Chapter Text
The first year after Melini rises from the depths of the ocean is hectic, to say the least.
Kabru loves his job. He really does. Dealing with humans is his specialty, and it is nice to have something actually worthwhile to whet his skills on while the kingdom is being built over his head and below his feet. It’s even nicer to have the ambassadors of the long-lived races treating him with something close to respect. And like all jobs, there are sacrifices he must make.
He didn’t quite imagine having to make this particular sacrifice, though.
It isn’t as though he doesn’t get to meet people. He meets a lot of people. A steady stream of visitors and courtiers and dignitaries from foreign lands, half of the women on Melini in search of a husband with royal connections, every single one of his old acquaintances and friends who wanted to wish him well. And though he’s flirted lightly and received more-than-friendly smiles in return, none of that has ended up with him having sex.
Part of that is for privacy reasons. He has his own suite in the castle now, a cozy room with a sturdy bed that he really wouldn’t mind testing out with someone, but word spreads fast around the castle. Marcille would find out within the hour, if that, and if Marcille finds out, everyone will find out. She’d be the type to start unsubtly trying to push them together—probably planning the wedding too—and Kabru is not so evil a person that he’d subject a one-night stand to that mess.
Another is Kabru’s full schedule. His extremely full schedule. Meetings all the time, hammering out laws, trade and land negotiations. Not as bad as Laios’, not as bad as Yaad’s, not yet, but he can barely find a free fifteen minutes to catch up with Rin, much less answer personal correspondence. Fifteen minutes is not enough time to have sex in. Kabru has standards.
But he can’t deny that a quick hookup in an alleyway somewhere isn’t looking more and more appealing. It’s been months, and the only company Kabru’s had all that time is his hand.
It’s no different today. He practically collapses into his bed, shucking off clothes as fast as he can. The air hitting his bare skin is pleasantly cool, and he takes himself in hand idly, reaching down once to squeeze below and keeping his hand at the base as he grows harder. This routine is familiar, though he much prefers having someone to do it with.
When was the last time? Before Melini had risen, that he’s sure of. Kabru bites off a gasp as he moves his hand down, groping for a fantasy, an image to keep in his head. Who had it been, last time?
He settles back against his pillow, a luxury when in the dungeons. Was it before they had started to delve deeper into the dungeon, maybe? Perhaps. He closes his eyes and tries to remember. Ah, Holm’s sister. She had been sweet. And warm. Very warm. He pictures her lazily, eyes still shut, fumbling about for the oil on his nightstand. Her hair, her laughter. Her mouth.
Only instead of soft plump lips and a shy giggle, his mind comes up short and he thinks instead of a dry, barely-there chuckle. Chapped lips, silver hair and intense black eyes and a face flushed from cold, a smile for the first time in forty years—
Mithrun?
Oh no. Oh no. These are thoughts he shouldn’t be having, should never be having. Guilt churns in the pit of his stomach as the phantom Mithrun runs his fingers over Kabru’s chest—Mithrun’s hands were always cold, only the core of his body deigning to produce heat, and his fingers were delicate from too many rounds of healing magic—and swings one leg over so he’s straddling Kabru’s hips.
“C-Captain—” he chokes out, trying, trying to be mindful of how loud his voice was. “Captain, what—”
“Didn’t you miss me?” Mithrun says, voice flat and something like disdain in his eyes as he reaches—oh fuck—between Kabru’s legs. He’s wearing nothing but a shirt—Kabru’s shirt, the one that Mithrun had in the dungeon and never took off, the one Kabru was too polite to ask for its return—and it’s too big for him, the collar gapes and exposes his collarbones, the hem hiked up around his thighs as he lines them up and sinks down.
Kabru swears weakly under his breath as Mithrun takes him, gods, all the way to the hilt in one smooth movement, a hint of triumph in the curve of his lips as he moves. For one perfect moment, Mithrun just breathes, one hand pressed below his navel, his hair spilling over his shoulders. His good eye is fixed on Kabru, and he tilts his head back to moan, exposing his throat.
Somehow, Kabru can’t catch his breath.
“Captain—” he tries again, his mind running wild. If this was real, it would be a scandal the likes of which Melini had never seen before. If this was real, it would be a diplomatic mess beyond all belief. The elves would have his head for it, the tallmen would shun him until his dying day.
If this was real, Kabru’s hands would be on Mithrun’s waist.
That’s easy enough to imagine. In the dungeon, with Mithrun, it seemed instinctive to just grab hold of him, to maneuver him into place whenever he needed to. Mithrun fit well underneath his chin. Fit well in his arms. In his lap. He remembers how slim Mithrun was, compared to him—the weight of him between Kabru’s thighs, the way he felt against Kabru, gripped firmly in his arms, pressed against the wall—
“Hold still,” Mithrun says, and Kabru thinks suddenly of Mithrun’s magic encircling his wrists, of Mithrun’s hand clamped over his mouth, and he comes with a sudden sharp cry.
For a minute, he just lies there, panting, overcome with guilt and arousal. Somehow he can’t get his hand to stop moving. The Mithrun in his fantasies doesn’t stop either, just continues to rock his hips without a single change in expression. Memories of awkward hurried baths in the dungeon come to the forefront of Kabru’s mind, and that—that doesn’t help at all.
He remembers them vividly: the two of them heating water over a magic circle, scrubbing themselves with scavenged soap bars. Mithrun had no sense of shame or privacy, didn’t seem to mind whenever Kabru maneuvered him, closed his eyes and tilted his head back with a little sigh when Kabru rinsed his hair out. Sometimes he could get Mithrun to relax enough that he fell asleep—and he remembers Mithrun breathing heavily, pale skin flushed from the heat and limbs splayed out as he drifted in and out of consciousness, and just as easily, trying desperately not to think about Mithrun in any other context.
And if he’s thinking about that, he might as well be thinking of having to dress Mithrun—of learning the layers of the Canaries’ uniform from the inside out, of sliding Mithrun’s scarred arm through the spider-silk armor and lacing the cuffs shut, watching the panels slide over the fine bones of his wrist. Remembers pulling the coat over Mithrun’s head and trying not to coo over how he looked, swimming in the dark fabric. Remembers tying the bow of his scarf with a little flourish.
“You should see yourself, Captain,” he’d said, and Mithrun only gave him a mildly quizzical look before leading him back deeper into the dungeon. A light dusting of snow on his nose, the folds of his scarf tucked around his cheeks.
Kabru groans as the fantasy shifts, Mithrun blinking sleepily in bed beside him, silver hair spread across the pillow. Sheets pulled up over his naked chest. Kabru shuts his eyes, but the image remains. Mithrun just stares, chapped lips parted softly, and Kabru reaches out to cup his cheek and pull him closer.
Would Mithrun even know how to kiss? Did he remember? Kabru licks into Mithrun’s open mouth, amused at the idea. Mithrun wouldn’t know what to do, at first, maybe, wouldn’t know how to kiss back. He imagines Mithrun pawing weakly at his chest, clumsily trying to move his mouth in sync. Maybe he’d have to stop for breath, even, gasping as Kabru deepened the kiss, pressing himself desperately against Kabru wanting more, more, please, more—
And then he’s coming again, a needy moan low in his throat as he dirties his hand, and as he cleans off and goes back to bed, he wonders what Mithrun would sound like as well.
-
After that incident, Kabru makes a deal with his self-control. He was allowed to jerk off to Mithrun, but only once a week. Twice if it was a particularly stressful day. Never after he’d been drinking.
Soon he decides that thinking about kissing Mithrun doesn’t count. Visions of getting him to smile against Kabru’s lips, of Mithrun tucked up in his lap when at work, tangled with him when he went to bed. The only danger then would be letting his emotions show on his face, and that he has a lot of practice with dealing with.
Still, it doesn’t stop people from finding out completely. Rin drops in on him one day, frowning at the mess of his room.
“Haven’t heard of any girls going around wittering about you for months,” she says, poking his shoulder with her staff. “I thought you were dead.”
Kabru laughs and dodges her next jab. “Just busy.”
She just frowns harder. “You okay? This isn’t… like you.”
“Hey, I thought you were against all of the flirting and sleeping around and—”
“Shut up,” she hisses, and slams the door on her way out.
Well, that wasn’t the best way to handle that situation, but Kabru keeps it in mind for later. With someone bringing it up, though, Kabru decides that it is long past time. Privately, he arranges a meeting with one of the older halflings involved in land negotiations, the one who didn’t quite hide his staring very well but was otherwise discreet. He pencils it in as a business dinner and spends the night wining and dining, and predictably enough, they end up sleeping with each other.
It’s not quite the same though. He used to actually enjoy this, the flirting, the chase, the lingering looks over the meal. Maybe he’s getting old, he thinks, as he ruts unenthusiastically with the guy in his own bed—not his choice, but it was the closest—and he shuts his eyes and tries to decide if his hookup’s moans are pitched low enough, if putting out the candle would also snuff out the fantasy that’s been building up in his head.
Why does he keep thinking of Mithrun now, of all times? It wasn’t as though the sex he was having was bad—though it could be better. Really, the halfling looked nothing like Mithrun, even if the candlelight on his graying hair does shine like silver, and his short choked-off gasps were much higher than any moan Mithrun would make.
“Kabru—”
Come to think of it, he’d probably enjoy that more. Mithrun had a tendency to lean into touch, almost instinctual in its nature, and his expression did change even if no one else could tell—the slightest hint of relaxation around the brow, the sudden easing of his posture, the rare times he smiled. And he was always so casual about touching, would cling to Kabru just as much as Kabru clung to him.
Kabru bends and presses his lips to the halfling’s neck, somewhat miffed at the lack of a reaction. Mithrun would react, he thinks. Maybe he’d be shy about it—elves usually were, at least, and they were more sensitive there than other races. Maybe Kabru would get to chase the blush that bloomed down his throat.
He can’t help the thoughts that come after that. The halfling beneath him is tall, and it’s frightening how easily Kabru can think of Mithrun in his place. The candle on his bedside has burnt down, and somehow that lets him be just a little more enthusiastic, bracing his hand against the headboard to get better leverage. The sudden chorus of gasps and moans is enough to drown out the last shred of guilt in his chest.
Is this enough? It has to be.
-
Kabru breaks his deal with himself a day later.
He doesn’t understand. He should be relaxed, unwound to a certain extent after finally getting laid—the halfling hadn’t lingered, hadn’t gossiped, hadn’t even insisted on a second time. Instead, it’s the morning after and his bed is cold and he has himself in hand again, head turned into his pillow to muffle the name he knows he is saying.
He doesn’t like it, that shred of guilt that’s lodged in his chest like an old wound. He doesn’t have any practice in this, in longing for someone unattainable. Mithrun hadn’t even deigned to write him after all this time—almost a year now, and no word from him or any of the Canaries, and Kabru knows elven mail ships come into the harbor all the time, just with nothing for him.
He wonders if Mithrun just used him. It’s a worse feeling, on the other end.
He wonders if Mithrun has forgotten him.
The thought almost makes him miserable enough to stop. Almost. He buries himself in his work instead, hammers out trade deals and makes diplomatic visits and sweet-talks the Kahka Brud governor into giving them favorable terms on the fishing waters. When he finds himself wondering how Mithrun is doing, he makes himself read the costs of intelligence reports on the Central Continents. It would be eminently foolish to inquire himself, after all, and elves are experts at misconstruing facts.
It’s after the anniversary of Melini’s rise from the depths—perhaps a month or two afterwards. Kabru is half-dozing at his desk when a knock on his door wakes him.
“Mail for you,” says the page, and hands him an envelope nearly stuffed to bursting, the wax seal lightly crushed. “Came through the regular mail, not the castle one.”
From the House of Kerensil. A year late, but it’s here in Kabru’s hands, creamy paper and magic warding the wax. A typical nobleman’s letter, the writing on the envelope clearly pored over, slow strokes of the pen denting the otherwise pristine address.
Elves. No sense of urgency.
It doesn’t stop his fingers from trembling when he slits open the letter, the thick sheaf of paper sliding out. He grabs for the last page and scans the closing.
That’s not Mithrun’s name.
For a second his head swims. Why would Mithrun’s brother be writing to him? Was Mithrun sick? Dead? He rifles through the rest of the papers, heart pounding in his throat. It’s only when he reads Mithrun is doing well, not “was” but “is” that he collapses into his chair. The headache clears. He reads on.
The letter opens with “Dear Kabru,” which should have been his first clue that it wasn’t from Mithrun. Even in Kabru’s most imaginative fantasies, Mithrun wouldn’t waste a word on pleasantries. More likely than not, he wouldn’t even start with a greeting at all.
I will not mince words. I owe you a debt of gratitude for all you have done for Mithrun. I am sure you are aware of his condition, so imagine my surprise when he returned from a dungeon healthier than before he entered it, and speaking of a name I did not recognize at all.
Oh. Well. That, Kabru hadn’t expected. He’s almost ashamed to admit that he hadn’t even considered that Mithrun would talk about him. The other Canaries, of course, given the way everything went down—Lycion especially had a few words to say, none of them flattering—but Mithrun?
So much of the letter is the usual elvish gossip, pages and pages of descriptions of daily life in the Central Continents. Although useful for diplomatic purposes, Kabru finds himself completely impatient. It’s only in the last few pages that Mithrun gets mentioned again.
It must take a truly remarkable person for my brother to break his schedule of visits, but he has been to see me many times over the past few months. We have spoken more these last few weeks than the previous forty years. I did not know my brother still had it in him to form so many opinions, and it pains me to think that he has kept these thoughts to himself all these years.
He speaks of you constantly. If not mentioning you by name, at least by influence. The speed of his recovery, I think, would greatly surprise you. It appears that his hobbies have had quite the positive influence, but I am attributing it partly to his change in mindset.
As none of his efforts are fit to enclose, I am offering you a token on his behalf. House Kerensil will be ever at your service, Sir Kabru.
Kabru tips the envelope out, and a little stream of silver falls out. A necklace, finely crafted, with a pendant bearing the same seal as that on the envelope wax, the seal of the House of Kerensil.
Oh.
-
Kabru leaves it on his desk the next few days, still half-startled every time he sees it, like turning over a stone and finding a snake. He’s never heard of this kind of elven token before, and he isn’t about to advertise its existence to the rest of the court. Writing back to ask, or worse, writing Milsiril is completely out of the question. He’s known elves to be most condescending to their favorites, after all, and the idea of being patronized doesn’t sit well with him, no matter how well-meaning Mithrun’s brother is.
He keeps it up until he wonders what he would do if it had been something from Mithrun, some hideously misshapen pottery project or dried mass of noodles. He knows himself well enough to know that he would use it.
He doesn’t know when he got so attached.
For a week, he keeps the necklace in his pocket, a comforting weight before the thought of getting pickpocketed hits him. Afterwards he wears it around his neck. Under his shirt, of course. No matter what sort of connection was meant by it, an obvious elven house seal is bound to raise a few eyebrows when he’s doing his job.
Even so, it’s not helpful. A year in, the work is lighter—more work spread around, failsafes and fallbacks, less pressure on him. More than once now, he’s caught the eye of a visiting ambassador or a particularly ambitious merchant. He’d end up pressed against a somewhat private stretch of wall, and his hookup’s hands would wander beneath his shirt, and he’d have to stop them undressing him for fear they’d get the wrong idea.
It's all horribly, horribly frustrating. Which is why, six months later, when another letter arrives from elven lands, the only address this time Kabru’s name in thin curling letters, Kabru doesn’t have any qualms tearing the envelope open with his bare hands.
Come at once.
- Mithrun
He has the ship schedules in hand before he knows what he’s doing. Two days. The next ship taking passengers for the Central Continents leaves in two days. It’s just luck that the letter got here in time. How long ago was it written? Maybe three weeks. Maybe two. Mail ships are faster.
There are affairs to arrange in his absence, even though he’s reasonably certain that everything won’t fall apart in his absence. He knows that there’s been work on a magically-powered method of sending letters, so he should still be able to advise the court from the Central Continents. He doesn’t know how long he will be gone.
He goes to Marcille for help. He knows he has to. It doesn’t stop the feeling of sinking dread.
“But of course!” she squeals, stars in her eyes as he explains the situation. “Don’t worry about a thing, we’ll manage perfectly well without you. A long, long break in the arms of your beloved, that’s exactly what you need—”
“Captain Mithrun isn’t—”
“Oh, there’s really no need to be shy about it to me,” Marcille says, smugly, knowingly as she dances around her room, snatching books from the shelves. “I expect you’ll invite us to the wedding, okay? And tell me everything.”
Kabru coughs loudly. “That’s not—really what’s happening—”
She gasps. “Oh no, is it forbidden? Are you eloping, Kabru? How exciting!”
“No—”
“Oh, oh—” He shouldn’t have told her anything. “—no one’s supposed to know! Forbidden romance! It’s so tragic. I’m so happy you trusted me.” She presses her hands to her mouth. “I won’t tell anyone. Swear.”
Kabru can feel a headache coming on. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”
“Vacation time! We’ll put it down as vacation time. No one will object, you’ve been working plenty hard, and you can take all the time you need.” She sets the form letters out on the table before taking a seat herself, chin resting on her hands. “So, what’s he like?”
“Marcille.”
“What, I can hardly be blamed for wanting to know what happened! You know everyone thought that he would stick around here only for the Elven Queen to practically demand that they all come back, that must have been so hard for a new couple—”
“We’re really not—”
“Oh no, I’m sorry! Did you decide not to put a label on it yet?”
The headache is getting worse and worse. Kabru rubs his temples. Where have all his words gone?
“I’d appreciate it if you kept everything running smoothly,” he finally says, and they go over the paperwork together, with only a minimum of questions. He signs the last form with only a little hand-cramping.
“Don’t worry,” Marcille stresses as she sees him out of her room. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“Thank you,” he says, quite sincerely.
“Only, can I ask just one more question? One. Just one.” She takes a deep breath. “Did you guys kiss already?”
-
Kabru arrives at the elven capital only a little unsteady on his feet. The last time he set foot on a ship was when he left home, and the excitement of finally making it out of Milsiril’s house had sustained him throughout the entire boat ride. This trip, he had befriended the ship’s captain and maybe shaved a few days off the actual trip—pretending to be a starry-eyed tourist on his first trip to see the capital.
Still, he left without making any inquiries on where Mithrun was staying. Maybe he’ll get lucky and spot a Canary on the street. He just hopes it wouldn’t be Fleki.
He steps off the ship and is immediately struck at how many people are staring at him. Staring at him directly, not trying to hide it, one gaggle of elves even bursting into soft laughter before starting to whisper furiously in Elvish. Kabru catches his name and a few references to tallman lifespan before the noise of the crowd swallows it up.
He lets the crowd buffet him off the ship, keeps a pleasant smile on his face and a tight hold on his bags. Still far too many stares for comfort. He doesn’t advertise his status in Laios’ court unless he needs to. There really shouldn’t be any reason for everyone to be acting so curious.
Just what has been happening here?
“Over here, Sir Kabru!”
Oh. That’s Pattadol, waving furiously at him from the dock. He shoulders his bags and starts wading through the crowd, murmuring polite apologies under his breath as he treads on people’s feet. Still, he can feel everyone’s eyes on the back of his head. Surely they’ve seen a tallman before. Even the capital has short-lived races.
And then he’s finally on solid ground, and he can see beside her—
Oh.
Mithrun is there, arms crossed, dressed in traditional elvish clothing. Or the little of it elves seem to wear. Kabru tries not to stare too long at Mithrun’s arms. Or his thighs. Definitely inappropriate, to stare at Mithrun’s thighs, watch the muscles in them flex as he shifts his weight and trace each scar with an imaginary tongue. Kabru wonders how he’d react if Kabru dropped to his knees and yanked up his tunic then and there. Would he just stare and watch and let Kabru do what he would? Kabru would be fine with that. Or would he grab Kabru’s hair by the roots and force him down and roll his slender hips into Kabru’s waiting mouth?
But Mithrun does look good, Kabru has to admit that. The bags under his eyes are lighter, his hair grown out past his shoulders and actually glossy for once, his lips less dry and cracked. He might even be smiling. If that’s not a trick of the light.
They have to crowd close to not be jostled by the sea of passengers. Kabru finds himself nearly pressed against Mithrun’s chest. Not a bad thing to be.
“Captain,” Kabru says. “I’m here.”
“You are,” Mithrun agrees. “Why did you change your hair?”
Kabru reaches up instinctively, tucks a curl behind his ear. His cheek feels warm. “I haven’t. I’ve just been busy.”
“Hm.” Mithrun glances up at him again, and gods, Kabru didn’t really factor in their difference in height into his fantasies. It would be less of a problem with Mithrun in his lap, after all.
He swallows. “So why am I here, Captain?”
“I asked you to come.”
“Yes, but why?”
Mithrun opens his mouth—no sense of privacy—and Kabru grabs him by the wrist to stop him from blurting out whatever it was to the entire street. Would have been nice to kiss him too, but that would draw too much attention even in this crowd. People are staring at them enough as it is, the ripple of gossip already starting.
“Wait, please stop!” Mithrun does stop, Mithrun does wait, head half-tilted curiously. Kabru lets go of his wrist and tries not to think of how slim it was in his hand, or how easy it would be to press it to his cheek and turn his head to kiss Mithrun’s palm. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”
“Oh, how about a tavern?” Pattadol says brightly. Kabru had nearly forgotten she was there. “There’s one just a few blocks from here than serves amazing grilled tomato sandwiches—”
“Sounds good,” Kabru says vaguely. There would still be no privacy in a tavern. Maybe he could drag Mithrun into the alleyway. Maybe something would end up happening. “You should go ahead. We’ll be right behind you.”
Mithrun nods to Pattadol, slips his hand into Kabru’s as they watch her walk off. Kabru chews on his lip to hide his smile. As soon as she’s disappeared into the crowd, Mithrun turns and leads them in the opposite direction.
“Pattadol went that way, Captain,” Kabru says, allowing himself to be pulled along.
“I am aware. Or did I misjudge you, and you would rather eat elf cake and sandwiches with Pattadol than listen to what I have to say?”
“You rank my affections for you highly, Captain.” Mithrun smiles at that, the corners of his lips turning up minutely, and Kabru does his best not to stare like a besotted fool. “I’m flattered.”
“I was told I could be assured of them.”
“And your own thoughts?”
Mithrun actually laughs at that, the low chuckle Kabru’s only heard from him once before. “Did you not come when I asked you to?” he says, and then they’re in an alleyway, Kabru’s back pressed against stone as Mithrun crowds him close.
“Captain?”
Only that quizzical look again, as though Kabru was the one being unreasonable, dragging someone into a shadowy corner and pressing them against a wall without preamble. “Objections?”
“—No.” Kabru takes a deep breath, and immediately inhales the light scent of mana and sage that clings to Mithrun’s skin. Now he feels more lightheaded than before. “What are you doing, Captain?”
“Turnabout is fair play,” Mithrun says. His mouth is so near, all of a sudden. Kabru can feel the heat of his breath, the light weight of his palms on Kabru’s shoulders. “I never imagined you’d be so flustered about it.”
“I’m not,” Kabru lies. His hands go instinctively around Mithrun’s slim waist, just to steady himself, and Mithrun, oh—Mithrun melts against him, every line of his body molded against Kabru’s, only the thin fabric of his clothes between Kabru’s palm and his warm skin. Kabru lets out a noise and feels Mithrun shift, the folds of his tunic riding up against Kabru’s shirt. He fits so well, so well in Kabru’s arms. “You just caught me off-guard.”
“Hm. Like I said.” Mithrun’s hand shifts to the nape of his neck, fingers carding through Kabru’s hair. His eye flashes silver for a moment. A trick of the light? “It’s only fair.”
And then Mithrun is kissing him, gently at first, and Kabru has barely started to respond when Mithrun deepens the kiss, one hand moving to cup Kabru’s cheek, the other tangled in his hair. Kabru gasps, and Mithrun makes a hungry noise and pulls him down, down, and then Mithrun is licking into his mouth and fuck, that’s good, he’s good—
Mithrun pulls away, and Kabru drags the breath back into his lungs as Mithrun tilts his head back, nipping along his jaw to the curve of his ear, oh, then all the way down his neck, soothing the sting of it with his tongue.
“Captain, what—” He’s not getting enough air, he thinks. “Captain, someone could see—”
“Don’t care.” Mithrun grabs his collar and yanks him down to kiss him properly, and Kabru’s next words dissolve into a moan.
Only—
Only Mithrun stops, wrenches himself away to stare at Kabru with one wide eye, and Kabru looks down at himself to see what could possibly have been so objectionable. The first button on his collar is torn open, and the necklace from House Kerensil is visible, the seal glinting in the light.
“Ah,” Kabru says. Mithrun must have pulled it out of his shirt by accident. He tucks it back underneath, but Mithrun has already stepped away from him. “Is something wrong?”
“My brother gave that to you,” Mithrun says, and there’s no hint of mirth in his voice now, only a dark undertone that makes Kabru uneasy. “I should have known better. I apologize.”
“What are you talking about?”
Mithrun is no longer looking at him, and Kabru can’t shake the feeling that he’s done something wrong. “You should have said something.”
“Said what?” Kabru says, bewildered. Mithrun just gestures to the necklace, as though that explains everything.
“Wait, Mithrun—Captain. This was a gift for what happened in the dungeon. Nothing more.”
Mithrun doesn’t even deign to respond to that. In an instant he’s settled back into that prickly, unwelcoming stance from even before the dungeon, the grizzled veteran, the professional. Kabru curses in his head, then straightens himself out, brushes the wrinkles out of his shirt and puts his hair back in order. If Mithrun was going to pretend that nothing happened just now, he’s willing to go along with it.
“Why did you ask me here?” he repeats, after enough uncomfortable silence.
Mithrun only looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Have you ever done ancient magic?” he demands, as though that answers Kabru’s question.
“What? No.”
Mithrun nods to himself. “Practiced gnomic traditions? Married under gnomic religion?”
“No.”
“Own land in more than three continents?”
“No.” Kabru frowns. “Why are you asking these questions, Captain?”
“Just answer. Traded ancient magical artifacts?”
“Never.” The growing sense of unease in his chest flares, then settles. “Am I about to be arrested?”
Mithrun unbends a little, then, some of the stone leaving his expression. “No. That’s…very far from what’s happening here.”
“That’s good to hear,” Kabru says, cautiously. It would be a diplomatic incident in at least two different countries if that happened, even if he was travelling incognito. He wonders what strange fixation Mithrun’s developed since the last time they’d met. “Any other questions?”
Mithrun nods slowly, solemnly. “Will you marry me?”