest of very pointy bits of metal.  

Big sharp cutty things, his brain inserted unhelpfully. 

He’d only been sending out broad sweeps of fire to keep the guards off him, backing slowly away while he tried to scan the crowd as best he could, stalling until he could figure out what had happened to Azra, but that wasn’t going to work for much longer. There were only so many warning shots he could give before he would have to follow through. More guards were arriving every minute, and after long minutes of him not actually killing anyone these ones were growing bolder. Calm order was slowly reasserting itself, servants were even darting in and re-lighting the intact lamps. Sooner or later someone would think to go retrieve another crossbow from one of the undamaged parts of the palace, and then he would really be in the shit.  

Crow growled. Curse it, he was so close, he just needed to grab Azra and then they could use his amulet to go, but he couldn’t see him anywhere! He should never have let go of his arm, he couldn't lose him again, he couldn't- 

His heel caught on something as he backed away, nearly tripping him, and he glanced back to see that he was standing at the base of short steps leading to a raised marble dais in the corner. The kind used for giving pompous speeches and such. He quickly hopped up onto it.  

Well, this at least gave him a better vantage point, if only to see exactly how much trouble he was in: A half-circle of guards all around him, the rest of the space choked with debris. Reinforcements from outside constantly filing in to stand in lines around the edges of the room, further blocking any way out. And of course, the upturned faces of hundreds of Empyrion nobles clustered everywhere, whispering to one another, pointing and gawping, the prats. Apparently a trio of sorcerers was terrifying but only one was fascinating. 

Crow swallowed hard, feeling the weight of all those hostile stares. He wore no glasses, no comfortable alias; his eyes and his scars were fully on display for anyone to see for the first time in his life, every barrier he’d ever put up between himself and the outside world stripped away. It made his bare skin crawl. It was one thing to run around openly in the heat of the moment, quite another to be standing exposed in front of everyone and stared at like a vicious animal in a menagerie. He didn't even have the usual benefit of a clean appearance to blunt the impact. Between his fatigue, the bloody cut on his head, disheveled hair, sooty scarred chest and black breeches, he imagined he looked like some kind of hungover wraith. Exactly the sort of creature people expected to see when they looked at him. It made him want to cover himself and shrink into the shadows. 

But it was far too late for that, so he only bared his teeth and stared defiantly back at them all.  

The guards edged forward another step. Crow feinted down at them, glad for once at the way they all cringed back. Ugh, but he was so very sick of having to fight idiots, and the last thing he wanted was to burn to death men who were only following the orders of one especially large idiot. But he didn’t see what other option he had, not if he didn’t want to develop some exciting new orifices very soon. He’d give them one more warning shot.  

He drew himself up tall, flung out one hand and reached for his fire magic again –  

– and experienced a funny ringing in his ears. Orange flames skittered once over his fingers, then flickered out. A wave of dizziness swept over him. Everyone around him seemed to grow suddenly taller, how odd. He looked down, and discovered that he had sunk to his knees.   

The potion was spent. He was truly spent. 

Uh oh.   

The guards could tell that something had changed. They immediately began inching forward again with renewed confidence, a noose drawing tight…  

“Hold,” a voice called out. “The devil is ours.”  

Gabriel. Striding onto the floor from behind the wall of thorns, smug triumph blazing in every inch of his stupid chiseled face. Every bit as insufferable-looking as his statue had been. He held a naked broadsword in his hand, and was flanked by the other shorter brother, the one with the ridiculous name that Crow could never remember.  

Crow glared at the king, mind racing frantically and trying to ignore the flutter of fear in his chest at the sight of the drawn sword. He didn't think he had another spell left in him. His magic felt weak and drained, empty, much like his body. He slid one hand into his pocket and gripped his amulet. If he absolutely had to, he could use it to try and run. It only required the barest drop of magic...but the amulet’s transportation didn’t work instantly. There would still be plenty of time to stab him if someone was motivated enough...  

He struggled shakily to his feet, sweat trickling down his shirtless back from the effort. His throat was dry as he tried to swallow. He could do this. He could do this. Just another stupid Northlander with a sword trying to kill him, that was all. He took a deep breath, and gathered his strength for a final desperate stand. 

“Get out of my way!”   

The command snapped in the quiet like a whip, breaking the tension and making everyone in the room turn to stare. It was the first time Crow had ever heard that tone of absolute, ringing authority in Azra’s voice. It echoed through the room, and it brooked no argument. The guards recognised it too, and hastened to move as the bedraggled prince shoved his way through the crowd, pushing roughly past Gabriel, drawing every eye as he went. One guard didn’t move fast enough for his taste and was thrown bodily aside by the scruff of his neck, armour and all. 

Azra marched up the steps onto the dais, face set in the same blazing determination he’d worn when he smashed the Box, while Crow just stood there looking at him with his entire relieved heart in his eyes.  

Without once breaking stride Azra walked right up to Crow, swept him clean off his feet, tipped him over backwards, and kissed him in full view of his brothers and the entire bloody Empyrion court.  

Utter chaos ensued for the second time that night.  

Screams of shock and outrage broke out on all sides, if possible even louder than before. Whatever tables or chairs had not been burned or disintegrated in the fight were thoroughly destroyed now as everyone moved back in a solid wave, as if a kiss were somehow contagious. A lady in a frilly pink gown fainted dead away.  

Throughout the general uproar Crow heard, improbably, a high peal of laughter. He cracked one eye briefly open to see that young dark-haired girl from the masque, Azra’s betrothed, standing still among all the screaming milling nobles, wearing a torn gold dress and laughing so hard she could barely stay upright. She had one hand braced on the shoulder of an incredibly angry-looking older gentleman who bore a clear family resemblance.  

That was about as far as Crow’s observation skills could go at the moment, as he was too busy swooning in Azra’s arms. Those arms were reassuring and wonderful, his mouth even more so, obliterating thought; one forearm wrapped securely around Crow’s bare shoulders and broad hand spread at the small of his back, holding him close. Azra ignored all the screaming and focused on kissing him, and took his time about it. Moving his mouth carefully, slowly, as intimately as if they were still quite alone back in the tower, as if they were waking up together with the warm morning light pouring over the bed and all the time in the world to spend twined in each other’s arms. Catching gently at Crow’s lower lip, tongue briefly questing between them, sighing a soft and luxurious “mmmh” against his mouth that sent warm happy shivers through him. Azra held him tight and kissed him firm and gentle and sweet, until every one of Crow’s muscles was reduced to spider silk.  

A subjective eternity later Azra finally pulled away a little and beamed at him, eye-crinkles on full display, keeping his body turned firmly between Crow and the spear points.  

“Is anybody looking?” he asked quietly. 

Crow had to blink a few times before his dazzled eyes would focus properly again. His heart was a pounding, glowing ember in his chest. He swallowed and turned his head to look dazedly around, at all the horrified gawking expressions and swiftly retreating courtiers. No one looked more horrified than the guards, who were holding their spears in uncertain hands, trying to keep pointing them at Crow without treasonously pointing them at Azra too. The High Fells royals looked to be in various stages of shock. King Gabriel had dropped his sword and was still standing frozen in place, bug-eyed and slack-jawed in wordless horror, fists clenched at his sides. His face had turned a truly impressive shade of royal purple, unhealthily so, and he looked like he couldn’t decide whether to scream or simply have apoplexy. An enormous vein throbbed at his temple. The shorter stocky prince had tripped over his own feet and was sitting where he had fallen, staring with mouth hanging open. Michael was probably still unconscious somewhere.  

“Uhhhhhhhmm…” Crow had temporarily forgotten how to make words come out of his mouth. It was a good thing Azra had such a firm hold on him, because his legs weren’t going to be useful again any time soon. He looked back up into those sunlit blue eyes, and felt a foolish grin spread over his face. “Everyone?” he said at last.  

Azra nodded seriously, but his eyes were dancing. His grip had not loosened one iota. He sighed, a deeply satisfied sound, and lowered his forehead to rest against Crow’s. “Then what are you waiting for, my love? Use that beautiful magic of yours and take us away from here.” 

Right. The homing amulet. He’d forgotten it existed. Crow groped for the red disc in his breeches pocket, gripped it and spoke the word, stammering a little. Red light began to glow, sparks whirling up from around their feet, prompting more screams from the crowd.  

As if on afterthought Azra straightened, still holding Crow with one arm. With the other he reached into his disintegrated leather doublet and pulled out the miraculously-still-intact letter, only slightly scorched. “You may consider this my resignation,” he announced loudly to no one in particular, and tossed it onto the dais floor at the very last moment.  

The banquet room dissolved in a blur of chaos and smoke, but Crow didn’t see any of it. Azra had scooped him back up and was kissing him again.  

Chapter Text

Crow felt the world shift around him, gentle as a drifting feather, then settle.  

The screaming chaos of the banquet hall faded into quiet and stillness. Marble changed to soft wet grass, soothing under his bare foot. The hot, suffocating atmosphere was swept away by a fresh autumn breeze, cool enough to raise goosebumps on his bare chest and arms. The air was full of pine, and rain-scoured dirt, and hints of clean woodsmoke. The familiar smells of home. 

Azra still held him in steadfast warm arms, unchanging as the stars, nose pressed into his cheek as he kissed him with intent care. The only sound was that of their breathing, chests rising and falling against each other in perfect synchrony. Azra’s lips were soft. His chest and arms were soft. He was all softness and gentleness that rang true as tempered steel, and Crow breathed him in with every breath, let it soften the harsh places inside him. Smoothing all the sharp edges of the day and easing their sting. Crow sighed against Azra’s mouth, and felt him do the same. Safe. We’re safe.  

“My darling,” Azra murmured at last, noses brushing against each other. His skin was warm. They were mostly in shadow, but Crow could have heard his smile in the pitch dark.  

“Angel,” Crow breathed. And then, “Wow.” He gazed awestruck up at him, and didn’t care at all that he sounded ridiculous. He was doomed to be ridiculous where Azra was concerned. “You were... that was just... wowww. That was really something.” 

Azra grinned back. “It was, wasn’t it?” 

Crow let out a wheeze of laughter, the sound bubbling up from something like hysteria. The entire long desperate blur of a day, the whiplashing fear and relief, the way his stupid shoeless foot hurt, the incredible joy he felt now... It was all too much, too absurd, too bloody big to process any other way but laughing. And it must have been contagious, because Azra started laughing too, a quiet, relieved laughter that rolled from his belly, laughing out the stress and tension of the evening.  

Laughter gradually trickled down into silence, and Azra straightened and set Crow upright on the grass. Once he got his feet securely under him Crow immediately pulled Azra into a proper hug, squeezing him as tight as he could. He was never letting go. "You were incredible,” he murmured. “Beyond incredible.”  

"Hush. So were you.”  

For the first time they both turned their heads to look at their surroundings.  

They were at the Rookery, of course, standing right in front of the tower door. The storm of earlier had passed on, leaving only thin smears of cloud and damp earthy smells. It was dusk, the sky fading swiftly from burnt orange to dark blue above the treetops, and the uppermost indigo reaches were just beginning to be speckled with bright stars. A nearly-full moon shone down on them, only a thin slice missing. The raindrops on the grass glimmered silver. In the distance, the haunting too-woo of a tawny owl.  

Crow held Azra in the circle of his arms and turned his face up to the starry sky, breathing it all in. He realised that he no longer felt the tether. The invisible tether that had lashed him tight to Pandemonium his entire life no matter how far away he ran, kept him bound to everyone else’s idea of what he should be, the particular worry always tugging at the back of his mind… was gone.  

On impulse he closed his eyes and leaned back on his heels, let himself feel that incredible sense of being light enough to float away. Azra wrapped his arms around his narrow waist to steady him. Those arms were the only thing keeping him fixed to the ground, and he half-hung there for a moment, feeling the earth spinning under his feet and the infinite sky turning above, the wide-open freedom of a world without walls, and he didn’t care one bit that he looked like a fool...  

“My goodness, we made it. We’re home.” Azra said it with a sigh, and the word seemed to echo through the grounds.  

Home, home, home… His heart beat to it, joyous and steady.  

“Yeah, we are,” said Crow. He opened his eyes and looked down at him. “We made it. Welcome home. Again.”  

Azra beamed wordlessly, and it was a soft white crescent in the shadow.    

A sudden wave of dizziness swept over Crow, and he gripped Azra’s arms to steady himself. “Shit.” He scrubbed a hand across his face with a groan. “I can’t believe how tired I am.”  

“Well, of course you are. You need rest, and medicine for your wounds. Thank goodness I still have that salve.” Azra reached up to cup Crow’s face in his hands, fingers mindful of the cut on his head. At least it wasn’t bleeding anymore. “I think,” he said, “that I would like to get you properly cleaned up. And then I would like to have that stiff drink you mentioned earlier. Perhaps in bed.”  

Tired or no, Crow’s entire body thrummed at that, and he grinned. “Oh. Yeah. Yes. I think we can manage to make that happen. After baths, of course.” 

“Oh, Good Lord, yes.” Azra gave a mournful sigh. “You know, I’ve never been so filthy in all my life, it’s dreadful. My poor clothes...” He trailed off, and they both looked down at him then, though it was too dark to clearly see his crumbling burnt clothes and very unburnt body. There was a long silence.  

Did I imagine that? He must have. Right? He couldn’t see any other explanation for how Azra could be standing here, whole and unharmed, after... His mind recoiled from the memory. The entire evening already seemed surreal, faded as a bad dream. 

“Drinks,” he said firmly at last. One thing at a time. “We can talk over drinks. Drinks are excellent for unravelling mysteries.”  

“Yes…yes. Indeed. Inside, then?”  

"One moment.” Crow limped across the grass (his bare foot had begun to throb in earnest) to the hedge, and with a couple of words and a swift touch of magic changed the password again. Luckily it was just an adjustment to an existing spell structure, or he never would have managed it. The small effort left him dizzy again; he set his jaw and limped back. It took a lot more effort than it should have. "There. No more surprises." 

He braced himself against the stone of the tower for a moment with eyes closed, catching his breath. Ugh, the stairs were going to be a special kind of hell tonight. The trek back up seven stories after an attack was a painfully familiar ritual; he'd climbed them while ill, or injured, or poisoned, many times before. He would manage. He always did.  

A hand touched his back, startling. Azra's soft arm slid around his waist, supporting and propping him up. Lips touched his cheek. “Here, lean on me, my dear. That poor foot must be terribly painful.”  

Crow swallowed hard at the unexpected lump in his throat. 

He leaned against Azra with a deep sigh. “Thanks, angel.”  

Azra hummed under his breath. “Of course. I’ve got you.”  

They pulled open the creaky tower door and went inside together.  

As it turned out, the drinks would have to wait. As would any mysteries, because a minute later the aforementioned price came due.  

One second Crow was standing there admiring Azra in the flickering light of the entryway lamps, dreamily thinking that he, Crow, was the luckiest man to ever exist. Feeling a warm rush of entirely pleasurable anticipation at the thought of getting Azra out of those tattered clothes… and apparently that southern rush of blood did him in, because the next second he was struck with a wave of exhaustion so severe it was like a mallet to the head.  

The room grew dim, then tilted sideways.  

“Crow? Crow!” Azra was forced to catch him as his eyes rolled up, his knees folded and he half-fainted on the spot.  

“Oh, please, Crow, dearest, what is it? Is it poison? Are you hurt? Do I need to-” 

“Nah nah, m’fine, fine, s’not a problem. Jus’ need some resht,” Crow slurred through lips that were thick and too heavy. He felt cold. He tried to wave a casual hand, but his limbs didn’t seem to be working properly, and he just flopped around a bit. “T’much magic. Fine in ‘second…just gotta...” His eyelids did not want to lift. He barely had enough mental faculties to try and reassure his frantic prince that no, he was not in fact dying, that this was to be expected of any sorcerer foolish enough to magically run more than forty miles in one fell swoop, then singlehandedly take on three other sorcerers, then turn half of a banquet hall into a thorny greenhouse. All without eating anything before or after.  

He must have made himself understood somehow, because he felt Azra pick him up with strong arms and cradle him against his body. Crow kept trying to protest that he was fine, but his tongue refused to cooperate. Azra only responded to his weak mumbling with a “Hush, love,” and a soft kiss on his forehead. “I’ve got you.”  

Everything went blurry for a while after that; Crow was aware of gentle rocking as he was carried, up and up the winding stairs, one foot bumping against the wall. His head lolling against a warm chest. Azra’s footsteps and breathing echoing in the dark stairwell. And then, quiet footsteps against carpeted floorboards. The sound of a drawer opening and a burst of clear white glowstone light through his closed eyelids.  

And then, oh, he was being lowered onto something wonderfully soft, something that smelled like the tower and Azra’s cologne. Crow sighed. Hands settled his limp body on the mattress and drew up the blankets, slid a pillow under his head with tender care and smoothed his hair back.  

The last thing he recalled before blacking out was the mattress shifting as Azra climbed in under the covers next to him, arms wrapping around and pulling him against a soft, warm chest. A whisper in his ear:  

“Sleep well, my darling. You are safe and loved.”   

Safe. They were safe. Azra was safe.  

Crow smiled, and slept.  

When he opened his eyes again he was lying on his back, and it was morning. Golden sunlight poured through the open window shutters, sparkling; birdsong sweetened the air along with the occasional raucous call of a raven.  

He blinked and took brief stock of himself. A slight shifting of his body revealed that he was very naked under the covers; his dirty breeches had been removed. The knife cut on his head had been cleaned and bandaged, as had his battered foot, and they did not hurt at all. He felt surprisingly good, aside from a bladder the size of a melon.  

And…Azra. Azra was right there next to him, sitting up against the headboard with one leg bent. He was reading one of his books, a tiny intent crease between his brows, lips moving slightly as he followed the words. One of Crow’s silver goblets hung loosely in his other hand. He was clean-shaven and apparently freshly bathed, blond hair curling damply around his head. He had traded his ruined clothing for brown breeches and a spotless white shirt, barefoot and casually at ease, laces open to the chest and sleeves tidily rolled to the elbows.  

It was the most perfectly beautiful thing Crow had ever seen in his life. For a second he just lay there trying to catch his breath, entranced by the sight of Azra looking so at home and content in his bed. Their bed, now. It was a sight he could gladly wake to for the rest of his life.  

And when Azra turned his head and noticed him awake, and lit up like the sun with a delighted smile, Crow realised he’d been wrong yet again. That was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  

Come to find out, it was not morning after all. It was late afternoon, and Crow had been asleep for nearly two entire days and nights.  

Azra expressed his feelings about it by practically flinging himself on top of him, heedless of the soot and grime. He scolded him, between smiling teary kisses, and called Crow an impossible scoundrel for worrying him like that, and demanded that he never, ever do it again. Then he pulled Crow against him and just sat there with face buried in his neck, sniffling occasionally. 

Crow held him and made soothing noises, rubbing circles on his back. “It’s okay,” he said for the dozenth time. “I'm fine, I promise.” Azra only nodded and hugged him tighter.  

Azra finally wiped his face and stood, smiling. “Wait right there. I’ll fetch you something to eat.” He bustled out the bedroom door before Crow could object, and returned so quickly that he must have had it sitting prepared already. Simple fare, just fresh buttered bread and some chicken from the cold-jar in the kitchen, but the moment the plate of food was put in front of him Crow’s three-day-empty stomach awoke too. With the vengeance of a dozen hungry bears. It was suddenly all he could do to stop himself from cramming handfuls of bread and chicken into his mouth with both hands, and it may have been the most ambrosial thing he’d ever tasted. He forced himself to chew before swallowing, mumbling incoherent apologies and trying not to choke. Azra only watched alertly and handed him a cup of water whenever he paused for air. 

Once the food was gone, the first thing Crow did was use a cleaning spell or five on the absolutely filthy bedsheets and pillows that he’d been sleeping on. There was a large grey nimbus of soot and grime in the bed, outlining the rough shape of one skinny sorcerer and one somewhat larger prince pressed together.  

The second thing he did was hobble downstairs, with Azra’s help, to take an extremely overdue bath. The trip wasn’t fun. His cuts were nearly healed, thanks to Azra’s salve, but every single muscle in his abused body had decided to clench into a fist; his shins and legs protested the mad dash to the High Fells with every step. He vaguely remembered kicking a door at some point, and his big left toe remembered it vividly. He had mysteriously shaped bruises in weird places.   

To add insult to injury, he was also more disgusting than he’d ever been in his life. His hair was stiff with caked sweat and ash; his skin dusky with soot. He smelled like…well, he smelled exactly like you would expect. Like an old boot that had been worn for weeks on end, and then angrily lit on fire. One whiff of himself nearly made his eyes water. The fact that the fussy Azra could bear to be near him like this was nothing short of a miracle.

At least there was no need for the tedious process of heating water bucketful by bucketful; his magic was a strong, steady hum inside him once again, replenished by the sleep and food. Once he filled the large metal tub from the pump a single touch to the surface of the water set it steaming. He lowered himself in with a groan of relief and a series of unpleasant pops. 

Then he gasped in surprise as a gout of warm water was dumped over his head.  

“Pfffffff- Oi!” He twisted round, spluttering, to find Azra standing right behind him, holding a cloth and an empty pitcher. “What the-”  

“Hold still,” Azra said. “I can clean your hair far better from back here.”  

“Wha- You don’t have to do that,” Crow protested. “I'm filthy. You can read, or just relax, I won’t be long.”  

Azra’s nostrils flared; he pressed his lips together and fixed Crow with narrowed eyes. It was surprisingly intimidating. “You,” he said tartly, “just spent two days entirely unconscious from saving my life, after nearly being killed yourself. So if you will excuse me, my love, I am not letting you out of my sight, not over a paltry bit of dirt. And if you know what is good for you,” here he leaned forward and poked Crow gently on the chest with a forefinger, “you will sit right there and let me take care of you for a while. That is, if you are quite done performing feats of legend for the moment?”  

He really did have an effective glare, for someone so pretty. Crow sat. 

He stayed obediently still while Azra poured more warm water over his head, then worked palmfuls of sweet-smelling liquid soap into his wet hair. And...it was impossible bliss. Until recently he would never have dreamed that something so simple could feel so good. His eyes slid shut as those broad fingers massaged gently at his scalp, sending pulses of heat through him and euphoric tingles all down his spine... He pulled a deep, shuddering breath and slowly let it out in an eloquent groan.

Azra chuckled, and the warm, happy sound raised goosebumps on Crow’s skin. Then came more pitchers of hot water, rinsing him clean. The white suds around him quickly turned grey as all the dirt sloughed off his head and body, taking tension with it. The stench of smoke was replaced with the smell of spring flowers. All the tight places in Crow’s back and legs slowly unknotted under the influence of the hot water, leaving him soft and liquid. Then Azra started humming to himself, just like he’d done the day he bandaged Crow’s arm, and that was the end of Crow’s ability to maintain coherent thought. He gave in to the heavy feeling  and just drifted in the delectable languor of not having to do anything at all: head tipped back with eyes shut, cheeks burning. Reveling in the feel of a soft wet cloth against his skin, the trickles of warm water running down his back, and most of all Azra’s hands: those gentle, deliberate hands smoothing back his hair over and over again, working a comb through the tangles, tenderly wiping away layers of grime while carefully avoiding the cuts and bruises... 

Crow thought he’d long since run out of lumps to be had in his throat, but apparently there was an endless supply.   

“There,” Azra’s voice said quietly behind him, waking him from his half-doze. Arms slid around his shoulders. “That’s much better. You can actually see the red in your hair again.”  

“Nngh.” He leaned his head back against Azra’s solid bulk and sighed without opening his eyes. They were stinging again. From the soap, he told himself. “Too bad. I thought the dark grey was more distinguished.” 

Azra clucked his tongue. “Don't be silly. I’ve always adored your lovely hair.”  

Crow rolled his head back to look up at him through lazily slitted eyes. Azra’s cheeks glowed pink from the steam, with a big smudge of soot from where he had kissed him earlier. He still had the little scratch on his nose, mostly healed now. His bare forearms were wet, his rolled sleeve edges soaked through, and the fine white shirt had gone translucent in patches where he’d splashed himself. Crow could feel the muscles of Azra’s chest shift as he hugged him, muscles that he’d gotten from decades of reluctant fighting, and riding, layered under softness from decades of enjoying the finer things... And this glorious, improbable being was smiling down at him with so much shining happiness that it was like looking at a glowstone. A dazzling, fluffy-haired, human glowstone, and Crow felt warm all over in a way that had nothing to do with the bath.  

He reached up to lay a hand against Azra’s cheek, thumbing at the soot smudge. “You’re the one who saved my life, you know,” he said dreamily. “I was this close,” he squinted one eye and held up thumb and forefinger pressed together, “to getting a sword in my guts. I thought I was done for, and then... there you were.” He couldn’t keep the awed disbelief out of his voice. “No one’s…” He shut his stupid mouth and looked down, swallowing against that treacherous lump again. No one’s ever fought for me before. He couldn’t think of anything else to say that wasn’t mortifying.  

Azra lowered himself into a crouch behind him, keeping his arms firmly around Crow’s shoulders. “My dear sorcerer. No one gets to hurt you again,” he said quietly, but with iron determination beneath it. “No one. Not ever. I will not allow it. I made promises of my own, if you’ll recall.”  

Crow turned his head and looked at him with eyes that were definitely not stinging. The corner of his mouth quirked. “Yeah. I remember, angel."    

Azra's eye crinkles deepened. He stood up again and slowly let go of him, hands lingering on his shoulders. “And...Well, I suppose, since we’re on the subject...” He trailed off.  

Curious, Crow swiveled around to face him.  

Azra was just standing there, twiddling at his wet sleeve and wearing a conflicted expression.  

Crow frowned. “Everything alright?” 

“It’s only that...well. I had planned...” Azra flushed bright pink, then gave a huff and rubbed his hands nervously together. He began talking all at once, flustered. “The thing is, I’d planned to do this properly. I tried, you know, earlier, and we had flowers and everything, but then…the Council. Kidnapping, and all that nonsense. Busy day. And then I wanted to when we got back, but you keeled over before I could! And I know it probably still isn’t the best time, and I’m not even fully dressed, and- and I’ve just realised that it may not even be something that is done in Apollyon culture at all.” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “And it's all just so very...ramshackle! But quite honestly, with the way things have been going I daren’t wait another moment! For all I know, the tower could tumble down around us at any second, and then where would we be?”  

Crow just sat there in the tub and stared up at him, mouth open. “Uhhh, what?” he asked at last. “What are you talking about?”  

Azra opened his mouth, then held up a finger in a ‘one moment’ gesture and turned furtively away for a second as he fiddled with something. “Alright.” He turned back around, took a deep breath, and extended a hand to Crow with courtly grace. “My dear.” 

Utterly baffled, Crow put his wet hand into Azra’s. The fingers closed lightly over his own, soft and only slightly damp. Azra held his hand with infinite tenderness and, holding his gaze, slowly lowered himself to one knee.  

Then Azra reached out his slightly trembling hand and pretended to pluck something from behind Crow’s ear. Crow stared blankly at it.  

It was Azra’s gold signet ring. 

“What are-”

And suddenly it all clicked together in Crow’s head: the way Azra was kneeling and holding his hand, the wide open, heart-shatteringly vulnerable look on his face, the nervousness, the proffered ring… all the pieces crystallized into a familiar tableau he’d seen a hundred times in a hundred different plays, usually accompanied by sweeping orchestral music... 

Shock flashed through his body like heat lightning, and all the water on his skin evaporated in a puff of steam.  

A small, less thunderstruck part of his mind still protested that this really wasn’t what it looked like. Because those types of absurd, sappy, fantastical scenes were not for the likes of him. They were for other people; for normal, unscarred people who didn’t burst into flame when they got angry, people who didn’t have half the world trying to kill them, people who lived in palaces or pretty little cottages and wrote poetry for a hobby, people with the kind of ridiculous lives so far removed from his own that they might as well be fictional... 

In short, it was the very last thing in the entire bloody universe that Crow had ever expected to happen to himself. But now this kind, devastatingly beautiful man was kneeling in front of him, holding his pruney wet hand and gazing at him with all the unmistakably poetic feeling in the world crammed into his face, gazing at him like he was the first and last thing he’d ever see… and Crow couldn't feel his legs. He couldn’t breathe. The world was tilting. 

And Azra kept speaking.  

“Anthony, my beloved,” he said, and those three words sent up bright pink blooms in Crow’s heart. “You are the most ridiculous, brave, beautiful person I’ve ever known. There was so much missing in my life that I never even noticed, and then- there you were.” Azra laughed, a little choked sound. “Impossibly lovely. Burning brighter than anyone I have ever met. You showed me that there was more happiness to be had in the world than I ever dreamed was possible for me, and now I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to wake up with you every single day, and help you tend your flowers, and protect you from all the fools who attack your tower, and eat chocolate cake with you, and…and all of it. I want all of it.”

Crow didn't move. Not an inch. He might as well have been a statue. He just sat there and felt the words fall on his soul like raindrops on parched earth.

“I know I don’t have anything to offer you anymore. I don’t have a kingdom, or a palace, or any money, but everything I am, everything I’ve ever been or will be is yours, if you want it. And I would be honored for you to be mine, whether as my husband or- or whatever you like.” Azra's mouth trembled through a hopeful smile, still holding the ring out before him. “That is, if after all this you’re still willing to put up with me, and my silly books, and the occasional magic tri-”  

Crow grabbed him by the front of his shirt with both hands and yanked, using the leverage to pull himself up to his knees at the same time. Azra lunged forward into his arms and kissed him with all his might, threw one arm around his neck and grabbed a handful of his damp hair. Crow gasped into his mouth as stars burst in his eyes, an entire galaxy’s worth of stars swirling and blazing trails through his head, dazzling...

And then Azra’s bare feet slipped, lost their purchase on the floor. Crow’s unsteady knees went out from under him. Down he went, Azra atop him, head-over-bare-arse backwards into the tub with an almighty splash and billow of steam. Warm water slopped over the sides and suds flew everywhere. There was a lot of spluttering involved, and Crow felt halfway drowned, but he only struggled upright and shook water out of his eyes before dragging the soaked Azra into his lap to keep kissing him. And Azra was laughing as he clung to him and kissed him back, and Crow kept blurting out lovesick inanities between kisses, and this time the water running from his eyes was definitely not caused by the soap. But that was alright, because Azra was crying too. 

The signet ring had vanished somewhere under the water, but neither of them cared to stop and look for it just yet.  

It took a while, but at some point they managed to stop professing undying love just long enough for Azra to feel around and retrieve the ring from the bottom of the tub. He held Crow’s hand and slid it on to his wet finger, lamplight gleaming on the gold, while Crow rubbed at his eyes and tried not to lose his composure again. The ring was too large for his smallest finger but fit perfectly on his fourth finger instead. How about that. 

After making fools of themselves for a few more minutes, Azra finally kissed him once more and slowly eased off his lap, still beaming. “Come, my love.” He sloshed his way out of the tub and offered a hand down to him. “I think we would be more comfortable upstairs, don’t you?” His once tidy clothes hung dripping wet around him, the white hair was plastered flat to his head except where it was sticking up from being grabbed. He looked absolutely ridiculous, and radiantly happy, and still the most beautiful thing Crow had ever seen. 

"Yeah, I think so." Crow grinned and dazedly allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, head spinning – and at that moment he realised something.

The air was hazy with steam, steam from all the water constantly evaporating off his body. No surprise there; his overexcited heart was pounding so hard that he was slightly surprised he hadn’t burst into a pillar of flame. And he always used magic to dry off after bathing, so the steam wasn’t anything unusual in itself.  

No, what was unusual, what paused him mid-sappy-grin, was that Azra was holding his hand. Azra was touching his hand while untrammeled magic surged through his veins, hot enough to make the air shimmer, and Azra didn’t seem to feel the heat. Just like at the palace. 

It was real.  

“Uhh...Azra...” Crow began.  

He saw Azra look down and have the same realisation at the exact same moment, and the blue eyes went wide. They stared at each other for a breathless second, faces full of wonder. Then Azra tightened his grip on his hand and yanked him into his arms, pressing his cheek to Crow’s bare hot skin.  

Fresh steam went up with a sound like a hissing skillet – Crow gasped and flinched hard – but it was only from Azra’s wet clothes. There was no shriek of pain. No charred flesh, no smoke. There was only Azra’s arms holding him tight, tight, the sizzling of water dripping from wet blond hair onto Crow’s shoulders. Bare hands pressed to his back, touching him. 

Crow exhaled in abject relief and sagged against him as his knees went weak. “Shit,” he gasped. “I can’t take any more surprises.” His heart was lurching around in his chest like it was trying to kill him, and his entire body radiated dry heat like desert sand. He huffed out a slightly hysterical laugh and hugged Azra as tightly as he could, feeling his cheek press against his face. He slid his hands up under the wet shirt and rubbed his palms reverently over the undamaged wet skin of his back, leaving dry skin in their wake. His stupid eyes were stinging again, tears burning away before they could fall. It was impossible. He was touching Azra with hands easily hot enough to scorch, but he wasn’t hurting him. On impulse he ran a hand through Azra's hair too, laughed as more steam went up. “Wow. It’s real,” he breathed. “I thought I’d just imagined it. How the hell...just, how?”   

“I don’t know,” Azra said. He laughed and kissed him soundly on the mouth. A single wisp of moisture went up in steam as their lips touched, and he laughed again. “I have absolutely not one whit of an idea. Oh, isn’t it all simply wonderful?”  

Azra was very direct and to the point. Without further ado he scooped Crow right off his feet, feigning deafness at Crow’s yelp of feigned protest. He kissed him sweetly enough to make him dizzy again, then carried him back upstairs. He marched him up the five flights of stairs, into their sunlit bedroom, and straight over to the canopied bed. To pick up where they had left off in the tub.  

Crow had no complaints.  

He had no willpower, either. They tried to slow down at first, tried to make it last, but in the end they were simply too impatient. Too eager, and had missed each other too much.

After only a minute or two of slowly twining together, soft kisses and clasped hands, Azra made a small, urgent whimper against Crow’s lips. He’d been making plenty of noises, but this one was full of raw longing and pent up emotion, and something gave way in both of them. The hands on Crow’s chest curled, nails lightly scraping against his scars. And then Crow remembered how Azra had looked bursting through the banquet room smoke with sword in hand, eyes blazing, and his entire body seemed to catch fire from the inside.

His hands found Azra's waist and flipped him over; red hair tumbled around his face as he bent to drag his tongue up Azra’s back, to bite it. His breath came in harsh pants as he stroked between soft legs thick with muscle, cupped him in his hand. And then it was all just a blur of frantic hurry: Azra fumbling at the night table drawer for the oils they had stored there last week, Crow slicking them both with trembling fingers while Azra clutched back at him, wordlessly demanding. A scramble to arrange themselves, curled toes and hitched breathing. Then immense heat. Pressure. Sheets smoked beneath Crow’s hands as his body reacted, but this time he did not pull away from Azra's skin, not once. He only groaned deep and made love to him with abandon, bed creaking, one arm gripping Azra's waist and the other braced on the mattress. He did cry out loudly when Azra clenched around him and gasped his name, cried out and clasped him to his body with both arms as he came so hard that those stars filled his eyes again. 

Afterwards they lay cuddled up together in the newly-charred bed, panting and ecstatic, and Crow had no plans to move for at least a year. He’d rolled over onto his back so Azra could rest his head on his chest; they’d closed half of the bedcurtains to block the sun from their eyes. He had both arms wrapped snug around Azra with fingers in his pale hair, massaging at his head and neck. Azra kept making pleased little “mm” sounds and rubbing his cheek against him.  

It was the kind of joyful quiet that was far too perfect to break by talking, so they didn’t just yet. They had time for that later, an entire lifetime now. So they only lay there together enjoying the simple pleasure of clean skin against (mostly) fresh sheets, letting time slip gently by. Soaking in the ocean of peace that filled every inch of the sunlit room.  

One of Azra’s legs was draped over him, running his toes idly up and down the sole of Crow’s uninjured foot, making him grin. Crow had insisted the prior week that no, he was not ticklish, thanks, and he’d really thought he wasn’t, but he had since discovered that he definitely was when touched properly. He was discovering that he was lots of things when touched properly, at least by Azra. And he suspected that Azra realised it too and was teasing him now, but Crow couldn’t ask without admitting it, and the whole thing was far too much fun to give up just yet. So he only closed his eyes and hid his smiles against Azra’s hair. The bed was soft and clean. The sweat still cooling on their naked bodies was clean. The gold ring was a slight new weight on his finger. Azra was soft and lush, and smelled of the flowery soap from the bath. Sunlight slanted in through the narrow paned windows and lay in golden bars along the floorboards, the ravens were crrawwwing enthusiastically outside the tower as usual, and Crow was happy. He was completely, deliriously happy, and free, and for the first time in his life absolutely everything was right with the entire world. 

“Darling,” Azra’s voice said pleasantly into the silence. “Why does Madame Tracy have my horse?”  

Crow jerked his eyes open and looked blearily at him. “Nnngk. Whassat?”  

The shadows in the room had lengthened, the light had turned from golden to dark amber. The cries of the ravens had shifted into the steady mutter of activity that meant they were settling in for the evening. 

And Azra still lay draped over his chest, face right in front of his, smiling. “Hello there. Were you asleep?” 

“Ehhh. Only a little.”  

Azra chuckled and stretched against his side, all soft flesh and silky body hair. It felt fantastic. “Sorry. Well, the morning after we got back I went downstairs to check on Serafina, but she wasn’t in her stall.” He half rolled over and reached to the night table on his side of the bed, picking up a piece of paper Crow hadn’t noticed before. “This was pinned to the door instead.”  

Shit. Crow swallowed a jolt of guilt – he'd completely forgotten about Serafina, again – and curiously took the paper.  

It was a note, written on a piece of his own parchment. The ink was not his, though: it was deep blue, and when he tilted it into shadow it glowed with a faint phosphorescence. The note read, in a different handwriting than had been on his potion bottle:  

“Don't worry, dearie, your lovely horse is right as rain and well cared for. We’ll bring her back in three days. That will give you some time to yourselves to...recover first.”   

-Tracy  

“Oh...balls,” Crow groaned. His cheeks had gone warm again. A glance at the very open window confirmed that they had just provided the ravens with brand new gossip fodder. He groaned again, louder, and scrubbed a hand down his face. Witches.  

“I don’t mean to push, but...I have a lot of questions,” Azra admitted.  

“Mm.” Crow heaved a rueful sigh and pulled Azra in closer, loathe to let go of him even a little. “In that case, what say we have those drinks now, hm? It’s a bit of a story. Stories are definitely improved with drinks.” And you.

Azra smiled up at him. “I heartily agree. And perhaps a proper dinner, too?” he said hopefully. “I’m absolutely famished, and you can’t afford to miss any more meals.”  

The drinks did indeed help. And it all did indeed seem like nothing but a story now with stomachs comfortably full, the drinks a warm glow in their veins, cuddled safe in the canopied bed together. Crow sat between Azra's legs with back against his chest as they told each other everything, chewing over mysteries by yellow candlelight. The fear and worry of the entire debacle felt far away and twice removed with Azra’s arms around his waist.

Crow had put on one of Azra's billowy-sleeved white shirts and nothing else; the fine silk hung cool and loose on his thinner frame. It was extremely comfortable. He was considering keeping it. 

Not all the light in the room came from candles. Crow held a small blue flame-rose in his unoccupied hand, letting Azra idle his fingers through it.  

“It’s the most remarkable thing,” Azra said softly for the dozenth time. He had his chin resting on Crow's shoulder, watching the blue light dance over their hands. He'd been endlessly fascinated by his new ability. "Just remarkable. Almost as good as being able to do proper magic."   

“Not as remarkable as you, Your Highness,” Crow mumbled. He wasn't looking at the rose. He had his head turned all the way to the side with his mouth pressed to Azra's soft neck. He was growing increasingly less interested in mysteries and steadily more interested in the wonderful smell of Azra’s skin, and the heavy bulge pressing against his lower back. The many drinks might have had something to do with that. 

“That’s former Highness to you, fiend. I went to quite a lot of trouble on that account.” 

“Mm, that’s right. Former Prince Azra, champion of all things downtrodden.” Crow grinned at the scoffed response. He closed his hand over the fiery rose and reached both long arms up and back around Azra's neck instead. “Guardian of the Lost,” he murmured, and arched to lick behind his ear. Azra shivered. “Defender of the Innocent! His Former Royal Highness, the protector of all that is just and kind and-”  

Azra prodded him in the ribs with a finger, making him jerk. “Ridiculous thing.” He was blushing, Crow could tell from how especially warm his cheek was. All of him was warm, and soft, and sweetly touchable. Crow could spend the rest of his life lying against him just like this, learning every inch of him. 

“Heh. Well, while we’re on the subject of titles, Your Holiness, I’ve been wanting to ask you about a truly horrifying statue that I found in the palace...”  

“Oh...” Azra groaned, and leaned back against the headboard to cover his face with both hands. “Oh no, oh Good Lord, please tell me you didn’t! I asked and asked Gabriel not to commission those dreadful things, or at least leave off the plaques, but did he listen? Why couldn’t you have burned that while you were at it?” 

Crow snickered uncontrollably, and Azra picked up an extra pillow and swiped at him. Crow laughed and ducked it. He didn't see the backhand swipe coming, and that one thwacked him solidly in the face.  

“Ooof!” Crow grabbed the pillow from him and smacked him back, and from there it quickly turned into a wrestling match for possession of the pillow. Azra was stronger, but Crow was lithe as an eel and much quicker, not to mention bendier. He managed to twist round and secure Azra’s wrists in short order, then pin him hard to the bed with his body. He grinned down at him, nose to nose, panting and smugly triumphant. “Ha. Gotcha, Your Holiness.” 

And then Azra smiled back up at him, a slow and very satisfied curl of his mouth, and shifted in a very deliberate way...and Crow realised, with a thunderclap of insight, that the pretty bastard may not have been giving the struggle his all. And when Azra leaned up towards him and kissed his lips, softly, the wrestling melted into something very non-combative but equally enthusiastic, something gentle and yielding and full of the touch he'd so craved. And for a long time they were far too occupied for any more talking.   

True to Tracy’s word, both hedgewitches showed up the next afternoon.  

Crow didn’t see them approach, which irritated him a little, because he’d been keeping a sharp eye out the window all day. One minute there was nothing but empty grass between the Wood and the ring of thorns... and the next time he looked there they were, standing right outside the hedge: two women in contrasting colour palettes, dark and red, with an enormous white horse between them.  

He was sure they’d done that on purpose. Of course it wouldn’t be properly witchy and mysterious to be seen tramping across the grass like a normal person, no, they had to just be there waiting already. There was probably an official rule about it.  

His irritation quickly vanished in the face of Azra’s joy at seeing Serafina home safe again. Crow watched, grinning openly, as Azra ran up and embraced his horse with adorably unabashed delight. He couldn’t get his arms all the way around Serafina’s enormous barrel of a neck from the ground, but he hugged her dragon-sized head instead, eyes closed, stroking her shaggy white mane where it flopped over her forehead and mingled with his own pale hair. Serafina seemed content to let him, and nibbled casually at his fine brown doublet with those tombstone teeth. 

She was spotless, Crow noted as he gingerly patted her neck. Not a single speck of dirt on that glossy coat. The long white mane and matching long hair on her lower legs had been neatly brushed. Spoiled even more rotten than usual. He didn’t mind; he’d grown fond of the beast by proxy despite all his best efforts. It was impossible to truly dislike something that Azra loved so much.  

Azra, being Azra, of course greeted Tracy and Anathema with all the warmth that he poured onto everyone in the world. He hadn’t been nearly as shocked as Crow to learn about Tracy’s hedgewitchery, but took it in stride much as he’d accepted Crow’s own powers when they first met. Mostly he was just excited. He'd put on his nice clothes for the occasion, a velvet brown doublet with a spotless gold cravat, and one of those full-sleeved white silk shirts. "After all, it's not every day one gets to meet two hedgewitches," Azra had enthused as Crow helped him do up the laces that morning. Though really, Crow couldn't see why he was so very impressed, not when he had a real live sorcerer standing right there. 

Azra 'introduced' himself to Tracy with a courtly bow, using his real name for the first time, then did the same to Anathema. He spent a good long while thanking both women profusely for all their help, smiling that brilliant smile the whole time. Once he finished shaking their hands (with an extra hug for Tracy) and going on about it for a while, he promptly invited everyone inside the tower for tea.  

That did take Crow by surprise. He hadn’t known that they owned any (non-medicinal) tea.  

Now Serafina was safely stabled. Everyone else was in the Rookery’s little kitchen on the third floor, standing clustered around the wooden counter in the center of the room, enjoying hot drinks and a plate of ginger biscuits. And it was weird.  

Azra stood to Crow’s left, sipping honeyed raspberry tea from Crow’s only proper teacup, occasionally stirring with a little silver spoon. He was doing all the talking, excitedly telling the entire story of their “grand adventure” (as he put it) to the raptly attentive hedgewitches. They had known about what had happened through Tracy’s bird network, but mostly in broad strokes. They were as eager to hear the gossip- er, details, as Azra was to tell them.  

Crow listened with only half an ear – most of his attention was distracted by Azra’s presence, as usual. Azra had placed his hand atop Crow’s left one on the counter, heavy and warm, and was holding it right there in full view of their guests. Fingers laced together, thumb rubbing absently at the gold ring as he chattered away. From time to time he would turn and beam an increasingly sunny smile at Crow without even a hint of self-consciousness. 

Crow could feel spots of colour in his cheeks, curse it, ones that grew redder and hotter every time Azra smiled at him like that, but he would sooner chop off his own hand than pull it away. He concentrated instead on gulping his own coffee and trying not to twitch nervously. The coffee probably wasn’t helping with that. 

Guests. He- they had guests in the tower, people who were not gawping at his eyes or trying to kill him. There were more people crammed into this one little part of the kitchen than he’d ever had on the entire grounds. It made four people (and a bird, and a cat) seem like a huge crowd.  

It was very weird. And... not terrible.   

Azra squeezed his hand gently, and he felt a new flush of heat from head to toe. 

No, not terrible at all.  

Anathema stood across from him, leaning with both elbows on the countertop and inhaling fragrant cinnamon-scented steam from the clay cup held in both slender hands. Today she wore an all-black gown with long lace sleeves, cinched at the waist with a dark purple sash. The full skirts had been gathered at one hip and secured with a thick silver pin to keep them from trailing on the ground. Her dark hair was piled into a knot on the top of her head, and a fine silver chain kept her round black spectacles in place.  

As a lesson in polar opposites, Tracy stood next to her wearing an almost painfully bright red dress that clashed spectacularly with her hair, offset by buttercup yellow ribbons lacing up the bodice and sleeves. A matching yellow ribbon tied back her short red curls. She was taking prim little sips from her own cup and nodding along to Azra’s story, occasionally shooting Crow a disconcertingly knowing smile whenever he experienced a surge of embarrassment. Sergeant was perched on the counter edge next to her, occasionally dipping his beak into a shallow dish of cool herbal tea. Little wet bird tracks marked the table where he’d stepped in the tea with his clawed feet. 

Newt had disdained any tea. The cat made himself comfortable high up on the shelf above the glass-paned window, next to the dried herbs. Crow had no idea how he'd even got up there. Newt now sat with paws tucked under his chest and green eyes slitted, a little black shadow lording over everyone. The long tail hanging over the edge of the shelf occasionally twitched. 

The two hedgewitches listened without interruption right until Azra got to the part of the story that involved his near-burning. Two sets of eyebrows shot up almost in unison. Anathema actually set down her cup, and they exchanged another one of those significant looks. 

“My my,” Tracy said, and put a hand on her hip. “Well. I did wonder, but that’s more dramatic than I anticipated.”  

“It seems you were right,” Anathema said. “Brighter, you said?”  

Tracy tilted her head at Azra, squinting. “Yes, much. Isn't that something?”  

"Mmhm." 

“Wait, what are you two on about?” Crow interjected.  

“This is fascinating.” Anathema completely ignored Crow and leaned forward to peer closely at Azra, too. Her dark eyes gleamed behind her spectacles. “And you felt no pain at all?”  

“Not a thing!” Azra exclaimed excitedly, thrilled to have someone new to tell about it. “Only warmth, like stepping into a hot bath. And it wasn’t only that one time, because it appears that I’m immune to Crow’s fire magic as well! We’ve tested it.”  

“I’m sure you have, dearie,” Tracy murmured, and hid a coy smile in a sip of tea. Beside her, Anathema made a sound that was almost a cough.  

Crow was certain that if every single drop of blood in his body could have rushed to his face, it would have. They had indeed tested it last night, and this morning, at length, in various creative ways, and he still had the bite-bruises under his black shirt to prove it. And scorch marks on the bed. 

“Oh yes,” Azra nodded, all earnestness, oblivious as ever. “We were quite thorough in checking the different levels of sorcerer flame, and none of it has any effect. I haven't got so much as a singed hair. Isn’t it the most remarkable thing? And his skin doesn’t burn me eith-”  

Crow inhaled what felt like half his coffee, and Azra had to stop and carefully pat him on the back while he asphyxiated. “Smaller sips, my dear.”  

“What was that you were saying?” Anathema asked Azra, deadpan. 

“What did you mean before?” Crow wheezed hastily, interjecting before Azra could say anything else, because holy fuck. He was going to die. He was going to drop dead of embarrassment right here in this kitchen holding a cup of coffee. “What's fascinating?” 

Anathema shrugged, mouth twitching. “Well, his immunity is obviously due to having some of your blood in him.”  

“Yes, that’s the only thing that could explain it,” Tracy agreed.   

A startled silence.  

“I- I beg your pardon?” Azra asked. “I have what?”  

Anathema nodded matter-of-factly. “Mm. Didn’t he tell you? My healing spell, the night he brought you to me with a cracked head. The spell used a bit of his blood, and sorcerer blood is chock full of its own magic. You obviously absorbed some of his magical protections.”  

Azra had turned slowly to stare at Crow, and now raised pale eyebrows. “No. No, he most certainly didn’t mention anything about blood.”  

Crow gaped helplessly at him. With the disastrous kiss in the Wood that night, and horrible week right afterwards, and everything else that had happened later, he’d completely forgotten about the details of that healing. It hadn’t seemed very important at the time.  

“I...I forgot,” he said plaintively to Azra. “Sorry ang- sorry. It’s been busy. And look, it wasn’t a lot of blood, alright, just a scratch, we weren't flinging bucketsful arou- Wait.” He rounded on the witches. “If it's so obvious, why didn’t one of you tell me that would happen?” he demanded. “It would have been really useful to know sooner!”  

Anathema regarded him in mild exasperation. “Because I didn’t know then, of course. How many sorcerers do you imagine have ever, one,” she held up a finger for each as she listed them off, “gone to a hedgewitch in the first place, two, volunteered blood to save a non-sorcerer’s life, witnessed that person’s attempted murder by sorcerer fire later, and then told us about it? It’s entirely unprecedented. Like most things about this little situation.” She gestured between the two of them. “It suggests some extremely interesting possibilities, though.”  

“There was no way we could have known, luv,” Tracy put in earnestly, reaching across the table to pat Crow’s arm in a motherly sort of way. Next to her, Sergeant made a raspy little chattering sound at him, scolding. “Remember what we told you? Sorcerer magic and hedgewitch magic can do very odd things when mixed together. Sometimes magic does what it likes. It keeps things interesting.”  

Azra squeezed Crow’s hand again. “My, it certainly does. And how lucky for me, isn't it!”  

“Yeah,” Crow said slowly, mollified. “Wow, that's...wow. So it wasn’t just serendipity.” He couldn’t keep a grin from spreading over his face as he looked at Azra. “Nice to know that I didn't suffer that horseback ride for nothing, eh?" Azra rolled his eyes.  

“The magic must recognise him now, the way it does you. Hmmm.” Anathema had just been staring into space, brow furrowed thoughtfully. Now she pushed up her glasses and cocked her head at Crow. “You know, it would be fascinating to do some tests with that blood of yours, to see what other things like that it can do. The possibilities...” She absently reached across the table and took hold of his hand with a surprisingly strong grip, turned it over and just stood there peering intently at the faint blue veins tracking the underside of his wrist. As if she could see things that he couldn’t.  

Anathema, Crow decided, was creepier than he could ever aspire to be.  

“Er...thanks,” he said, and delicately reclaimed his hand. “But I think I'd like to keep my blood where it is.” 

That settled, Azra continued with his story. To Crow’s immense relief he ended it with the dramatic destruction of the Box, mercifully omitting The Kiss. Tracy would never have let him live that one down. 

Crow smiled wryly to himself. Who was he kidding? She probably already knew about it anyway. He was realising that hedgewitches rarely revealed any more than they absolutely had to. 

Azra put a hand on Crow's shoulder. “But oh, I wish you two could have seen him!" he burst out excitedly, to Crow's alarm. "Three sorcerers on one, and they never knew what hit them. Giving them a piece of his mind, then leaping all about, throwing magic and spells like some...some powerful storybook enchanter! And cutting quite the dashing figure, too, I might add..." 

"It was the potion they gave me," Crow muttered, red-cheeked, utterly mortified. Yep, he was going to die. "I wouldn't have had anything left without it." 

"Oh, but the potion only does so much," Tracy said with a wide smile. Traitor. "It replenishes the pool of energy to draw from, but the will and, shall we say, oomph, to use it? That was you." 

"There, you see? You were absolutely magnificent," said Azra, visibly bursting with pride, and put a dramatic hand on his chest. "Oh! When the hedge went up... I can't possibly describe it well enough. It was breathtaking, the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen in my life! Easily better than any play, let me tell you.” 

Crow scoffed and mumbled something unintelligible while his face flamed, then shoved a ginger biscuit into his mouth whole to avoid having to respond further.

Azra picked up his hand and kissed it, square on the ring. “Magnificent, my love,” he said stubbornly.

Crow’s remaining coffee began to steam.  

Anathema grinned outright. Tracy gave him a less-than-subtle wink. 

No doubt about it. He was definitely going to die right here. 

Along with Serafina, Tracy had brought news from both sides of the Wall. An advantage to being able to spy on literally everyone, Crow supposed.    

“Up North, the official story being put about is that the palace nobility fought a glorious battle, and sent the evil scourge fleeing for their lives. Soundly defeated, scurrying away with their tails between their legs, that sort of thing. They’re calling it the Second War.”  

Crow nearly choked again. “What?”

Next to him, Azra winced and patted his hand consolingly.  

“Oh, that's- that's- Those bastards. They were more likely to light themselves on fire than do anything useful.” Crow knew he should be glad that there was no vengeful army charging for his door, but he mostly just felt insulted.  

Tracy nodded, unfazed by his indignant sputtering. Next to her Sergeant was taking a nap with head tucked against his back, ignoring the human drama. “Yes, I imagine at least one King will simply revise the story until he singlehandedly fought off all the sorcerers himself, with his bare fists.”  

“You seem to understand them very well,” Azra commented wryly.   

“There isn’t a lot of variation in royalty, I’ve found,” Tracy said. “Present company excluded." 

“Retired royalty, if you don’t mind,” Azra corrected serenely, and squeezed Crow’s hand. 

"I just wish they didn't get to sweep it all away," Crow muttered. He squeezed back. 

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," Tracy said crisply, and took a small sip of tea. "No royal blathering can negate the damage, or the very humiliating things that every noble saw with their own eyes. And as for everyone else, well, no official story can compete with...rumour." Her eyes gleamed over her cup, and for just an instant her warm smile became something sharp and vulpine. "And rumour will not be generous." 

Crow blinked slowly, and made a mental note to stay on Tracy's good side.

"Oh, I'm sure Gabriel is just livid as it is," Azra said smugly. "He was very much counting on the large fortune from my marriage; he spent years arranging that match. Such a shame." 

"Heh." Anathema nudged Tracy with a pointed elbow. “Tell them the best part.”  

“Oh yes, I nearly forgot.” Tracy turned to Azra. "You seem to have inspired all sorts of rebellious behavior. The day after the Tournament, your lovely lady betrothed absconded in the night.”  

Azra blinked at her, nonplussed. “Lady Urielle? Absconded?”  

“Yes, with a common ship’s captain, if the reports are accurate.” Tracy tsked, and took a casual bite of biscuit, eyes twinkling. “The first daughter of the most powerful noble house in Elysia, running off to sea. Quite the embarrassing scandal.” 

Anathema chuckled evilly. “Or it would have been, in an average month. I imagine they're all feeling a bit jaded at the moment.”  

“My goodness,” said Azra, looking stunned. “That...that...hm. Actually, that explains more than it doesn’t, I think.”  

Crow only snorted. He was not nearly so inclined to be gracious, not after the way she had treated Azra at the masque. "I hope they all choke on it." 

The sorcerer Councillors for their part were apparently pretending the entire thing had never happened, because there hadn't been a whisper of activity or rumour from Pandemonium. That came as no surprise at all to Crow. That was exactly how they had handled every other failure, too. Sorcerer society wasn't big on transparency, not when it made them look bad. Few sorcerers even knew how his Father had really died; officially, he had been killed in an ambush by fifty well-armed Knights, all bigger than the last and carrying poisoned crossbows. There was a drinking song about it. 

“Well, I’ll keep a sharp ear or two out, just to be sure they behave,” Tracy said calmly. "Though I imagine you’re safe enough; it sounds like you gave them a good scare. And no one else knew they were having a go of it this time, so they would have nothing to gain from picking another fight with you, or publicly naming you blood enemy, or anything like that. Not after such a resounding defeat."

Crow snorted. “Yeah, that might lead to questions. The last thing the Council wants is people asking questions and starting to think too hard.”  

"Just so. Though I'm afraid you should avoid Pandemonium for the near future."

"Pfft," Crow said with a grin. "I was planning to avoid it forever, so that's no hardship. If I never smell swamp air again it will be too soon." 

"Cheers to that," Tracy agreed. 

Both witches eventually excused themselves, saying they had things to do, with a promise to keep in touch. 

“Would you care for an escort?" Azra offered Tracy, as she swished out the tower door with Sergeant perched swaying on her shoulder. The sun was far past its zenith, clouds stretching over the treetops as far as the eye could see. "It’s a bit of a walk all the way back to the Jezebel.”  

“Oh, thank you, dearie, but I’m quite alright.” Tracy pulled a long golden chain out of her skirt pocket; dangling from it was a disc of red stone held in an elaborate gold filigree setting. She held it up and winked at them, gold eye makeup glinting. “I’ll see you two lovelies at the tavern some nights, I’m sure." She glanced up, where a few ravens were wheeling slowly through the overcast sky. "And I'll be around."   

No doubt, Crow groused. Silently. 

They watched Tracy vanish in a flash of very familiar red light. 

Anathema watched her go too, leaning against the side of the tower with arms folded. 

“Well done, the both of you. This will make everyone’s lives easier for a while. Especially mine. It’s healthy for both sides to have a good sharp stab in the rear every couple of decades. Keeps everyone honest.” She gave a nod and a little twiddle of her fingers, then without further comment turned and struck out across the grass, Newt sauntering along behind her with tail held high. 

"Should I give them some ribbons?" Crow mused aloud. "In case they ever need to send us a message." 

Up ahead, they watched as Anathema parted the hedge and walked right through...despite not once asking them for the password. 

"Somehow, I don't think they need any," Azra replied after a silent moment. 

Crow grunted. Witches.

He kissed Azra for a very long time, in the quiet that followed. Crow pushed him gently back against the firmly closed door and kissed him in the half-light of the ground floor lamps, hands cupped to his face. Azra’s arms were around his waist, and he seemed in no hurry to stop either.  

Crow finally sighed and leaned their foreheads together. “The world has become a very strange place very quickly, angel.”  

Azra kissed him again, and hummed contentedly. “Good. Just think how dreadful it would be if things were normal.” 

They spent the rest of the day putting their tower back to rights.   

They re-organised the Artifact room, which surprisingly still had a lot left. The Council had planned to come back for everything later, so most of it was just lying around where they'd dropped it as they decided it wasn’t immediately useful; clothing and jewelry and knick-knacks alike were laid out on the floor in piles, apparently at random. The stupidly useless danger-detecting amulets were still glowing. Crow noticed with amusement that the suit of armour had been given a wide berth.    

Crow tended his neglected garden, stroking the glossy leaves, letting the smell of musty earth and sweet flowers soak into his bones. The furthest possible thing from smoke. 

“Oh, a couple of Knights did stop by while you were asleep,” Azra said casually.  

“What?” Crow spun about, sending water flying from the can to spatter a pot of slightly shocked white lilies. “What? Here?” He looked wildly around, heart pounding, as if an armed maniac was about to burst screaming out of the nearby rose bushes. 

“Yes.” Azra was sitting perched on a small stool next to one of the tables, surrounded by a riot of yellow flowers on all sides. Crow’s botany spellbook lay open on his lap. He was smoothing one of the page edges carefully with a finger, and sounded entirely unperturbed. “On the second day. One in the morning and one later. No one I knew; probably from one of the lower kingdoms. They weren’t at the Tournament and had heard some wild rumour about an attack and kidnapping, and were dead set on rescuing me. But don’t worry, my dear, I was able to set them straight and send them on their way.” He looked up and smiled, eyes shining blue in the clear light of the crystal sconces. “So hopefully we won’t have any more of that foolishness.” He bent his head back over the book, casual as you please.  

Crow just stood with watering can dangling from his fingers and dripping all over his bare feet. The pricking of adrenaline in his fingers was slowly fading. “What…you…. Wait, and they just left? Just like that?”  

“Well. Not at first.” Azra sniffed and flicked his eyes skyward. “I had to get very stern with them, let me tell you. It took some choice words. I went outside and asked them what exactly they thought they were doing, hacking at the hedge like that. I made it quite clear that I live here too, and I had no interest in being rescued, and that I was not going to tolerate our property being vandalized. And they were able to see for themselves that I wasn’t a sorcerer, or chained up, or any such nonsense, so they eventually saw reason.” 

Crow couldn’t reply for a moment. He stared at the beatifically smiling man in front of him, imagining him standing before the hedge with arms folded, gold cravat and fluffy hair and all, scowling down an armoured man the size of a bear and telling him off like a small child.   

“They. Saw reason,” he finally repeated in disbelief.  

“Eventually, yes; they were both quite obstinate. One of them was under the impression that I was supposed to be a woman!” Azra gave a long-suffering sigh and closed the spellbook, setting it back on the table with utmost care. “I finally told him in no uncertain terms that he had the wrong tower, and that if he didn’t even know who he was supposed to be rescuing then he had no business at all bothering me. He seemed very confused and disappointed.” 

Crow let out a bark of incredulous laughter. He could imagine the looks on their faces all too well.  “Wow. Are you serious?" Azra had magic, that was the only explanation. An incredible form of hitherto unknown magic that turned scowls into smiles and made reasonable people out of blocks of granite. "Do you have any idea how many times I've..." He shook his head. "They still might have second thoughts and come back. There's no one more bloody-minded than a Northlander with an idea in his head, you know." 

"Indeed." Azra folded his hands on his knee and gave him an arch look. "Well. In that event, I still have my sword upstairs. I shall simply have to insist.”  

Ba-dum. Crow ignored the way that sent a warm jolt through him. He was starting to think he had a heart problem, a very embarrassingly specific heart problem. “I'd like to see that,” was all he said, and smirked at Azra’s rolled eyes.

“Though, um...that does bring up a...small issue.” He felt his cheeks burn with something like shame; he bit the inside of his lip and focused on gripping the watering can. “Before...all this, I mostly sold Artifacts and armour from...dispatched Knights and Heroes. Just to get by, you know. And I’d be thrilled to see the back of that situation, but I just...don’t know how we’ll make any money.”  

“Hmm.” Azra drummed his fingers on the table, and looked thoughtfully down at the book. “We'll muddle through. I have an idea or two in that area that I’m still thinking through.”  

“Really?” Crow raised a curious eyebrow, but Azra only gave a mysterious smile and mimed locking his lips with a key.  

“Fine, then.” Amused, Crow turned back to the butter-yellow tulips he’d been watering before he was distracted. “It's a shame, really,” he drawled casually without looking round. “I was only after your fortune, and now look what a mess I’m in.”  

He heard Azra slide off the stool and move closer, just as he’d hoped. Arms wrapped around his waist and yanked him away from the flowers, into a hug. “Serves you right then, you wicked scoundrel,” Azra said in his ear. 

Crow turned his head and grinned at him."Heh. Look who says so. You are probably considered wicked now, too, just by association.” 

“Hm, true. It’s a new feeling. Being so… disreputable.” Azra laughed quietly, and wiggled his shoulders a little. “You know, I think I quite like it.” 

They stood together in front of the great window, later that night. They were wrapped up together in a thick blanket and nothing else, watching the sky.

It was truly getting cold now, there was a real bite in the air that had grown as the sun crept down the horizon, but they hadn’t bothered to light a fire in the fireplace - there was no need. Not when they could stay warm in increasingly creative ways. For the moment Crow had his magically-warm hands pressed to Azra's stomach and collarbone. As soon as the skin grew too warm he would shift over an inch or so, to a sigh of contentment.

The night sky was more deep blue than black tonight, graced with a full round moon. Thick puffy clouds coated the stars and glowed pale silver in the moonlight.

“We don’t even have to stay here, you know,” Crow said seriously, and kissed the back of Azra's neck. “If you want we can always just…go off together, like I said at the masque. Leave it all behind, start fresh somewhere new where people are more sensible. Maybe over the mountains.” He kissed him again, and moved his hands. “Or across the sea.” 

Azra shivered as Crow’s hand found a particularly chilled spot, and stayed there. “Mm. Go gallivanting off into the sunset? Like something out of one of my stories?”  

“Why not? It’s a big world, and I don’t care where we are as long as I can bring you there.” Crow kissed his shoulder, then the side of his throat, and wrapped his arms around Azra's shoulders. “Just say the word, my angel,” he murmured softly into his ear. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.” 

“For now I’m perfectly content with the piece of world I have with you here. I love the tower, and our ruins, and being able to go visit Tracy. I’d like the chance to enjoy a bit more of all that with you first."

"We'll stay, then." Crow sealed the promise with a squeeze of his arms.  

"But someday…” Azra gazed thoughtfully out the window, at the whole of the Wood stretched before them into the dark horizon. A spot of orange burned in the far West, probably someone's bonfire. Night birds chirped. “I wouldn’t mind having a few new adventures of our own. Perhaps in a couple years.” He sighed, and leaned his head back a little. “Or sooner, if people become particularly tiresome.” 

“Hngh. In that case, I’d better pack.”  

“Oh, hush. Not everyone is as bad as all that.”  

“Eughhhhh.....” Crow poured all his vast skepticism into the sound.

"It's true," Azra insisted, and turned to look him in the face. “And you are so very easy to love, my dear. If other people were given half a chance to really know you, they would love you too.”  

Crow looked incredulously at him, into his perfectly sincere, guileless eyes, and felt his mouth slowly turn up into a disbelieving smile. “You really believe that?"

"Of course." Azra actually sounded indignant. "You are kind, and lovely, and you have magic on top of everything else. You are simply a marvel."