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Zelgius tracks his old master like a hound on blood, slicing his way through the wilds of Gallia. No man he'd met in Daein or Crimea had recognized the name Gawain, and even the unshifted beasts he passes cower at the sight of his armor before he can endeavor the question.

But at last, with his muddied boots and a blade that could use a solid polish, he happens upon a humble woodcutter's shack. There is no guarantee that this is his man, but a fine axe wedged into the nearest stump at least suggests the dwelling of a beorc. If he's mistaken, it shouldn't be any trouble to state his business as a general of Begnion.

(He had considered riding here clad in black, hiding his face, but what good would it do? Sir Gawain would know him by his gait alone. He may as well show himself.)

He knocks curtly, and waits. There's a stirring behind the thin door before he's greeted by a slight woman in a simple white robe. She's beautiful, Zelgius notes, a quiet strength in her calm blue eyes.

"Pardon," Zelgius offers, bowing slightly, "I've been looking for - "

The name catches in his throat; there are footsteps behind the maiden, and Zelgius' veins turn to stone. The years have changed him, softened him, but he is here. Zelgius stands bewitched as he's assessed by Sir Gawain, under the gaze he's spent half a decade craving, dreading.

One of his hands falls wide, gentle, on the woman's shoulder. If she's confused, her expression smooths at his touch. Zelgius knows well how that feels, that it can only mean…

"It's been a long time." Sir Gawain's voice has lost a fair bit of its bite, but it still makes Zelgius tremor, unmistakeable. "It's good to see you, Zelgius. Do you have a bit to join us for dinner?"

-

"What will you do when you find him?" The sage's fingers are soft in his hair, petting over his neck, his shoulders. Zelgius is entranced in his care, suspended in his attention like a womb.

"I…do not know." There's a ripple in Zelgius' calm, and Sephiran makes a knowing sound, like working tenderly through a snag. "I suppose I just…want to know why."

Sephiran's fond huff is like morning rain. It washes Zelgius of all doubt and shame.

"I would not stray from you, my Lord," Zelgius assures him, and Sephiran's fingertips hush across his jaw in affirmative response.

"I know, love." That hand ventures further, over Zelgius' collarbone, teasing at his bare chest. "Whatever you wish, you have my blessing. Even if you did not return, I would forgive you."

"You have already lost so much," Zelgius answers.

"And this man…" Sephiran strokes over Zelgius' waist, lips pressing against the back of his neck. "He nurtured you, adored you, and then disappeared without a word…If you expect me to ask you to put all that aside, without finding him once more, you think me cruel."

Zelgius shivers. It's a knife-twist, to be reminded that he was loved and tossed aside.

"No," he gasps, "in fact, you show me more kindness than I deserve, my Lord."

Sephiran sucks a small bite into his shoulder. 

-

By the time he sits at the table, it's too late to turn back.

He doesn't miss the pointed use of his old commander's new name - finally decided to pay a visit to ol' Greil, huh? - and there's no wink-and-nod to it. It's a silken threat, weighty, and Zelgius holds to it like an order from days long past.

This man - Greil - has taken a wife, borne children. There's a baby swaddled in his arms - Zelgius is a bad judge of these things, but he'd call her under a year, yet not a newborn. The older one looks to be about three, stabbing with abandon at his dinner plate - his mother gently reminds him to eat more calmly.

Zelgius' body is cavernous, barren. All of the love that had once been inside of him has been scraped out and given to another. All of his old master's strength and command is wasted in this quiet wood, with nothing for him to cut down but trees.

It makes no sense.

"I pray you've been well," Greil says, after a retching silence that the young ones are blissfully oblivious to. Zelgius becomes dreadfully aware that to the serene but skeptical woman across the table, he is just an old work friend. There's no way for him to ascertain how much she knows.

"Likewise," is all Zelgius can muster, like grinding metal.

Zelgius spares glances at the woman - Elena, she's called - and the kids, thinking about whose features came from who. The boy has Gawain's eyes - the shine of them, the fire in his gaze whenever there was a good battle to be fought.

As for the baby, it's too soon for Zelgius to know. She unsettles him, somehow, although she sleeps soundly in the crook of her father's arm. Zelgius stops looking at her.

"You gonna eat?" the little boy asks of him, with his mouth full.

He should, if only to keep up appearances. But what appearance is left? He'd wanted to know what was worth being thrown away for, and he sits surrounded by the answer. Zelgius could never give him a family; he wouldn't know the first thing about it -

"Dear," Elena says to Greil; her voice is smooth and quiet, but it cuts through all other noise, all other thoughts. "It feels like you two have some things you'd rather talk about in private."

This woman isn't foolish; she understands more than she lets on. Zelgius fears her for that.

"I don't really think that's necessary," Greil answers softly. He glances at Zelgius; kind, but with a single questioning edge. "Do you?"

"I…" Life wriggles into Zelgius' fingers, just enough to grasp the edge of the table. He could knock it over, he could snap it in two; he simply stands. "I don't think so, Sir."

(The title cleaves him. It's all he has left.)

He gives a shallow bow and turns to leave; only the little boy lacks the inhibition not to ask where he's going. Zelgius would not know how to answer. Nothing feels certain anymore; he hasn't felt sure of anything in a long time.

-

"Would you kill him?" Sephiran kisses behind his ear as he thrusts in deep, hard enough to buy Zelgius some time to think about the answer while he whines.

"I…" Zelgius' head tips back. He wishes he'd asked to be on his back tonight; his head is starting to spin without his Master's grounding gaze. "I don't know - "

"You can always tell me anything," the sage murmurs; his delicate hands grip Zelgius' generous hips, tugging Zelgius back onto his cock. "You know I won't judge you. I just thought you might want to see - " Sephiran gasps as he pulls nearly out, then invites himself back into Zelgius' body - " - if you've surpassed him yet."

The thought has occurred to Zelgius in fleeting, impulsive moments. He's never let his anger fester enough to want Gawain dead. Maybe he's never stopped holding out hope that Gawain might come back, and - 

- then what? surely he doesn't need to kill Gawain to prove himself?

"My Lord," Zelgius cries; there are no words left in his lungs, and even if he could speak, he would only betray his weakness. 

"I'm sorry." Sephiran slows, pauses, strokes Zelgius' flank. "I admit, it's a compelling image. But I shouldn't condone such a thing. Ah…" He resumes his leisurely pace, but he still won't touch Zelgius' cock as it rubs pitifully against the sheets. "Whatever you decide, darling one, ahh -"

Zelgius could come untouched just from the praise, from the sage's cock pressing perfectly inside of him. But the dread blooming low in his belly is too distracting; too much of his head is occupied.

"Please," Zelgius cries; he pleads for release, for patience, for understanding.

Sephiran provides them all, with only a flick of his wrist.

-

He hadn't been in the house long, but already there's a chill in the night air that he hadn't sensed before. The surrounding forest is dense, dampening the waning evening light, with only a crude foot-trodden path to guide him out.

His breaths are heavy and hollow in time with his trudging steps; to come all this way and have nothing to say or show for it would be unthinkable. His Master has pulled a lot of slack strings to allow Zelgius to slip away. But even five years on, everything is too raw, too bright. It's clear that he's been left to rot.

"The tigers won't take kindly to some wandering lone soldier," a rough, booming voice calls. Zelgius' heart flutters helplessly. "'Specially not one from Begnion."

Zelgius freezes in his tracks. He'd desperately hoped not to be followed, not to be found, and yet he'd really, really wanted to. He never should've come; not without a plan. He wishes he'd never met this man, looking at him so kindly.

Gawain - Greil - strolls casually along the beaten path. He appears unarmed, but Zelgius is primed to know better. His own blade itches at his hip. Unlike himself, maybe Greil has no qualms about ending Zelgius' life here. Maybe it would be a mercy, in a way.

His casual, friendly gait betrays his latent strength. Zelgius stops breathing. He's awaited these footsteps for a long time.

Greil stops close enough that his exhales brush Zelgius' cheek. Zelgius is fixated on the fullness in his cheeks, belying the strength in his jaw. His smirk is the same, slicing and soothing at the same time. 

"Why are you here?" he asks, and Zelgius holds back a bark of bitter laughter, an assertion of I should ask you the same.

He gives an even-keeled glare instead. "You have much more to answer for."

The smile on Gawain's - Goddess above, Greil's - face turns inward, sad. "You've always been like this. So, what's it about? You come to duel me?"

It's a half-joke, leaning toward the half that's not. Zelgius thinks it over. That should be what he wants, right? To defeat his master, who threw away everything for this little shack in beast country. Who threw away Zelgius.

Alas, there is no desire in him for blood right now. Maybe under his nails, on his teeth, but not on his blade.

How does he say that he's longed for Gawain all this time? Even the most splendid sage in Tellius, who treats him like such a darling thing - even he cannot quell the ache that Gawain has left in him.

Zelgius swallows, takes a step forward, and answers. "Tell me why you left."

Greil's jaw tightens. "If I could tell you, I would. I can't get anybody else wrapped up in the mess."

It's the worst answer Zelgius can think of. "That's not good enough." He bites back a Sir.

"It has to be," Greil grits, but with another breath, his face softens. "I always figured, for better or worse, we'd meet again. You haven't spent a day out of my thoughts."

Zelgius is small inside of his armor; a first-day recruit, shaking under the weight. There's a tremble in his lips, and the thread between them frays, one fiber at a time.

Greil reaches up so very slowly, his bare fingers brushing Zelgius' jaw. Zelgius is statue-stiff; he should not allow this. The man he'd searched for has left only this shell in his place. And yet…the slight touch is a balm over a scorched chasm. It's been some time since his Master has touched him…

Worse yet, he wants this. He wants to be touched by Greil. By Gawain.

He sobs, and Greil allows Zelgius' bowed head to rest on his shoulder. His fingers thread through Zelgius' short hair, and Zelgius sucks in a hard breath, like he's coming awake. All of the cogs, for a brief moment, snap back into place and he is welcomed, comforted.

And Zelgius opens, his lungs fill, and it tears something inside of him like a stitch from a fresh wound. He lifts his head and kisses Greil with a hurricane's force, biting and open-mouthed.

He hopes it's too far; he hopes he's crossed a line he can't turn back from. He prays that Greil will give him a reason to leave, a reason to run him through - 

But Greil - his mouth opens for Zelgius, his hand cradles Zelgius' jaw. Zelgius melts beneath him, just as he did five years ago, as he would do a hundred from now.

Greil's hands hover without purchase, unable to grasp Zelgius under his armor - the last line of defense for his posterity.

"Just this once," Greil asks, "would you let me see you?"

Zelgius is wet behind the ears again, a newly-minted soldier, about to disobey a direct order. Of all the times they've lain together, he has never bared his back. "No, Sir."

There's a tinge of sadness in Greil's eyes. "You'll still have me?"

The distance, the hurt - Zelgius finds that he can toss these aside all too easily. All that remains unshaken is the thought of Elena, probably setting the children to bed about now. Somewhere inside, Zelgius knows that if he asks about her, Greil will be shaken back to his senses. 

He doesn't want a display of Gawain's honor right now. He wants those long-standing pillars to shatter. He shivers and nods.

That soft, almost-familiar smile returns to Greil's face as he pulls his shirt over his head, and Zelgius is helpless but to take him in: his thick arms and broad shoulders, his breasts swollen with milk. His belly is softened and scarred, painted with stretch marks. He's a marvel that Zelgius doesn't know what to make of; his travels and trials have taken him so far from the world they once inhabited together.

"I'm still the same," Greil murmurs. "You can touch me."

Zelgius can only counter the vulnerable display by loosening his wrist guards, letting them fall to the ground along with the gloves and armor covering his hands. Zelgius reaches first for Greil's shoulder, bulging with muscle, with a strength that is used so differently than Zelgius remembers. 

He trails across Greil's chest, between his breasts, over the gentle curve of his stomach and the coarse hair there. He touches Greil like he'll fade into smoke if he presses too hard, enraptured but skittish.

Greil's hand covers his own. Calloused, kind. "Nervous? No part of me is untouchable, Zelgius."

Hearing his name in Gawain's mouth - he aches. "Sir."

Greil is plush and rigid all at once as Zelgius' hands grow bolder. The corded smoothness between his shoulder blades remains the same; the dip in his spine still makes Zelgius' mouth water. His nipples are still sensitive - maybe moreso, now - and Zelgius dips and bends to get his mouth on them. 

Those old signals still ring in him like a bell, one that'll still make him salivate 'til his dying breath. His knees shake to hit the ground for his commander. He steps back, lips slick, and unclasps his faulds, kneeling on damp forest ground. 

It sings unspoken, as loud as ever, that he needs Gawain.

Greil does not look at him with the same soft, flickering admiration as before. There's sadness; interference in his own signals. His eyes are creased at the corners, his brows furrowed.

"You haven't changed, either," Greil says. Zelgius needs to believe it's a compliment.

Greil continues undressing, and Zelgius feels the rhythm; even like this, he doesn't have to ask what they're going to do. He gets his pants halfway around his thighs, and as Greil bends to meet him, straddling his hips. Zelgius' arms are welcoming around his neck. This will not be making love; it will be cauterizing a wound.

Greil doesn't waste any time grasping Zelgius' cock like an old friend, lining him up with great care but little ceremony. When the tip kisses Greil's folds, he's already slick; achingly loose. Zelgius' breath hitches in silent question; don't you need my fingers? Won't this hurt? Greil only answers by sinking down, his head falling back as Zelgius fills him, positively delighted.

For a few moments, it's bliss - Gawain is hot and pulsing around him, and his pace is agonizingly slow, but it's exactly what Zelgius needs. It's almost enough to drive away the doubt, the shame. Zelgius makes a tiny sound, like the cracking of porcelain, as overjoyed and delicate as he's ever been.

But when Greil reaches up again, cradling Zelgius' cheek, the fissure deepens. It flays him wide, and he is empty again. This is a stranger's breath on his cheek, speaking so kindly to him. Asking if he feels good.

Zelgius moans, pulled under the tides of his pleasure even as his teeth clench, as his hands hang limp behind Greil's neck. He does, and yet he would rather fall on his sword than continue. To lay in his Master's bed again -

"I," Greil grunts, his hips stuttering, "I want you to move on, Zelgius."

There's nothing left in him but tattered scraps of sound. Greil grasps an unfeeling pauldron, and continues:

"You'll find someone better, who makes you happy. Like I did. I - " He clenches around Zelgius, and the shock of it, of the physical pleasure and Gawain's voice in his head; they're incongruous. "Zelgius, you were my greatest student, my deepest joy, and I'm proud of you."

The words don't carry the weight they once would have. They fall hollow on Zelgius' ears. He twitches in Greil's cunt, and Zelgius focuses on that ache.

His arms wrap tight around Greil's back, constricting, almost aggressive. There's an awful thrill running up Zelgius' spine, that Gawain has taken such a lovely wife, has named her his happiness, and yet has still chosen Zelgius - at least for now. He turns his head toward Greil's fingers, still holding his face, sucking Greil's thumb into his mouth to the last knuckle. (His greatest joy? Was? Then why leave, without even a goodbye - ?)

Greil pulls his thumb from Zelgius' bitten lips, and Zelgius gasps at the loss. He's close, dangling from a desperate edge. If he were to come inside, would it take? Has Greil's body recovered enough?)

(He wants it to. He doesn't know why. But he does.)

"Sir," Zelgius whines, "please, don't let me come like this - "

"Oh," Greil coos, with the same voice he must use to soothe his children after a nightmare. Gawain had always known all of Zelgius' deepest fears without needing them to be spoken. He slows his pace, shifting so that he can pinch the base of Zelgius' dick; it used to be a sharp, delicious sting, that denial. Now, it leaves Zelgius a pitiful wreck.

Greil moves in, his lips poised for a kiss, but Zelgius cannot receive him. He turns his head away, and he knows he can no longer hide the wetness in his eyes, the full bearing of his disgrace.

Greil quiets; his body, his hands lose their tenderness. Zelgius' cock slips out of him, and Zelgius breathes through the loss. He does not know if he wants that warmth back. He sits unmoving; he'll let Greil decide.

Just as Zelgius recenters, Greil lowers his hips again; he's so worked up that just the head of Zelgius' cock brushing his clit has Greil quaking and spasming, fluttering around him. It's beautiful, horrifying, that Zelgius' atrophied being can still bring him such pleasure.

Zelgius digs his nails into Greil's back as Greil soaks his cock. This used to be safe, serene, a holy thing. But as the chill sets in, as the world comes back into focus around them, Zelgius fears that Greil is not the only man who's been unfaithful.

Sir Gawain would not have wanted this, his mind rings. Lord Sephiran - Goddess forgive me - would not have wanted this.

Greil pulls off again, self-satisfied and ever mindful of Zelgius' request. He sits back on his haunches, panting, a handsome flush to his face. All of Zelgius' emotions have bled from him; he is a steel-barred cage into which nothing will enter, and nothing will leave.

Greil's thick fingers curl around Zelgius' exasperated cock, but Zelgius flinches away. His own pleasure is corked, cast out to sea. He won't find it in these wilds.

Greil pulls back; with Zelgius' rejection, all that's left for him is the cold, soft ground against his bare body. And that look Greil is shooting Zelgius, his desire drying up as a puddle in a drought - is it pity? Zelgius is so tired of pity.

"I meant it," Greil whispers, his voice splashing cold against Zelgius' heated face. "All of it." He stands, and when Zelgius glances, he can spot the slick between Greil's sumptuous thighs - he wants it to be himself, dripping thick from those folds, but some shadow of Gawain's honor has begged against it.

Zelgius, lacking elegance, pulls his pants back to their proper place and redoes his belt. Greil is half-dressed again. There's no protocol for this, nothing written in the knight's code.

"Should you come again," Greil says coldly, "only one of us will walk away alive." 

It's as true as if it were carved into stone; Zelgius is grateful for not needing to say it first.

His belongings gathered, his peace made, Greil makes his way back home. To kiss his childrens' sleeping foreheads, to fall gently into bed beside his darling wife. To smooth the worry from her brow, to burn the rest of this evening at a pyre.

And Zelgius, in the dark and the damp, is left alone again.