Chapter Text
Charming Minx held up the suit jacket and helped him slip his arms into the silk-lined sleeves. He rolled his shoulders so that it settled crisply. Made you stand up straight to wear this kind of swank.
She did a slow circle of inspection and gave him a satisfied nod. “Top notch.”
Top notch indeed. Here he was in his palace, dressed to the nines, a full demigod with powers and worshippers and his very own domain, and now, soon, the one thing that was missing. He had it all.
Minx slipped a rosebud into his buttonhole and grinned her sharp fox teeth. “Anything else, Highness?”
“Nah, that’ll do. You go on ahead. I just need to…”
He wasn’t sure what he needed to do.
She shrugged. “See you there.”
He watched her bushy white tail disappear as the gate snapped shut behind her, and then he was alone.
Time to have a look. Grabbing his top hat on the way by he went and stood in front of the big gilt mirror in the corner of his dressing chamber and carefully slotted the brim between his horns and tucked his curls aside, angling his chin up and striking a sophisticated pose.
He gave himself a jaunty smile: yellow eyes and canines just a little sharper than they ought to be, curling demonic horns, a tail sticking out absurdly from under the tails of his suit jacket.
There were times it snuck up and pounced on him. The Shadow. The Woljif that once was. Sometimes it had Gran’s voice.
And just who do you think you are?
He turned sharply from his reflection and went out to the balcony to try to clear his head, as if he could run from that voice and leave it hanging in the air behind him.
It followed. Worthless two-bit demonspawn dressed up like some organ-grinder’s imp. They’ll see right through it.
The feeling came over him as it sometimes did that all of this was impossible. It must be some kind of mistake, because nice things were not for the likes of him.
He felt that fierce longing in his ribs again like years ago when he would press his face to Fyllemen’s window just to gaze at the Moon of the Abyss. To want and to rage. To cook up all the plots and plans in the world and still know—these things are not for the likes of you.
And then one day he discovered the one thing he wanted even more, and he could feel all the confusion and pain again just as it had been.
The time they camped in the Worldwound. Must have been before Blackwater. They set up on the banks of a brook and risked a campfire, and the sound of running water provided enough cover for a little gentle guitar music, so they all sat around and rested their aching feet and listened. The music eased their cramping muscles and buoyed their burdened spirits, and not just thanks to Elysian magic; in the midst of the bloody Crusade the simple beauty was both a reminder and a promise. And a gift, but gifts were not something he’d ever been offered before, and he felt as if he were committing a theft by listening.
He’d glanced around to make sure no one was watching him. Lann had second watch and was already asleep. Daeran lay on his back, facing away, one foot moving to the music. Arue was off scouting, Seelah was praying, Nenio—didn’t matter. Unobserved, he stole a look.
The warm glow of the firelight on Siavash’s burnished-gold hair. The point of a half-elven ear. The way his kind eyes glazed over as he played. The patch of skin at his open collar where the butterfly pendant perched. The soft colors of his clothes. The face that made Woljif’s heart ache.
He let his gaze travel down to the hand on the guitar strings. Imagined those fingers caressing his cheek.
These things are not for the likes of you.
His usual response—then I’ll steal them—didn’t work this time. I can’t make him love me.
He remembered thinking that just having him as a friend was already pretty good. But he wanted more, and it made him want and rage just like the Moon of the Abyss used to, but it was a different sort of longing. For the Moon it was hot and sharp. He could feel it burning in his teeth and his fingers. The longing he felt for Siavash ran like fresh water, a sweet ache that filled up his insides and rose in his throat so he thought he might drown in it.
Please. Just look at me and smile.
Just—just put your arms around me. Just once.
He had to get up and stalk off into the trees and force the lump down with all his well-trained might until it was compressed like diamond in his middle and it couldn’t betray his throat or his eyes anymore.
And now—now he stood on the balcony of his divine palace and that lump was back but he wasn’t used to fighting it anymore and it was winning.
He knew better. Of course he did. When he stepped out of the gate they weren’t going to laugh at him or throw rocks like the other children used to. Or slam the door in his face like Gran. He would be there waiting with his smile and his open arms. So why did it still hurt sometimes? Why were tears running down his cheeks? Today of all days?
Woljif?
Barely above a whisper, the telepathic voice brushed his mind.
Woljif, it’s time. Where are you? Everything all right?
…Yeah.
Do you… do you need more time?
On his palace balcony Woljif sobbed.
The chief, rushing in. Siavash hadn’t thought it through and it was going to end painfully when he realized what he’d gotten himself into. Whom he’d gotten himself tied down to.
And yet. The warm touch of the heartbond, that gentle presence, lingered in his mind and eased the constriction in his throat.
Just a few minutes. He rubbed his eyes. Thanks.
Siavash sat down in the flowers with his guitar and began a dreamy, romantic tune he could carry on all afternoon if needed and which, even without a touch of magic, would hold the guests spellbound until the cloud passed. He caught Arueshalae’s sympathetic eye and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile despite the turmoil in his heart.
All the emotion, all the doubts, all the things unsaid began to crowd in like more unexpected guests. As long as he’d been busy worrying about Taurvi and planning the wedding (or neglecting to plan the wedding, like forgetting Ramien until the last minute) he hadn’t had time to think.
Now there was no escaping it.
As he played, his life seemed to stretch out behind him like a winding and tumultuous road, all leading up to this moment. The ceaseless thirst for travel, the casual lovers, and then Kristov, the heartbreak, the nightmare of the crusade, and finally the absurdity of ascending to godhood after spending most of his life shrugging off all semblance of duty and stability.
The one stable point of anchor he needed now: Woljif’s arms. His wily grin and his good sense.
During the Crusade he’d fallen in love with Woljif’s potential: his cleverness and ambition, his kind heart, his hope and courage. Now that that potential was bearing fruit, Siavash found himself more deeply in love than ever with the demigod Prince who turned Baphomet’s power against him, led the Fifth Crusade to victory at his side, and who could steal a whole divine domain out from under Abadar’s nose. His friend, his confidant, his lover. Just the thought of him made his heart ache.
This he would not let go to seed. This garden he vowed to cultivate with the sweat of his brow, as Erastil had put it. He’d never in his life thought he would be ready for this and yet here he was, so ready he was terrified that it might not happen.
Woljif, don’t back out. I need you.
A silent plea he would not dare send telepathically, because if there was one thing he abhorred most it was the thought that he was forcing him into this, chaining him down. The silent plea instead came through his guitar in a sweet, desperate melody.
Gradually he became aware a second guitar had joined in harmony with his—gently, letting him lead. He didn’t have to turn to look. He knew those hands as well as his own.
Calloused hands worn with care—with the work of tending a garden, and tending it well. His father’s supporting guitar, once upon a time the lead, seemed to say: now it’s your turn.
Since the Crusade he found he noticed much more sharply the gray at his father’s temples and the lines around his eyes. Now that he had escaped Pharasma’s judgment these things stood out more than they ever had before: the ephemeral nature of life, the ubiquity of decay. Standing outside of death he raged at it.
And he feared he would never accomplish what he and Areelu set out to do in time to save his father. Or Ky and the girls, or even their grandchildren. Helplessly he would have to watch them all dissolve into the essence of the planes, one after another.
He would not let them go. He would find a way.
I promise.
A planar gate snapped open.
The clouds gave way to sunlight once again. A rise in the chatter among the guests was his signal to wrap it up. He set his guitar aside, took a deep breath, and rose to his feet.
