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The Recreant of Rainwall (Cruel Twist of Fate)	By : Darkrogue Category: +S through Z > Suikoden Views: 3924 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Suikoden, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and dialogue from the game Suikoden V belong to Konami.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
FLASHBACK:

Euram heard someone’s approach and crushed himself into his corner, though he wasn’t certain why. It never helped him.

He winced, his soreness bringing back the unwanted memory of what had happened the last time Gizel had arrived in his cell.

Euram had spent a wretched and shamed night alone in his cell, his eyes and cheeks raw from crying. His body ached, a constant and unwanted reminder of how Gizel had violated him against his will, stolen his manhood from him, claimed and humiliated him in the worst way. He never would have dreamed…

As the Commander approached Euram eyed him with fear—and with hatred, hatred he had never thought himself capable of possessing. Gizel casually unlocked the cell and stepped inside. The older man considered him coldly, amusement and satisfaction shadowed in his faint smile.

“How is my little consort, hmm?”

Miserably Euram snorted and snappishly turned away from him. Smirking, Gizel stalked further into the cell, observing how the younger man recoiled from him.

“Oh, come now, you should not be so impolite: I know your father must have taught you manners. Besides, you should know by now that that is no way to greet me. And just when I have come to extend you a compliment. You were quite good, I must admit. Better than good, in fact. You were extraordinary. In all honesty, Euram, you were the best fuck I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing.”

The boy clenched his teeth with a wretched sound, hiding his face in shame. He was despoiled, dishonored, hurting, and now here Gizel was to rub his nose in it!
“Have you not defeated us—defeated me—thoroughly enough, Godwin?”
“Hmm, let’s find out,” Gizel strode forward, seizing him by the collar and shoving his face to the stone, forcing his ass high.
Me and my big mouth, Euram lamented, grunting as a finger roughly penetrated his tender back passage. For several humiliating moments the Commander held him there, skewered, before withdrawing his finger and extending it down to his prisoner’s grimacing lips.
“Taste,” came the command.
“I most certainly will not!” Euram spat, strained, and Gizel pressed him harder, strong fingers pinching into his neck until the younger man cried out and the finger forced inside, trapping his tongue. Euram moaned his shame until at last Gizel released him and he crumpled, spitting and shuddering with revulsion.
And yet, even as he thought the better of it, a curse escaped him, bitterly muttered beneath his breath.
“Damn you.” It was all but a whisper, but Gizel caught it plainly.

“What was that?” The Commander lifted an eyebrow, catching him by the hair of the head. “Care to repeat yourself, Euram?” he asked, ignoring frightened spits and splutters.

“I said nothing, nothing, my lord!” the prisoner managed between whimpers and protests, alarmed at how abruptly Gizel could snap from calm to violence. Gizel gave him a rough shake.

“Liar! I could see you executed before you could squeak another sound. But a word from my lips and you would be cast upon the chopping block. I have allowed you to keep your sorry life solely upon the virtue of your own begging.”

“Y-yes! Yes, Gizel, I know, please! I—!”

Frowning, Gizel tossed him aside in a heap of limbs where Euram lay sobbing and shivering.

“Poor, foolish Barows. You have not yet even begun to comprehend the extent of your defeat, or of your faction’s. You will soon learn it.”

With that, Gizel turned and exited the cell. Euram heard the key click in the lock and simply lay there, wishing he had kept quiet and wondering what terrible retribution the man would prepare for him now.

When Gizel returned, three guards accompanied him. Seeing them, Euram immediately panicked. As soon as the Commander entered his cell, he bent in supplication.

“Gizel…I’m so sorry!” he frantically supplied. “I’m sorry, my lord, forgive me…”

“Be silent!” Gizel snapped, causing Euram to cringe and bow his head to the floor. “You’re pathetic,” Gizel added in disgust, then nodded to his men.

Obediently two of them came forth and hauled the prisoner to his feet, dragging him back to the same area of the dungeon he had been taken for his thrashing.

“No, nooo! Gizel, please, forgive me!” Euram pleaded as he relived the same procedure all over again: the stretching, the fastening of his arms to the ceiling. While the two guards were busied binding the prisoner, Gizel nodded to the third, who moved over to a corner to begin a blazing fire in a waiting brazier. Once Euram was suitably bound, Gizel moved in front of him and stood calmly to face the naked, sniveling creature.

His body stretched taut, Euram was so desperate, so frantic to escape the whipping he expected that he did not notice the ominous rod of iron Gizel clasped in his hands.

“Your babbling is a plague to my ears. Be quiet!” Gizel commanded so sharply Euram’s jaw snapped shut in compliance. “Good. Now, I can speak with you.” He paced in front of the younger man as though surveying him. “In spite of the annoyances you cause me, I have decided to keep you,” he announced, watching Euram’s chest pump swiftly in fear. “This means that you shall wear my collar, of course, but that is not all. Gladiators are tattooed, as I am sure you are aware.” He smirked, seeing Euram’s distress at this. “However, the personal slave of a high ranking individual sports something more—distinguishing—than the standard white etching of a common gladiator.” Gizel twisted the iron idly in his hand as he spoke. “From this day, Euram Barows, your body will belong wholly to me. As such, you will bear the Godwin mark.”

At that moment, Gizel’s meaning seemed suddenly to dawn upon Euram. His gaze locked onto the iron Gizel brandished, and the fire, the Commander’s words, all of it at once coalesced into a shock of realization that flung his brown eyes wide in alarm.

“Oh, no! No, no, Gizel! Y-you cannot mean to brand me, like a lowly beast! You simply cannot!”

“Not good enough for you? Then how does the guillotine sound?”

Euram strained and thrashed in his bonds, uselessly. “Nooooo! Oh, no! Please, pleeese Your Majesty! I’ll do anything you wish of me, anythiiing! ” he wailed, frightened tears quivering in his eyes.

“That is already a requirement of your station,” Gizel reminded him, coolly.

“No, oh by the Sun, no! Have mercy, Gizel!” Euram cried frantically, his face a mask of desperation. At the end of his patience, Gizel stomped forward and seized Euram by the chin, his strong fingers squeezing delicate bone of jawline as he met the younger man’s fearful gaze hard.

“My mercy is in allowing you to keep your pitiful life. Never forget that!”

Thrusting him away, Gizel moved to the brazier, where he shoved the iron into the hottest part of the fire. As the instrument was prepared, Euram’s heart began to hammer in his chest, and he squirmed in his bonds, whimpering with dread and misery.

“No, no, no,” the prisoner murmured over and over. Indifferent, the guards went about their business tending the brazier.

Gizel had known for many years how Euram had envied and resented him. It was as plain as the Sun, as much as Euram had played it as nothing more than a healthy rivalry. Still, what reason had Gizel to return his spirited competition when Euram had nothing Gizel coveted? He harbored nothing for any person of Barows affiliation save contempt.

And now, how fitting it was that Gizel had achieved even Lymsleia’s hand, when Euram had been so confident and certain of his gladiator’s victory. In the end, Euram had lost virtually everything to him, even to the point of having his hometown subjugated and occupied by Godwin forces. A thorough defeat, even if they had recently withdrawn their troops from Rainwall. Now, with his father murdered and Euram himself his prisoner, it was all the more poetic.

Gizel knew it must have been crushing for him, and playing upon those emotions could prove quite interesting; this would only cement the reality of it further, that in his every endeavor, he had been bested, everything taken from Euram’s faction. His armies had plundered his land, and now, Gizel himself had plundered his body. And now he would claim that body fully, mark his flesh until not even that would be his own.

Casually he approached Euram’s stretched form and inspected him intently. Euram writhed and whimpered, his gasping breaths and sobs and pleas swallowed by the roar of the fire.

One of the guards stirred the flames while another puffed at the bellows. Gizel ignored the other noble’s escalating entreaties, blocking them from his mind as he surveyed his prisoner thoroughly.

“Hmm. Where do I want it, now?” He circled the lithe, bound body and considered carefully just where he could bear marring the flesh. He could of course have him branded anywhere he saw fit. The face would be quite a crushing blow to the young Barows’ vanity. But, he was far too pretty, and Gizel was not prepared to damage that. The back of the neck, perhaps, but then his hair would conceal the mark. If he wanted to be simple, he could place it upon his ass. But no, that, too, was far too pretty.

Even as Euram wordlessly pleaded with him, Gizel’s fingers traced smooth flesh, his hand sliding down the delicate curve of waist and hip…

Finally Gizel paused, humming softly with approval. He had made his decision.

Realizing he would need to hold him still, Gizel curled an arm around him and held tight, feeling the thump of his prisoner’s heart racing beneath his scrawny, heaving chest. He nodded to the guard, who presented him the branding iron, red-hot and glowing. Hysterical, Euram burst into a fresh panic and thrashed wildly against Gizel’s grip.

“My lord! Please, please do not do this, please, please!!! I beg you!!!”
Clutching the iron in the other hand, Gizel tightened his grip around Euram’s thin chest. Ignoring the younger man’s desperate pleas, he remained intent upon the task, taking aim before the iron could cool. In one brisk, clean stroke, he applied the searing implement to his former rival’s soft, pale hip.

Flesh sizzled beneath the instrument’s touch, and Euram’s pitiful scream of agony pierced the dungeon, a heartrending wail so intense one of the guards slightly flinched. Feeling his prisoner lurch and jerk, Gizel gripped him tighter, watching the slender back arch as he twisted in vain to escape the terrible, blazing pain.

The iron smoked as it worked its cruel task, and after several seconds, Gizel lowered the instrument to inspect his handiwork. The strike had landed perfectly: Gizel’s mark of ownership, seared irrevocably upon Euram’s skin, wisps of smoke still rising from the charred surface.

Euram’s shrieks rang through the dungeon long after the branding iron fell away. Gizel knew the pain would linger intensely for a very long time. He released the other noble, allowing him to tire himself with his reflexive struggles and wailing as he passed the iron back to one of his waiting guards. The boy’s screams dissolved as his throat grew raw, and he succumbed instead to convulsive sobs.

“You belong to me wholly now, Euram Barows,” Gizel explained after several long minutes, once the younger man’s piteous cries had died to mere sniveling. “I own your body, and shall take of it as I please. Should I wish to have your mouth, I shall have it. Should I wish to fuck you until you limp, I shall. I intend to keep your asshole filled and sore, your jaws aching. And you shall appreciate it, and thank me for it.” He was answered only by the weak and wretched sounds of Euram’s pain.

***
The clang of the cell door roused him a few short hours later. Euram snapped awake. He had been dragged back to his prison after the branding and somehow managed to cry himself to sleep. Now as he awoke, the pain returned tenfold, and he made a sound, looking tentatively down at his hip to see the scorched mark upon his once-flawless skin. Groaning, he looked away in dismay. But his dismay only increased when he realized his latest visitor was not Gizel.

It was Lady Sialeeds.

She had only one Godwin soldier with her, her heels clicking as she sauntered into the cell and glared down at him. Whimpering with pain and now fear, Euram withered back from her and sank further into the floor.

“Well. I had to see it to believe it,” she said, scornfully. “So he has marked you, then. Ah ha ha ha! It is no less than you deserve.” She walked around him, staring fiercely down at his cowering form, in much the same way she had done after murdering his father. Euram shuddered at the memory.

“I’m sure you realize by now how useless and pathetic you are. You should be grateful to Gizel. You deserve far worse, after all you have done.”

“You're right.”

Sialeeds cocked her ear at the soft, meek response. She turned to Euram, who cowered, head bowed as though in thought.

"You're right,” Euram repeated in a broken voice, though louder this time. “I know that my crimes are inexcusable. That was why I…hoped to help,” he admitted finally, truthfully.

All at once, she slapped him, hard in the face.

After a long moment of livid silence, he lifted a hand to his reddened cheek. Sialeeds bent down close to his ear, and hissed her next statement.

“Even if you could be trusted, you are too incompetent to help my nephew, anyway.”

Without another word, she spun and exited the cell, slamming the caged door behind her as she left.

Euram sobbed, the sting of the brand dulled momentarily by the print of her hand. Still, nothing stung as much as her words.

She was brutally honest. And she was right.

END FLASHBACK

Euram had been removed from the cell that very night and brought to Gizel’s room. He had been given his place beneath the fire and Gizel had enjoyed him that night. He had enjoyed him thoroughly. The branding had considerably subdued him, and he had not resisted him quite as much as the first time. There was still protesting, of course, but Euram had almost seemed resigned to it then, and Gizel had taken him slow, filling him with long, deliberate strokes as the beautiful former noble had writhed on the sheets.

Now Gizel walked down the Sun Palace corridor with a purpose.

He had received a message from the servants, a note from Lord Byron:

That little Barows brat was one good fuck.
You may collect him whenever you wish.
Your sharing him is much appreciated. I enjoyed myself exquisitely.

Scowling, Gizel crumpled the note in his hands and strode more quickly, suddenly telling himself he had better not find a single bruise on him. He did not know why he had felt compelled to collect Euram himself as opposed to having someone else bring him.

For some reason, he just didn’t feel like having any one else handle him right now.

As he strode down the hall, Gizel grumbled to himself. What did he care what Lord Byron did to that ridiculous little popinjay? He didn’t care! No, he did not care in the slightest! And why was he in such a hurry?

Deliberately he slowed his pace. At length he arrived at the guest room where Euram had been left. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside, half expecting to find the idiot curled up and crying somewhere, as usual.

But, no: he was sound asleep.

The younger man was stretched out on the bed. He had rolled to one side, the sheets only partially covering him about the waist, his hair fanned out upon the red satin of the pillow like strands of silken spun gold. His chest rose and fell calmly, but otherwise, he was completely still, deliciously passive in his unconscious state. He looked...radiant, almost.

Hmph. Worthless fool.

Gizel opened his mouth, ready to bark at him to get himself up, but somehow, he couldn’t. Euram looked far too peaceful as he was.

Well, without waking him, there was only one way to get him where he rightfully belonged.

Moving to the bed, Gizel leaned down and carefully gathered up the naked form, lifting him into his arms.

Euram had always been a slight young man; short, and daintily slender. His imprisonment had thinned him even further, having deprived Euram of his accustomed indulgences. In other words, he was no burden for Gizel to bear as he carried him back to his chamber.

He moved through the Palace, ready to meet any questioning looks with a harsh glare or a reprimand. Most of his servants and soldiers knew better than to question his actions, however. Once he arrived back at his own quarters, he brought his sleeping prisoner inside and gently laid him upon the bed. The boy had not stirred other than to shift in his arms a time or two. Gizel supposed his session with Lord Byron had well worn him out.

To hell with that man Gizel thought, angrily, not knowing exactly where his anger was coming from.

For the moment, he had other business that needed attending. No doubt Father would chide him as it was for being late. He should have gone to collect Euram later he supposed, but somehow he had wanted his property back where it belonged, and soon.

Sitting at his writing desk, he scribbled two quick notes: one for Euram, and one for the servants.

He had not thought of any chores for Euram yet. Considering for a moment, he jotted a few sentences and set the letter where he normally left them for the younger man to find. Then he quickly composed his note to the servants, instructing them to send for Euram mid-day and cleanse that foul Byron from him, among other directions.

Tucking the second note into his pocket, he rose and went to leave the room, turning briefly to look down at the man sleeping on his bed a moment longer. Compelled by something, he moved over and drew the sheets over him, watching as the man shifted in his sleep with a sigh and curled up contentedly beneath the covering.

"Damn useless fop," Gizel muttered under his breath, quickly spinning to leave the chamber.

***

Euram stirred a little, feeling warm and safe.

Almost too safe, he thought with sudden alarm, snapping awake. His eyes opened and he sat up, cringing as he did. Disoriented, he peered fearfully about for Lord Byron. But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t...where was he?

Euram blinked, realizing with sudden gratefulness that he was back home. Well...back here, that was: Gizel’s chamber. Had he really been here so long that he could think of this as his ‘home’, he wondered sadly? Truth be told, it was welcoming enough now after his ordeal the night before that it certainly felt as comforting as something that could be called ‘home’.

But...how did he get here?

Stretching, Euram yawned and shook his head, trying to regain his bearings. He tried to remember if at any point he had actually been summoned back. But no, the last thing he remembered was falling asleep next to that terrible Lord Byron, fearing he would be awakened in the middle of the night and ravished again. But no such thing had taken place, and yet here he was.

He was not foolish enough to think he had dreamt it all. No, he was much too sore and could still feel the result of the man’s torments. Why then was he here now?

Euram wondered suddenly if he had been transported here by some form of Rune magic.

There was a girl in the Prince’s army who could immediately transport a person anywhere they wished to go, just by thinking about it! She was a pleasant enough girl, even if a little scatterbrained, but Euram had been fascinated by how she could whisk a man to his desired destination on a request and a thought.

The girl had attributed her intriguing talent to a Rune, although that was all he had really got out of it. Between her…absentmindedness and his own confusion, their few conversations had not been the most productive. He just remembered being glad that she was one of the few within the walls of the Sindar Castle who did not completely loathe him. He supposed that was because she did not know him well enough. To be honest, she did not seem to be aware of much...

Still, he didn’t think even Rune magic was a plausible possibility here. Not that he knew enough about Runes. He had clumsily attempted to wield the Dawn Rune once, to no avail, but that was the extent of his experience.

Deciding he’d best not overexert his brain thinking about it, he sighed and slid from the bed, raking his hip across the side of the bed in the process.

He winced, realizing he had upset the burn Gizel had given him. After so many days, it was finally beginning to heal, but it still hurt, and still throbbed sometimes even when he had not touched it.

Euram cringed, remembering when Gizel had put his mark on him. The pain of the brand was something he would never forget. Almost worse was the knowledge that he would carry the mark to his grave. Even should he somehow manage to get free of all this…with his life…he would be forever saddled with the reminder of how Gizel had possessed and subjugated him

Pushing such thoughts aside, he moved towards the cabinet to pour himself some water. He didn’t want to think about such things right now—of his situation and whether he would ever escape it. Thoughts such as those only made him sad, and he was so dreadfully tired of crying!

By the Sun, he was sore! Euram reddened with shame just thinking about the things that horrible man had done to him. Why, why had Gizel sent him to him? What had he done to deserve it?

Oh, certainly he had done plenty wrong in his life. But what had he done to Gizel to deserve such punishment at his hands? Or perhaps Gizel had not even considered it a punishment. Perhaps it was just a casual transaction for Gizel to give him over in such a way. He had no reason to believe, after all, that Gizel felt any attachment to him whatsoever. Why should he? He was the last remaining male heir of a broken faction: in other words, useless. Not that he had been good for much anyhow. And not only that, he was a Barows.

Besides, he certainly felt no attachment towards Gizel! So why in all of Falena should Gizel feel any attachment or fondness towards him? Why should he feel any hesitation in handing him over to another noble, just like that?

Damn him.

Draining the glass of water, he set the empty container down angrily and stormed over to the writing desk where Gizel normally kept the letter detailing his duties for the day. And what would you have of me now, O Mighty Master? he thought with annoyance, snatching up the paper and flapping it stiff between his hands.

Try to relax. I have decided to generously gift you a day off. Enjoy it.

I shall send for you to be bathed about mid-day. Be prepared.

PS: Do not meddle. I do not want you rifling through my things. If you do, I will know, and you will answer for it.

Your Commander,
Gizel

Blinking, Euram lowered the note. What mockery was this? A day off? But why would he...?

Hmmph. It could only mean that Gizel had something particularly nasty in store for him later, he thought.

Realizing that he had no ‘chore’ with which to busy himself, Euram stood for a moment wondering how he would occupy his time. He had become so used to having to scurry to finish Gizel’s tasks that he now didn’t quite know what to do with himself. It was funny; he should have been well used to free time. He had enjoyed a lifetime of idleness, after all. But he had had servants to attend him and entertain him if necessary. He had had access to his own amusements and belongings. What was he supposed to do now, that he was imprisoned in a room and basically forbidden to touch anything? He supposed he could write...

All at once a terrible thought came over him that Gizel had read his writing in his absence. It had not occurred to him before, but he felt the sudden compulsion to dash over to the place where he kept his memoirs and see if the little journal even remained where he had left it!

Before he could do so, however, he was startled by someone entering the room. It was a servant, once more bearing a tray for him. The man strode grudgingly to the table and set down the tray, then turned to leave.

“Um...excuse me, sir?” Euram called to him, before he reached the door. The man snapped his gaze upon him, his look saturated with impatience, as though he had better things to do than converse with him. Euram flinched at his obvious acrimony.

“I’m sorry, I only wanted to thank you, sir.”

The servant hesitated. “You’re welcome,” he replied at length, his expression unchanging. With that, he exited the chamber.

Sighing, Euram went to the table to see what had been sent for him this time. He truthfully was not very hungry: his night with Byron had left him without much of an appetite, but he supposed he should eat something when he had the chance. Who knew when Gizel’s generosity would run dry?

There was only a bowl of soup and some bread on the tray. He could stomach that.

Euram finished the soup in no particular hurry, and once he was done, he went to the pillows to retrieve the journal. He breathed a sigh of relief upon finding it exactly where he had left it, hugging the precious item to his chest. Of course he knew that this did not necessarily mean that Gizel had not thumbed through it, but for now he preferred to assume the contrary. Besides, he would know soon enough if Gizel had seen it, he had no doubt of that. Well, he guessed he had nothing better to do, and there were some things on his mind.

Things he was only comfortable writing.

I am no less wicked than I was before, I realize.

I sometimes find myself wanting to do things to him secretly. Small things, such as spitting into his drinks before I serve them. Things he would never detect or discover, of course, but things I would secretly be aware of and could relish with satisfaction. Of course these are impulses I would never be able to act upon, but these things do cross my mind from time to time.

My time with Lord Byron was, if nothing else, eye-opening. Oh, how I hate him—and yet it made me more aware than ever just how thoughtless and selfish the nobility can be: using others as possessions, thinking nothing of their feelings, or even as human! And yet, I was no better.

It is something ingrained into the nobility, a sense that all others around you are put there for your use or advancement alone. Father put this notion into my mind, certainly, but I cannot blame him, nor my status alone for my actions. Luserina was brought up by the same man, in the same household, after all, and never did she behave so selfishly.

I am embarrassed to think about it now. How long did I spend making a fool of myself? How often did my father’s servants entertain thoughts of spoiling my tea, and worse, how often did they act upon this notion, without my knowledge? How many times did I obliviously fall prey to some prank that I doubtlessly deserved? How often was I the unknowing object of their amusement? I can only feel pity for anyone who had to put up with me, and I can only hope that my father’s servants, soldiers and mercenaries were more forgiving than I feel towards Gizel.

And yet, my thoughts keep returning to Lordlake.

Of everything I have done, this is the crime that is the most reprehensible. My, my, will I ever be able to rid myself of this burden? I realize Gizel continues to remind me of my part in that calamity only because he knows that it wounds me, but he does not need to remind me. I carry that knowledge fully in my conscience.

To think that perhaps I could have prevented at least some of the horrific results of that catastrophe. Oh, to think that, were it not for my rashness, those things might not have occurred in the manner in which they unfolded!

***

The citizens of Lordlake were angry. And, by all logic, they had every right to be.

Lord Salum Barows had been quite liberal with funding upon the start of his proposed dam’s construction. However, when the project failed, he had not been so liberal in providing the resources needed for the subsequent cleanup. As a result, the debris from the unsuccessful dam development had drifted down river and contaminated Lordlake’s water supply.

The people wanted something done, and had gathered to issue a formal protest. Their hope was to persuade Lord Salum Barows to provide financial support, in order that the debris could be cleared away and their water restored. It was a simple enough request, and a reasonable one, in anyone’s mind.

They simply wanted their voices heard.

Lord Rovere was with the crowd. The leader of Lordlake, Rovere had accompanied his people to assure that they would remain calm. The last thing he wanted was a riot. Rovere himself was not a confrontational man, but Lordlake’s citizens had a legitimate complaint: after all, with their water damaged, they were placed in a terrible position. Lordlake was primarily a fishing and farming community. Contamination had caused the fish to abandon the lakes and rivers surrounding the town, and the crops had suffered as a result of the damaged water.

Rovere’s hope was that Lord Barows would agree to meet with them and hear their concerns. Thus, the protest was arranged, and the group was to assemble at the nearby Barows garrison.

The turnout had been larger than expected. In spite of his concerns, Rovere hoped for a peaceful demonstration, and he pleaded and urged the angry citizens to remain calm: violence would get them nowhere. Even so, they were incensed, and it was difficult to keep them calm. Their anger was understandable, but this was a situation that would require diplomacy and not mob rule.

***

A short distance away, the Captain of the Barows garrison saw the mob coming.

He was a young commander: only seventeen. He was much too young and inexperienced to be here, and everyone knew it. Everyone knew it, but no one had the courage to say it. After all, to question their Captain’s authority was to question the leadership of the man who employed them all.

Their Captain was the young master Euram Barows, and he had been placed in his position by his powerful father.

The Captain had been notified of the approaching throng by one of his inferiors. Now, as he anxiously watched the crowd grow nearer, he had begun to wring his hands. The boy’s doubt was palpable, and he had begun to sweat beneath his guise of casual bravado. His fingers trembled as his hands moved to hilt of the thin sword tucked into his belt, but everyone knew he did not intend to draw the blade and actually fight. He had no such skill.

“Th-there are too many…” the young Captain whispered, his lips trembling. His eyes were fixed upon the nearing mob. His second-in-command stood nearby, eyeing the mob with his own sense of unease.

The young aristocrat’s hand dropped from his sword hilt, and he began instead to pace feverishly, chewing on his nails.

“No, no, no, this will never do! Never, oh, never!” he half-muttered, chattering nervously to himself and looking as though he might faint or start bawling at any moment. At last he turned towards his vice-Captain. “There are too many!” he declared to the older man. “They will be beyond our control! We must attack, and scatter their numbers!” the boy concluded finally.

The boy’s vice-Captain, Norden, eyed his young superior in disbelief. The soldiers watched Norden expectantly, all of them awaiting some instructions, some kind of command. The younger man clearly knew nothing about tactical military procedure; otherwise, he would have seen the folly in his command. Unable to contain his alarm at Euram’s orders, Norden spoke out.

“Sir! I don’t believe that is necessary! They do not appear hostile. I suggest that we should wait, and hear them out.”

Euram whirled on him, his cheeks blanched white with fear and now anger. “’Wait’, you say? Wait for them to be upon us? We shall be overwhelmed!” he shrilled at once, his fear swiftly overtaking him and forcing out any capacity he may have possessed to be rational.

“Not necessarily, sir. It is simply my opinion that we should approach this with discretion.” Norden insisted calmly, noting the panic in the boy’s eyes. Euram had no business here; that much was obvious. His lips twisted into a snarl, and he advanced on Norden angrily.

“Discretion? Well, I am Captain here, and it is my opinion that we disperse them quickly!”

“But—”

“I have issued you an order, Norden. Do it, quickly!”

“Are you insane? Do you realize…?”

Before Norden could finish, the boy strode forth and seized him by the lapel. Norden’s impulse was to fling him away, but he dared not lift a hand to Lord Barows’ young heir.

“Simpleton!” Euram spat, his fists clenching white at the older man’s clothes. “How dare you! Who is paying your salary? Who has generously bestowed your rank? My father, that’s who! And who did he put in charge of this garrison? Me! You would dare now defy me? Would you rather I report your insubordination?!”

“No, sir,” Norden sighed, setting his jaw against saying what he truly wanted to say and knowing there was no chance of reasoning with him, not with the boy panicked and throwing a temper tantrum right here in the midst of a volatile military situation.

“Then do as I say! Now, now, now! No time to dally!”

“But, sir, I—“

“Immediately!” Euram shrieked, stamping his foot and meeting Norden’s gaze with a crazed look that promised any further disagreement would surely result in some sort of divine retribution.

Norden bit his lip. “Very well, Captain,” he uttered through a stiffened lip. Sighing deeply and bracing himself for the inevitable chaos he knew would soon be upon them, he turned to the men and issued the formal command. Reluctantly he and the soldiers prepared themselves to attack, just as the mob appeared over the rim of the hill.

Already upset by their treatment at Lord Barows’ hands, the Lordlake protesters were further pressed to rage when their demonstration was met with hostility and force. Within moments, the crowd had broken into a riot. Lord Rovere’s pleas for peace were swallowed as the scene dissolved into a flurry of shouts and finally, a frightening pandemonium of clashing fists, weapons and projectiles.

In the end, the mob proved too much for the troops of the small garrison. And, ironically, the first among the soldiers to turn tail was the Captain himself.

Shrieking, Euram Barows fled the ranks immediately upon the outbreak of violence. Without their Captain, the rest of the soldiers were routed, and they too retreated and scattered. Norden’s attempts to maintain the rank and file were useless, just as Lord Rovere’s attempts to keep his people calm had been dashed to the wind.

Little had Norden known, little could he have known, just how great and dire would be the consequences of Euram’s rashness, and his own inability to refuse Euram’s reckless orders.

Abandoning hope that their concerns would be heard by Barows, the people of Lordlake opted instead to bring their complaint to Sol-Falena, to the Queen herself. Arshtat was merciful; she would hear them out. But Lord Barows, in retaliation for the incident at the garrison, cleverly planted a number of his own soldiers in with the Lordlake protesters, instructing them to incite the mob to attack the East Palace, where the Dawn Rune was kept guarded in sacred reverence. In the ensuing confusion, the disguised Barows soldiers were able to secure the Dawn Rune for their employer...

When Euram had returned home, flustered and sweating and disheveled from his furious ride home, his father had seemingly gushed with concern as he went to him.

“Oh! Oh, my, my! My son! What happened? Tell your father all about it!” Salum Barows snapped his fingers at a nearby servant, calling for a glass of water.

“Oh, Father!” the boy sniveled, shaking, bent double and panting. “I’m late! I hid out in Yashuna...I had to...some of them chased me...”

“Never you mind that,” Salum comforted the lad. “What happened at the garrison? I have heard the tale from Norden, my dear boy. I want your side of the story. There, there. It wasn’t your fault, was it?” he crooned, coddling as he cradled and patted the distraught young man.

“Oh, it was terrible! Th-they…they…I…!”

“The mob was unruly and hostile, were they not? They were uncontrollable, yes?” Lord Barows supplied, ushering Euram into the washroom and preparing a damp towel for his flushed face. Euram nodded, frantically.

“Yes, yes, sir! There were so many of them! And they were angry! I couldn’t…it frightened me…I…!” Euram struggled between his puffing and wheezing as he attempted to put the situation into words. “They…!”

“They were mean and threatening and marched with ill intention. This is the case, is it not?” Salum prompted, brushing blonde wisps from his son's sweating face and stroking him.

“Yes! Yes, sir,” the boy agreed, nodding again and sniffling, though it would not have been clear to any onlooker whether the young man was simply saying what he thought his father wanted to hear or if he spoke such because it was what he truly believed had happened.

“Oh, those barbarians! My poor, darling son!” Salum lamented, loudly enough for the entire household to hear. “Well, never you mind that,” he suddenly reassured his son. “Your Daddy has taken care of everything taken, yes? And when the time is right, he will tell you all about it. Soon, very soon…”

Euram had blinked, confused but comforted by the assurance.

True to his word, Lord Barows later surreptitiously crept into his son’s bedroom. The boy was tucked snugly beneath his lush covers, his head resting upon his favorite pink satin pillow. In his arms he clutched his beloved stuffed bear, a gift from his mother when he had been only four. Beside the bed, upon the nightstand sat his personal tea set, which was replenished each day upon command.

Salum Barows leaned down and quietly wakened his son from his sleep with some effort: Euram was not accustomed to being roused from his precious beauty rest.

“Hmm? What is this?” the boy stirred, annoyed at first and looking as though he were about to rebuke the servant he believed to have awakened him. “Oh! Father?” he blinked, perplexed. Salum Barows placed a finger to his lips.

“Shhh. Do not speak, my son. Come with me, come along!”

The man led his boy quietly downstairs and into the mansion’s storeroom. Down into the basement they descended, and Salum eagerly guided Euram to the wardrobe in the back.

“Why—why are we…?” Euram began, only to be hushed again by his father.

“Shh, shh. Not a word! Simply look, my son!” With that, Salum unlocked the wardrobe and pulled open the doors. If Euram had still been groggy, he was snapped fully awake by the sight that met his eyes.

There, in their very own basement, was one of the Falenan Royal Family’s sacred runes, complete with the statue to which it was attached.

Euram gasped, his eyes growing wide with amazement. “This! Is it…?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Salum explained, triumphantly. “Behold, the Dawn Rune itself!”

“D-Dad! It is…it is ours?” Euram’s eyes lit up like a young boy discovering his birthday present. “But, but how—?”

“Never you mind that. Do not worry yourself with ‘how’. And there is certainly no need to worry yourself further over that ghastly business at the garrison. It is all worth it, and it is all right now. Everything is right, my darling son. This will be our secret, yes?”

“Yes sir.” Nodding, Euram eyed the rune in wonder. All at once however, his expression darkened with fear. “But—but won’t they know? I mean, it will be missed, right? Dad?”

“Indeed, it will be missed. But we will hardly be held in suspicion, you see? It was not our people involved in that nefarious uprising, my boy. Oh, no, no! Do you not see, my precious son? And think of it: we merely saved the Dawn Rune from unfriendly hands! It is our responsibility, my lad, to keep such things safe from those who would use them wrongly! Imagine what might have happened had that foul, vile, despicable Godwin managed to pluck the Dawn Rune for his own? No, we have done Falena a valuable service taking this precious artifact of power and hiding it away! And it shall be our secret. The whereabouts of the Dawn Rune will never be uttered. Do you understand?”

Euram nodded, pleased but obviously confused by this somewhat staggering development. Clearly Salum was not satisfied with the blank look he received from his heir, and he grabbed him suddenly, turning him to face him and gripping him hard by the shoulders.

“Euram my boy, this is very important. You hear me, son, and hear me good. This is to be undeniably, unequivocally, irrefutably between us. You are never, not in a thousand years, to breathe a word of what you know. Am I understood?”

Startled now, Euram didn’t need to be told twice. Even if he did not fully understand the implications, the tone in his father’s voice frightened him almost as much as the crowds at the garrison had, and he nodded his head rapidly.

“Y-yes! B-but Norden…he knows all about what happened at the garrison! He might…”

“I will handle it,” Salum reassured. He would have the vice-Captain watched, would have his every step hounded by spies. He would hire as many as were necessary to guard the truth.

Euram Barows nodded again. Still, even though he remained bewildered by everything he was attempting to take in, he could not help but grow increasingly uncomfortable. Somehow, the young man developed a sinking feeling that something very big had happened. Big, and terrible, he feared. And whatever it was that had occurred, he had helped cause it.

*****

I should have listened to Norden. Oh, why oh why did I not listen to him?

Because I was scared. I had not felt comfortable in the position to start, but I dared not disobey Dad. I didn’t know what I was doing.
I had never felt so helpless, so out of control.

And when I returned home and discovered that my father had in his possession the Dawn Rune—that he had had it stolen secretly in the confusion of the uprising, I did not know what to think. I knew even less what to think about what happened next.

The people of Lordlake were soon after declared traitors.

The flash of light from Lordlake was blinding, even from Rainwall. I remember how we saw it out the window, how the flare had frightened me. Only the next day did I discover what exactly had happened. The Queen had taken possession of the Sun Rune, and had used it to punish Lordlake. Their crime: rising up and storming the East Palace. And stealing the Dawn Rune.

The town was scorched, most of it decimated, many innocent citizens killed. Women, children, elderly ones—people who had nothing to do with the uprising in the first place—paid the price. And now I know that the uprising was not even intended to be an uprising, but a simple and peaceful protest. Had I not been so foolish, so stupid…oh, I fear I will never rid myself of this terrible guilt!

The leader of Lordlake, Lord Rovere, was blamed and executed, along with his entire family. I learned later that he had been the very one calming the people, hoping to avert violence. It does not surprise me. Rovere too was a noble. But he was…an honorable man. Unlike my father. Unlike me.

Who is to say Father would not have got his hands upon that rune one way or another? Still, I can only live with the knowledge that it should have been Rainwall that was punished, the ones executed Father and I.
For two long years they suffered, without water, without relief. Such was their punishment, all for our sins.
Not only did I assist my father, I remained silent. In my cowardice, my fear of Dad and bringing retribution upon myself, I remained silent while Lordlake suffered endless drought, disease and famine.
Oh, I have earned this terrible fate! The disgrace I now bear, the punishment Gizel lays upon me is nothing, nothing compared to the misery those innocents bore.

It was then that this war truly began. All this destruction, all this loss of life…it is all the end result of our crimes two years ago.

It is for this reason I must rid myself of the stain that is the name Barows. I cannot bear to continue beneath that shameful appellation. That name which invokes immediate disgrace and disdain upon its very utterance. It is not that I am undeserving of such contempt: I do not wish to hide from who I was, nor do I wish to deceive others from it. But ridding myself of the name will at least allow me to move forward. That is, if I am ever afforded the opportunity to do so. I regret that I am presently unable to do much.

Given the chance, I will do what I may. I realize dropping my name will not mend my ills. No, no! That alone will not suffice! If only I could go to the citizens of Lordlake now…

He was interrupted from his thoughts as a group of guards arrived to escort him to the baths.

For some reason, they were not as cruel as usual, though they still treated him with disdain. They cleansed him out yet again, although this time he almost welcomed it, if only just to get that man off of him and out of him: his touch, his scent, every trace of him washed away. Soon after this unpleasant task was done, Sherina arrived, infallible as ever.

Euram was beyond grateful to see her.

“Are you all right?” she asked at length, after she had helped ease him into the soothing water.

“I am…fine, milady,” he answered after a moment, not wanting to trouble her with his own problems after she had gone to such lengths to give him some comfort. Basking in her touch, he closed his eyes and tried to forget the darker thoughts in his mind. Somehow, he did not feel like explaining how he had been forced to lie with another, how he had been humiliated and hurt and that he was feeling more animosity than usual towards his “master” at the moment. And it did not help knowing all his pain and suffering were only what he deserved.

He still did not think she understood. How could she? Surely if she understood the magnitude of his wickedness she would not treat him so well. By all rights she should not bother with him. Nor should anyone. He had no right to feel sorry for himself.

“It is something you would rather not speak of,” she concluded. Euram sighed. She was too clever. And, he supposed, he was just that transparent. He had never been any good at masking his emotions.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so melancholy. It isn’t fair to you.”

“Nonsense. What ever do you mean by that?”

“I mean that it isn’t fair that you do so much to help me, only to have me sit here and sulk.”

He heard her sigh. “Oh, Euram,” she chided, wettening a cloth and drawing it across his shoulders. “Do you think I do not understand? Do you think I expect more from you? How blind would I have to be?”

He reached out a hand to her, offering to take the cloth himself so that he could at least contribute and not have her do all the work for him. While he welcomed the soothing touch of her ministrations, it made him feel useless and selfish.

“It is just that, you do so much for me, and speak so much kindness. And that I have never thought to ask you about yourself. Have you a family?”

At this, Sherina paused in her task of emptying shampoo soap into her palm. Euram winced, afraid that he had brought up a tender subject.

“I have a brother, actually,” she said at length. “I am not married, though I nearly was, at one point. He was a good man, but we were simply too different. My brother was…drafted into the Godwin army following the coup, and sent away to Doraat. He has not been heard of since the Loyalists took the city.”

Euram flinched, suddenly wishing he hadn’t asked.

“I…I’m sorry,” he said at last, feeling the words were insufficient and awkward.

“Oh, no. It is all right. I am…an optimist. Until I know for certain he is dead, I prefer to assume he is alive.”

At that moment Euram straightened some, taking strength from her sanguinity and wanting to encourage her, just as she had done for him.

“I think he is alive, milady. And I think you will see him again.”

“Thank you, Euram.”

A further swell of anger came over Euram just then, an anger towards Gizel and his father for having wrenched the country from the Royal family. The repercussions felt by the citizens were hardly limited to those here in Sol-Falena. His own home, Rainwall, had been conquered as well, its men drafted and taken away, many still not accounted for even now after Rainwall’s liberation. There were countless individuals just like Sherina, whose loved ones were ripped from them and forced into a war most of them did not support. How many were in Sherina’s situation now, he wondered?

And yet, how could he hate Gizel for that, when he himself had helped deprive who knew how many others of their loved ones through his own actions? How many people had their brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, parents, grandparents, taken from them in the blink of an eye? How many had their loved ones instantaneously disintegrated by the Sun Rune, with nothing left of them to even lay to rest? And how many after had perished of illness, or drought?

Shuddering, Euram tried to force the thought from his head.

In a way, he and his father were just as much to blame as Gizel and Marscal Godwin for the current loss of Sherina’s brother. Their actions had set everything into motion, and all had accumulated into this conflict that currently held all of Falena and beyond even to Armes in its grasp. Even if the Prince and his army soon put an end to the war, the ramifications would be felt by countless citizens for years to come. And now the threat of the Sun Rune loomed near again, should Gizel and his father be desperate enough to use it. He hated to think what would happen should they attempt to turn its wrath upon the Loyalist Army. The worst part of it was he had no means of judging how much of Gizel’s threats were bluffing.

There were so many things he wished he could change, wished he could take back. Euram closed his eyes again and pushed back the tears that threatened to swell from within him. He didn’t want to cry in front of her here, now. It would just seem ungrateful.

“Milady…” Euram began at once, after a long spell of silence. “…do you believe a terrible man can change? Even if he has spent most of his life thinking only of himself, and hurting others, and not caring?”

“Of course,” she replied without any measure of hesitation. “I believe a man is only terrible as far as he allows himself to be. Sometimes a person only has to be made to see the good in him.” She helped him rinse the last of the soap from his hair. “And whatever fate it is you fear for yourself, Euram, you are not doomed to it. I can see as much in your eyes. I know you wish to flee your past, but you cannot do that. You can only accept and embrace it as part of you, and learn from it, and use it to help you try to become the person you want to be. I do not know if that makes any sense…but that is the best I can offer.”

Euram shook his head. No, it made perfect sense.

“Bless you, milady. Bless you,” he gushed. Euram managed a smile then, swallowing back tears. “Your words—you cannot know how much they mean to a wretch like me. And I would hug you, but I fear I would sully your dress,” he confessed, nodding down at his damp state with a chuckle.

She laughed, her voice as clear and pure as the Feitas to his ears as she leaned down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders without pause.

“You are quite ridiculous, Euram,” she chuckled, pleasantly. At this, Euram himself managed a giggle.

“So I’ve been told,” he admitted, hugging her tight and releasing the sob that had built up inside him.

For several long moments she held him in silence, simply patting and comforting him. She could feel his misery: it practically seeped from his pores, and she knew that beyond what he revealed to her, there were other things that he continued to guard, things he was keeping buried deep, likely out of shame. Finally she released him, and moved to help him rise.

“Now, I want you to stop this self-loathing you seem to have made a habit of, hmm? It isn’t good for you.”

“As you wish, milady,” Euram nodded, stepping out of the water and accepting the offered towel and wrapping himself tight. “And thank you yet again for taking such splendid care of me. Your skills put the waters of Yashuna to shame.”

“Hardly!” she waved him off with a small laugh. “You are ever the flatterer.”

“Again, so I’ve been told,” he smiled, tossing her a wink.

“Do not worry, dear. You will have your chance for the redemption you seek, Euram. Just not yet. You must be patient. This will all pass, with time.”

***

Gizel was not back by the time he was returned. Euram heard the key turn in the lock, securing him inside, and just as always it made his heart sink a little. He felt caged, lonely.

He pulled the robe to him, wishing he would be allowed to wear it indefinitely but knowing Gizel preferred him in the bare. Yet again, he found himself wondering what to do with himself. Normally he would have been scurrying to complete one of Gizel’s chores, fearful lest the other man arrive beforehand. Now, he was unsure of how to occupy himself.

Thinking of something he had meant to do for a while, he presently rushed to the cushions where he kept his journal and retrieved it from beneath the pillows. Glancing about the room, his eyes came to rest upon the dresser against the wall. Hurrying over, he found that there was just enough space between the wall and the dresser itself for him to slip the little book. Quickly he slid the journal into its new hiding place.

Just let him find it there, he thought, smugly.

With that done, he moved over and settled himself at Gizel’s writing desk, and looked up to stare out the window. When Gizel was here, the window was normally cracked open so that one could see clearly out into the gardens. Now, it was closed tight, and the design of the pane obscured the view, but he could still see the blue tint of the sky, just enough to make him long to be beneath it again. He had been here long enough to miss the outdoors. He missed Rainwall, its flowing rivers and waterfalls. He missed the castle in Ceras Lake and the view from there. He missed strolling along the bridges and breathing the air and being with Luserina, especially after the short time he had been given to spend with her.

With a sigh, Euram laid his head upon the desk and closed his eyes, trying to picture in his mind those places that made him feel happiest.

He was not sure how long he’d slept. But he heard the door unlock and quickly snapped awake, lifting his head from the desk and sitting upright. He imagined he must have slept awhile, as the light outside the window appeared to be dimming considerably.

Euram turned. It was Gizel.

Almost on impulse he rose to greet him, an overwhelming anger flowing over him. He wanted to yell at him, to curse him for leaving him with Byron. Jaw clenching, he watched as Gizel casually entered the room and removed his gloves, ignoring him.

How dare he! Euram’s fists clenched into balls, and he was filled with the urge to shout, to rail at him for making him go to that foul Byron, for putting him through such abuse!

Without so much as acknowledging him, Gizel moved to light a few candles and a small lamp to brighten the room, then went to his chair by the hearth and sat. Only after a long silence did he finally speak.

“How went your night with Lord Byron? Did you enjoy it?”

Of course not, you bastard! Euram wanted to scream! And yet, for reasons unknown to him, he scurried to Gizel instead and fell to his knees, bending in supplication.

“How could you send me to that man?” he whined. “Why did you make me lie with him?”

Watching this reaction, the Commander laughed quietly.

“I shall take that as a ‘no’.”

“Gizel, Your Majesty!” Euram clutched lightly but respectfully at the hem of his robe. “Was it something I did? Did you intend to punish me? If I displease you in some way, tell me, allow me to correct it, but please, don’t ever send me to another again, I beg you!” He almost hated himself for capitulating this way, and he wasn’t certain why he was doing it when everything inside him wanted to retaliate.

Gizel looked down at the younger man at his feet while Euram clutched at him, his head bowed reverentially. He had once heard that in order to make a slave appreciate you, one had only to force him to experience a crueler master and he would be grateful for the one he had. He now knew it was correct, for it had worked a charm with Euram. His evening with Lord Byron had sent the boy slinking back to his arms like a whipped dog.

All at once Gizel remembered the image of Byron ravishing Euram and a severe annoyance grew in him, like a slow-acting poison creeping its way through his veins. Euram’s cries, his pleas for mercy, the sounds of the other man grunting as he had raped the brat—it all came back to him then for some reason, and the effect the memory had on him was unexpected. Almost on impulse, he reached down and pulled his prisoner into his lap, kissing him possessively.

“You are actually quite lucky,” Gizel said, stroking him. “Byron was not as terrible as others you could have been sent to satisfy. You knew of Jidan Guisu.”

Euram nodded, recalling the name of the Armes general with whom his father had conspired, before the Prince and his tactician had ruined Salum’s plans.

“He had mentioned taking revenge on your flesh when I offered Armes your territories in exchange for helping us defeat the rebels. He was quite looking forward to it. He was most displeased with you, but I’m sure you must know that. He told me the story. How you came to him on the battlefield as your father’s lackey and presumed to direct him, his troops. How you fled like a cowardly dog once the battle turned sour--once the Prince foiled your ‘clever’ little plan.”

It wasn’t my ‘clever plan’, Euram thought. Still, he hung his head and sighed, wishing Gizel would not repeat to him such disgraceful things. He knew of the incident with Guisu. He remembered it. He did not need to be told of it again by Gizel.

“Guisu meant to have his retribution with you once I had turned Barows land over to Armes. He had been waiting for the opportunity to repay you properly, and I imagine his methods would have made Byron seem tame. You are lucky he is dead, and never had the opportunity to enact his revenge.”

Euram shuddered just thinking about having to submit to Jidan Guisu. The man had been extremely fat, extremely ugly and extremely cruel. He had not liked dealing with him, and had felt uncomfortable with his father’s alliance with the man, even though he knew Father had only been using Guisu and Armes. Just like he had been using the Prince. But again, he had not the courage to defy Salum.

The Commander stroked his back, almost lovingly it seemed. “And not a word from you as to my generosity. You haven’t even thanked me for your day off.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

“I decided since you apparently served Byron so well, you might need the time to...recuperate,” he said with a soft laugh. “So, tell me: how did you service him? Did you wetten his cock for him, service him with that lovely mouth?”

“Ohh. Yes, sir,” the other answered, averting his gaze.

Gizel made a sound of approval, though his questions were only intended for the amusement of hearing Euram’s replies. He knew exactly what had happened behind those doors in the guest quarters. He had seen it all.

“And did he spread you, make you squirm on his prick?”

Euram’s face burned. “Y-yes, my lord. But—please! I do not wish to be turned over to another again. Please do not make me. I wish only to serve you,” he appealed, suddenly nuzzling against him.

“Even now, you lie,” Gizel frowned at the fawning cuddles. At the same time, the other man squirming in his lap and pleading with him was deliciously erotic. “Do you still think I cannot see through you? You say such things only to get what you want, or to prevent what you don’t.”

“Oh, no, sir!” Euram promised, resting his head on the older man’s shoulder and snuggling close. “I wouldn’t lie to you, my lord. I enjoy serving you. I cannot bear the thought of being with another. I missed you horribly last night.”

Gizel came close to bursting out with a laugh. He was almost astounded at Euram’s shameless adulation, and by the blatant dishonesty of it. It amazed him, and yet it did not surprise him. Why should it? This was Euram Barows, after all, and never had there lived a more brazen sycophant. If nothing else, there was no end of entertainment to be had from it. He should probably punish him for such audacity, but he decided he could deal with that later, if he took the inclination.

“Well, then,” Gizel chuckled and tilted Euram’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “If that is the case, you may demonstrate to me just how much you appreciate your master.”

Suppressing a sigh, Euram slid obediently to the floor and reached up to release his lord’s length from his uniform.

“And remove that robe,” Gizel instructed, firmly. “You know I do not allow you to wear such things in my presence.”

Dutifully Euram shrugged the meager item from his shoulders, letting it fall from his body as he loosed the Commander’s organ. The cloth slid from him, baring his skin. Fully naked now to Gizel’s liking, he took the older man’s cock in hand and bent down, closing his warm mouth over the tip.

Gizel groaned softly, feeling the sweet wetness envelop him. The slick tongue began exploring him in earnest as Euram went to work. He had learned well, and had finally developed enough skill that he could be delightfully pleasing.

He remembered how he had taught Euram, how he’d had resisted at first. At the moment, Euram’s ministrations were so delicious, so diligent that Gizel hardly would have believed it was the same person. And whether it was sincere or not, he planned to enjoy it thoroughly.

Gizel threaded his fingers through Euram’s hair, sighing with approval. Euram met his gaze as he pleasured him, just as he knew his Commander liked, his lips stretched lovingly around his cock, a thin stream of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth as he bobbed back and forth.

“Mmmm. Good,” Gizel hummed, watching him absorbedly. Pushing gently, he urged Euram to take him further. Euram obeyed, dipping his head down, opening his throat and taking him deeper, drawing an appreciative moan from his master. The older man could feel the soft cavern constrict and finally adjust to him, Euram’s lips slurping and manipulating him so thoroughly it sent shivers up his spine.

Euram’s mouth was heavenly, his whimpers divine as he crooned endearment while he serviced Gizel. His tongue moved to toy with the slit, drawing nectar to the surface. At this, the Commander rose from his seat and cradled a hand to the back of Euram’s golden head, holding him gently in place as he began slowly to slide in and out. Never letting his gaze slip, Euram matched his rhythm. His mouth and jaw ached, and Gizel knew this. Still, his prisoner’s efforts were admirable, astonishing even, and Gizel decided at that moment that if this was Euram’s idea of buttering him up, then he certainly could not fault him for it.

“There you are. Wonderful, Euram,” he praised, and was rewarded with a whimper and increased effort. The boy’s cheeks hollowed, the suction drawing another sound from Gizel. Gently Gizel pressed him, and dutifully Euram pulled him even deeper into his throat, until he had the entire length.

Euram’s gag reflex threatened, and he willed it to subside. His mouth was indeed quite sore, but for some pressing reason he felt the need, no, almost the desire to please his master. He sighed and opened his throat to the invasion, applying his spit, his cheek muscles, his tongue in harmony.

Holding his head, Gizel rocked with long, full strokes, forcing Euram to swallow him deep with each thrust. And Euram did so, obediently gazing up at him and unfaltering, even as the tears began to leak from his eyes. By the Sun, it was a beautiful sight! The image alone was almost enough to make him come: Euram, knelt in submission, servicing him as he accepted the ravishment of his mouth, all the while meeting his gaze in full acknowledgment of Gizel’s mastery of him. His lips and chin were soaked, his throat pulsing, constricting around Gizel as the older man glided in and out.

“Mmmm. Good, good boy,” he purred, reaching up with his free hand to stroke his prisoner’s cheek and brush away tears. Euram moaned in response, quickening his efforts, pleasuring him as passionately as would an adoring lover. The younger man’s whimpers, the little slurping sounds that slipped from his lips, the streams of spit and precome that wept down his chin—it all was quickly becoming too much for Gizel. The Commander’s breath grew hoarse, and threads of pleasure twined through him, tugged at him, all coalescing to tighten in his belly. He felt his resolve melting, the sensations of the velvet warmth of Euram’s mouth enchanting. Gizel almost growled.

“Ahh! I’m going to come!” he gasped at once. “You will swallow it, all of it.”

Euram closed his eyes, intent on the request. Within two more thrusts, Gizel tightened and shuddered and erupted, releasing his pleasure into his slave’s hot mouth. Euram locked his lips and opened his throat, sucking deep, shuddering and forcing his reluctant reflexes as he obediently swallowed the bitter seed, taking every drop down his throat for the first time.

After the throes had left him fully, Gizel slipped from his mouth and collapsed back in his chair, panting huskily. Euram knelt at his feet, catching his own breath and awaiting his lord’s next command. The former noble wiped his chin and waited, passive and silent. Just as he knew Gizel preferred.

It was several minutes later when Gizel reached up and tilted the younger man’s face. Euram’s lips were red and swollen from his efforts, his eyes red from the sting of tears that had escaped as a result of having his throat opened and ravished. Gizel smiled down at him, and it was unlike the one of patronizing amusement that Euram was used to. It looked nearly…genuine?

In a way, it was. He was proud of Euram. Very proud. And very pleased.

“That was….perfect. You have learned quite well,” Gizel stroked his cheek almost lovingly. “And you swallowed all that I fed you. Perhaps your ineptitude is not wholly incurable. What a sweet pet you’re turning out to be.”

In spite of himself, Euram sighed with relief. He knew the insult for what it was, but at this point he would welcome anything resembling approval. “Thank you, my lord. Does this mean you will keep me for yourself from now on? Please? Please say you won’t send me away to pleasure some terrible old lord again.”

Gizel chuckled, amused at how Euram had perked up like a dog at his praise. “Well, we will see. But for now, you need not worry. And…” he lifted his face, looking his slave in the eye. “…since you have pleased me so well, I shall reward you.”

Euram gasped in surprise when the larger man suddenly scooped him up and lifted him into his arms, carrying him to the bed where he lied him down on his back so his head rested upon the soft pillow.

Gizel noticed Euram’s own arousal had grown from pleasuring him, and was half hard between his pale thighs. The older man only looked him over for a moment, admiring the beautiful flesh before him. Gizel’s fingers touched silk skin, traced a path along his chest, passing over soft nipples. The little buds hardened at the touch, still sensitive no doubt from Byron’s treatment. Further down Gizel let his hands wander, towards his stomach and to the naval where he dipped a finger into the bellybutton, making him squirm.

Euram bit his lip, perplexed. It was strange, but the way the older man was touching him felt nice. He was afraid it would not last, and he closed his eyes and waited for the moment when he would be spread open and roughly entered. But Gizel’s fingers glided further down, until gentle digits brushed his sensitive organ, which responded to the touch. He gasped as the warm hand encircled his length and slowly began to manipulate his flesh.

“Oh! G-Gizel...!” Out of words, Euram moaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

Upon receiving the reaction he had aimed for, the Commander laughed softly. Watching his prisoner’s face, Gizel stroked him slowly, tantalizingly, making him squirm and mewl softly beneath his touch. If Euram looked beautiful in pain, he looked nothing short of delicious enveloped in pleasure, and he studied him intently as his lashes fluttered and his fair face flushed a healthy wash of pink.

Greedily he dropped down, and with his other hand, Gizel spread his legs wide, urging him to bend his knees, and then swathed his fingers down to tickle and tease at the soft sacs. He was rewarded with another gurgled gasp and a twitch. Euram gave a soft hum, almost like the purr of a kitten, and Gizel’s fingers slithered further down. Slowly, delicately he traced a trail down the naked balls and along the cleft until he brushed the small bud of Euram’s entrance. Delicately he circled the opening, a touch that was met with a whimper of sudden distress as the abused hole shivered.

“Ahh, yes,” Gizel breathed, his voice low. “You are very tender here, are you not?” Euram whimpered an affirmative. “Well, I shall simply have to be gentle, won’t I?”

Glancing up to where his hand manipulated the thin column of flesh between the other noble’s thighs, he saw that a drip of precome glazed the tip. Smiling wickedly, Gizel reached up and swathed his finger over the slit, gathering the little dew drop onto his fingertip to lubricate his digit before he slipped his hand back down and carefully wriggled his finger inside the tight, heated passage.

He felt the body go rigid at the intrusion, a small pleading complaint spilling from Euram as he breached the soreness. This time, however, he was gentle, careful, and he knew those stifled whimpers of pain would gradually fade. Intently he stroked his prisoner’s need, aiming to dissolve the hurt and replace it with something else. Gradually, the younger man’s lips parted, a breathless groan spilling from him.

Swelling with triumph, he worked his finger in deeper. Inner tissue clasped at him as he wriggled further inside. At last, he gently crooked his finger and found the little node he’d been looking for. And he knew he had found the right place when he heard his slave gasp and moan, felt him shiver, saw his eyes fling wide.

Euram clutched at the sheets and writhed against Gizel’s grip, which pumped more insistently in response. Euram’s breath had quickened, his chest rising and falling with short gasps, hips squirming as the younger man sought further purchase within Gizel’s hand. The Commander stroked him faster and began to draw his other finger slowly out. The passage clutched at him, and he smoothly plunged back inside, wiggling, feeling his partner shiver again as he nudged that little spot within him.

“Oh, oohh, G-Gizel...I...!” Euram panted, pleading, though he was plainly unsure for what he was begging. Smirking, Gizel crooked his finger again, eliciting a whimper and a quick thrust upward. His slave’s writhing grew more urgent, more desperate, Euram now feeding Gizel lovely, gasping moans.

Euram’s heart fluttered, his body heating pleasantly beneath Gizel's ministrations. But he felt something different, a sort of need he had yet to quite experience during his time with the Commander.

Certainly he was no stranger to such things, exactly. He had pleasured himself countless times, tucked away in his room at Rainwall as he guiltily fisted himself to climax. And Gizel himself had forced him to come more than once. But this was…different. This was something that was being granted to him without accompanying hurt and fear, and he was now matching Gizel’s manipulations with crooning pleas while his body quivered, helpless upon the sheets.

Gizel was pleased. This was a better reaction than he had expected. Working his finger inside, he gripped the younger man’s need and caressed him vigorously, his own breath heaving as he stroked his slave closer and closer to his peak. Gizel caressed a thumb over the head and spread the gathering precome over the tip, then worked his hand with purpose. He wanted to see Euram come, to see him give himself over to his touch and to know he enjoyed it. He wanted Euram to know he had enjoyed it, and to know that he belonged to him.

Watching Euram’s fevered expression, Gizel wriggled another finger inside and glided both in deep, manipulating that pleasure button and feeling the younger man shudder.

With a choked gasp, Euram stiffened, his back arching off the bed. He thrashed and his head thrust back onto the pillow, golden hair spilling over enraptured features as he gave a high, strangled cry and lurched in orgasm. His tight channel clutched and contracted around the Commander’s fingers, and the former nobleman cried out as his body shook with climax, his completion weeping over Gizel’s fist and glistening there in the candlelight.

And he finally collapsed, the clutch of release trickling away and allowing his limbs to relax. Gizel withdrew his fingers, making his prisoner gasp. The younger man lay there panting, speechless, his eyes lidded.

Euram’s breathing gradually subsided.

“G…Gizel …” he breathed through his dry throat, swallowing.

The Commander chuckled and studied him. He allowed the other a few minutes to recover before he lifted his wrist to Euram’s mouth, prompting him to lick his hand clean. Gizel watched with satisfaction as Euram obeyed, moistening his lips and lapping his own come from his hand. At length he fell back onto the pillow. Pulling himself up to lounge beside Euram, Gizel propped himself on an elbow and reached out to brush stray blonde strands from the flushed face.

“And?” he prompted.

“M-my lord?” Euram stammered, bewildered as he lay basking in the afterglow of his newest and unexpected climax.

“How did you like that?”

“I…!” Euram’s eyes snapped fully open again, as though he were surprised at the question. He blushed then, as if unsure how to answer, or simply shy to do so. “I…it was…I mean….” He swallowed, still gaining his bearings. “Th-thank you, Gizel…Your Majesty!”

Gizel chuckled at the younger man’s stunned response and ran a finger along Euram’s collar, lightly stroking the leather. Euram belonged to him, and only him.

But why did he care? This fool…this idiotic fool. He was cowardly, insincere and stupid. Why did Gizel suddenly feel so adamantly possessive of this wretch?

Gizel studied the other man carefully. Euram had calmed and his eyelids were slipping, his consciousness along with them, it seemed.

Ever since he had witnessed Lord Byron’s rape of the younger man, Gizel had felt as though he never wanted such a thing to happen again. But it didn’t make sense. He cared nothing for Euram, and as such, something of the sort should not have affected him. He cared nothing for him, nothing at all!

Then why had he just been so tender with him?

Simple. He had taken pity on him, nothing more. It was a small mercy that Euram should be grateful for, and should not expect to receive again. Tomorrow, Gizel planned to give him such a terrible fucking that it would erase Euram’s memory of Byron forever.

As Gizel contemplated thus, his prisoner shifted, rolling over onto his side and moving closer to him. Whether or not it was a conscious move, it irritated Gizel, and he opened his mouth to banish him from the bed and to the cushions instead.

But the command caught in his throat as he looked upon the younger man. Euram curled contentedly into him, trusting.

Sighing, Gizel decided it was all right for now. He would allow him this reprieve, just for this night. Tomorrow, things would go back to normal, and Euram would again greet his presence with dread.

Just then however, something else Euram had said to him crept into his thoughts to haunt him.

How long do you think this will last?

Euram’s words that day had led down a path that infuriated Gizel, and he had punished him severely. But part of the reason it had angered him so was because it had forced him to consider that very question. How long could this last?

Indeed, how long would his reign here continue? Things should have unfolded quite differently, had his full design gone according to plan...

Gizel had indeed “fixed” the Sacred Games to ensure his own victory. Through loosely-laid designs, he had succeeded in sabotaging Euram’s fighter, and he had also sabotaged the other favorite to win, that foreigner. That one he had had poisoned, making him lose the match to Gizel’s gladiator, Childerich. Most of this was well known to many by now. It was also common knowledge now that Childerich had not been a gladiator, but a skilled assassin.

Upon Gizel’s victory, Gizel and his father had soon traveled to Sol-Falena for the engagement ceremony, where he placed Dark Arcanum, a potent poison, into the banquet food. Using Zahhak and Alenia as his inside sources, he planned to drug everyone so that he could take over with as little bloodshed as possible. Nevertheless, the most important part of his plan was that the royal family needed to be killed—all save the future Queen and his future wife, Lymsleia.

Young Princess Lymsleia had been the only one who had mattered in his plan. Marrying her while she was yet so young gave him the advantage of being able to use her status for his and father’s ends. His “puppet Queen”, as it was said. And it would have been perfect, were it not for one small problem.

The rest of the royal family had not all been slain.

Queen Arshtat and Ferid had been prepared for the coup, but, by happy coincidence, a chaotic circumstance had led to their demise. However, that damn Prince and Lady Sialeeds had fled. And this was the source of his current problem.

Truthfully, he had not wanted to kill Sialeeds, but damn her! He could have been happy with her. It was she who had cancelled their engagement. Gizel had forced himself to accept that her death was necessary for the good of Falena. But she had survived along with her nephew, and the two of them had fled, along with the Queen’s Knight Georg Prime.

A convenient thing had at least presented itself from the situation. To the public, Gizel had announced that Georg had turned traitor and assassinated the Queen and her husband, kidnapping the Prince and Sialeeds in the process. The plan was to have them hunted and brought back, where they would all be dealt with. But that Prince had fled to Lord Barows in Rainwall, which had complicated matters. Old snake that he was, Salum Barows had welcomed the prince, had courted him and provided him the military clout to resist the pursuing Godwin armies and fight back. Gizel had then used his position as Commander-to-be to declare the Prince a traitor and rebel to throne, even though Lym had protested.

Working with Barows, the Prince had gained a measure of clout and even a few allies. But the Prince’s alliance with Barows had ended the day Lord Barows’ true intentions, as well as his involvement with Lordlake, had become clear.

The Prince abandoned Salum, as did Lord Barows’ followers, leaving Barows alone and without allies. This should have simplified things for Gizel, but the alliances the Prince had gained under Barows remained loyal to the Prince. And he had somehow managed to gain more. Perhaps the most damaging thing to Gizel was the unfortunate inclusion of the military strategist Lucretia Merces, who had once been Godwin’s tactician, into the rebel army. The woman was brilliant, and had cost Gizel’s plans numerous troubles. Damn that prince’s luck.

Had only that damn upstart of a Prince only been killed, as planned! And to think the Prince was the one he had been least concerned about. To think a Falenan royal male had given him such trouble, when he had been more worried about Sialeeds. And yet Sialeeds had betrayed her nephew and had defected to him. It was delightfully interesting how things had transpired, actually.

Of course Gizel was not foolish enough to think Lady Sialeeds did not have designs of her own. Nonetheless, her treachery had proved an asset to him, even if he was still unclear as to her motives.

But Euram’s words had reminded him that his days as Commander were likely numbered. That miserable Prince’s army of misfits had grown into something far more formidable. He had amassed the most unlikely selection of allies, some of them quite fearsome. From the most ridiculous bucolic ‘forces’ such as Lordlake and Raftfleet to foreign battalions and dragon knights, this so-called “Loyalist Army” had become a force to be reckoned with, and had even proven powerful enough to wrench his very own territory of Stormfist from his grasp. That damnable Prince had even managed to secure the insignificant Euram as an ally, even after the young Barows heir had gone to such ridiculous lengths to destroy him.

Of course Gizel had no reason to believe Euram’s allegiance was sincere. It was only typical of Euram Barows to ally himself with that side which he thought had the best chance of winning. By the time he had been allowed into the Loyalist Army, Euram’s faction had been crippled, broken. Just the same, if the tables turned now, Euram would just as quickly forsake his so-called ‘loyalty’ and defect so quickly the Prince’s head would spin. He had done it time and time again. Although he possessed none of his father’s cunning, just like any Barows, Euram was a treacherous coward, and he deserved no favor.

As Gizel considered this, he looked again to the young man beside him in anger.

Euram was fast asleep, breathing contentedly near him.

Gizel sighed, his anger subsiding. Idly he stroked the pale skin, thinking about how well Euram had pleased him. He had little doubt that this too was nothing more than a ploy to earn him better treatment and further privileges. But Gizel would humor him now. This night, and this night alone, would Barows receive a respite from his wrath.

As trying as Euram was, his words that day had made Gizel think, and now he was wondering—what would happen when the Loyalists did finally launch their attack. It would be very soon, he had no doubt. And, should all go as planned, he had a counter-measure in place: the Sun Rune.

He would not give up. He did not intend to step down willingly. If it came down to using the Sun Rune, to risking all that using the rune would involve risking, then he would do it. He would do it, rather than surrender. That was a choice he and his father had agreed upon.

One way or another, he knew that if it came down to it, one of them—either the Prince or Gizel himself—would perish. Both of them would not survive this. He had known that for a long time.

But those were worries he would trouble himself with tomorrow.

***

FAR AWAY, AT THAT MOMENT:

The tavern was located on the lowest floor of the Sindar Castle. And that was fine with Norden.

It was symbolism, he often told himself. It was symbolism that the place where congregated the lowest of the low be situated on the bottom floor. It was convenient anyhow, especially with the handy ‘elevator’ that crazy old scientist had installed.

Norden spent night after night here, ordering bottle after bottle. Sometimes, he would pass the time chatting with others who were likewise fond of their drink. Most often he was in the company of strange ones such as that gambler and smuggler Haleth, or, even more frequently, Egbert.

It was amusing, but wearisome. It got old listening to Egbert’s incoherent rantings. The company was almost always interesting, to say the least. But a tavern to Norden had become synonymous with ‘home’, no matter where he was.

He remembered fully why he had begun drinking.

It was part guilt and part anger. Guilt because he could have prevented what had happened. Guilt because he had feared defying Lord Barows’ witless dog of a son. And anger because he had gone so long not being able to say anything about it.

It had all begun with his assignment at the garrison two years ago. And his inability to simply say ‘no’.

But how could he have refused? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he should have refused.

But he had not. And that was the reason his life had fallen apart.

He’d subsequently lost his wife. She had grown tired of his drinking. But Barows’ goons following him, hovering over him, never giving him a moment’s peace had led him to the bottle. Lord Barows’ spies had put a terrible strain on his marriage, all because he could not reveal to his wife why he was being watched and followed. To tell her the truth would have placed her at risk. Lord Barows’ threats had made this painfully clear.

Pained by the devastation he had helped cause, Norden had found a friend in the booze.

He could not squeak a word about what he had seen, what he knew. He could not speak in defense of Lordlake, all to protect Barows and his idiot son!

That man should have never placed Euram there at the garrison, much less given him a position of authority. That boy, who was so incompetent he was incapable of tying his own shoes and probably feeding himself, and Salum had set him as superior to men far more trained and experienced in military procedure! And none of them, including himself, had been able to defy him.

But every day, Norden lived with the knowledge that he should have.

Thus, every day, he found himself drinking. Drinking to forget what had happened. Drinking to forget what he should have done.

Drinking to forget what had happened to Lordlake because he did not do what he should have done.

It had grown too much for his wife. Tired of his drinking, his lies, his secrecy, his evasions, she had left him.

And it was over two years later that his burden had lifted. Norden had finally been able to tell his story, when the Prince had arrived in his life. Along with the detective Oboro, the Prince had offered him protection, and prompted him to tell his story.

And he had told everything to the Prince and his allies. He’d revealed the truth, the real culprits exposed—and best of all, Norden had finally been able to tell Euram Barows off!

How liberating it had been for him to say all that he had felt like saying for years! He would never forget the shocked, indignant look on the boy’s face when he had called him exactly what he was: a damn fop!

And then, along with the detective, he had told everything he knew, while Salum and Euram Barows had stood sweating and seething and squirming.

That had been the day his burden had lifted considerably.

So why, then, was he still drinking?

Was it because he missed his wife? Was it because he had still yet to heal? Was it simply because it was something he had been doing for so long he could not relieve himself of the crutch?

Or was it merely an excuse now?

Norden didn’t know. All he knew now was that, even though the reason he had begun drinking in the first place had been removed from his conscience somewhat, he always now managed to find a reason to drink.

He supposed part of it was that he missed companionship. Indeed, he did miss his wife. But there were other things on his mind as well.

The impending battle was troubling, naturally. He knew that soon they would storm Sol-Falena, and they had all been made aware of the danger that might greet them. Godwin had possession of the Sun Rune, after all: that terrible item of power that had decimated much of Lordlake in a flash. That rune that was alleged to have destroyed entire kingdoms in the past—this was what they were potentially up against.

He wished that rune had never existed.

Norden was also just as worried as anyone about Lady Lyon, the Prince’s bodyguard. The young woman was still recovering from her wounds, and he knew the Prince was troubled by her injury. Had it not been for the Dawn Rune, she would have perished. And Norden knew that it pained the Prince all the more knowing his own aunt, the Lady Sialeeds, was largely responsible for Lyon’s injury. Sialeeds’ betrayal had reverberated throughout the army, and had taken its toll on everyone’s morale.

But there were other thoughts that nagged at him, too, things that should not have bothered him.

From the gossip and whispers that flowed through the castle, he had also been made aware that that idiot Euram Barows had also been taken captive by Godwin. Well, either he had been made captive or had defected, depending upon to whom one listened.

Norden was of course inclined to believe the latter. And he wanted to believe the latter. But somehow, he couldn’t.

He couldn’t believe that Euram would betray them now. In spite of his hatred for Euram and everything Barows, he could not believe it, no matter how dearly he wanted to.

And it was all because Euram had come to him less than two short weeks ago.

FLASHBACK

He was alone, yet again. The ones he usually spent his time hobnobbing with had since retired, or, in Egbert’s case, wandered off to patrol the castle aimlessly. Norden had been left alone to drink away the wee hours. It had become his ritual.

He knew not what time it was. It didn’t matter. He would finish this bottle, and if he had not yet passed out once it was done, he would order another. He had felt that comfortable alcoholic ‘click’ hours ago, and now only waited for the sweet juice of oblivion to carry him into blissful unconsciousness.

It was then that he heard something unexpected: a hated voice that had plagued his nightmares.

“I thought I would find you here.”

Scowling, Norden whirled about in his barstool. A wavering swirl of color circled and then leveled into his focus, and he recognized those loud, obnoxious colors of finery.

Euram Barows.

Norden’s eyes narrowed at the young man in disbelief. That he would have the nerve to come here and speak to him now!

He was about to scream at him, punch him, demand to know what the hell he was doing here...!

But there was a strange and unpretentious manner to Euram’s voice, and in the way he carried himself, that was not right.

No, it was not right at all. It was different…

“Wwhhat do youu wannnt?” Norden found himself slurring, wondering what business he could possibly think the two of them had to discuss.

He waited for the younger man’s temper to flare, for him to stomp over and shout in his face—and Norden would be ready for it, he thought, his fists curling. He needed no longer fear this little dunce, and would take intense pleasure in pummeling him the moment he provoked him.

But, to Norden’s profound bewilderment, Euram did no such thing.

The young man approached him slowly, his gaze oddly averted. Norden might have questioned what he was seeing, but as he was currently seeing four of the lad, it was rather difficult to dispute. Euram carried a solemn look, his expression sincere and missing the boastful vanity he normally wore.

“How many nights have you spent unable to sleep?” the boy asked him, then.

Norden eyed him, his anger swelling. Was this brat patronizing him? He prepared to lash out and demand why Euram had dared come here, when the younger man bowed low.

“I could not sleep, either. I could not sleep—because I was thinking about you.”

Blinking, Norden lowered his clenched fist. What was this—?

“I have not even the right to look you in the eye,” Euram continued, without rising. “You knew. You knew what would happen. And I didn’t listen. I wouldn’t listen. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was so stupid. I’m sorry I was such a fool.”

Norden suddenly sobered, his confusion and shock from this occurrence overriding any liquor that pulsed through his veins.

“Euram?”

The elder man reached out and caught Euram’s chin gently in hand. He lifted his face towards him, softly forcing him to rise. Euram’s eyes glistened with tears. A wayward drop trickled from his lashes, and Norden could see for the first time true pain in his eyes. It was startling, almost. Even now, the younger man refused to meet his gaze.

“Norden. I…I have caused you…irreparable anguish with my stupidity, my thoughtlessness. My cowardice. And I know you cannot forgive me. But please…please, know this: the blame for what happened to Lordlake lies not with you, Norden. It lies with me.”

Norden regarded him with disbelief. All violence he had felt towards the boy suddenly dashed from his thoughts.

Whereas a moment before Norden had wanted to pound him, he now sighed, and turned instead to pat the barstool beside him.

“Care to join me?”

***

And Euram had reluctantly accepted.

The young Barows had even accepted a drink, and had explained to him that night now frightened he had been at the garrison two years ago.

Euram had confessed that he had felt terribly out of place, and that he had never been so scared in his life—and that he had regretted his actions ever since such terrible retribution had been rained upon Lordlake.

And hearing Euram speak so openly, so honestly, Norden had actually felt for him. Somehow, he had forgiven him.

The next day, unbeknownst to the remorseful Barows, Norden had even written the Prince a letter on Euram’s behalf, revealing what he had learned and urging His Highness to forgive Euram his part in the Lordlake episode, even though he knew the Prince had already forgiven him. He had felt as though Euram’s side of the story needed to be told to their leader.

That night had changed Norden’s opinion of Euram Barows. But it had also changed his opinion of Euram’s father.

He had never hated Salum Barows more.

And now, he found himself arguing with those who spoke that the late Senator’s young heir had betrayed them. Always they handed him the same quarrels: how could he defend the scoundrel responsible for his grief? And finally, how could he believe that that selfish, spoiled and deceitful noble had not flipped to Godwin for his own gain after securing the Prince’s trust?

He had no clear answers for those questions.

And never had he imagined he would catch himself thinking such, but now, he actually hoped Euram Barows would be all right.
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The Recreant of Rainwall (Cruel Twist of Fate)