Of all the day's hours, Kenny most cherishes the twilight's fade. At last, the torrid daytime air, kept diligently heated by the sun's bright rays, rises high into the firmament, as the cool breezes of the stars fall unto the earth. Moonbeams kiss the desert's distant dunes, gentle breath relieving the sands of their baking warmth, tempering each and every grain. Blackness of night absorbs vestiges of the suffocating and the sweltering, as the blazing sun retreats far away, leaving behind the rich epics of the night's sky. Astronomers, philosophers, soothsayers and laymen all alike would say, unquestioningly, that dusk is possesses its own rejuvenating power, like fresh water from a hidden spring, torrents foaming with minerals and life. Beneath the wispy canopy, hands of nightfall knitting the cosmos into velvet dark, yearning cultivated throughout the daylight hours at last comes to tender and balmy resolution. The sun dips below the horizon, and the burdens of martial command ebb away, Kenny retiring once more to his private tent, able to spend his nights enamoured and captivated, by soothing touches, by soft hair, welcoming lips and green eyes.
The hours of purple and scarlet erase the weight of titles bestowed and legacies foretold, Kenny no longer a strategos leading an army, or a demigod walking the earth. Those useless epithets fall from his name, once he crosses the threshold of his tent, disappearing in the clouds of dust kicked up when he tosses aside his shield, his spear, his sword. Duty's labours—which kept his muscles taut and aching from morn through noon till eve—melt away, replaced with a feeling that eluded him near all his life: a sense of home. Sweat and grime slicks his skin, occasionally bruised or scraped from sparring exercises, but he forgets about the lingering pains, greeted by coals smouldering under a bronze pot, plain supply of legumes and herbs, salted meats and brown breads, crafted into ambrosia, into the luxury of succulence and taste he seldom had in his youth. But best of all is not the food but the company, of the one who cooks their meals, who he pours brimming glasses of wine for, the boy never mentioned in the prophecy's ode.
His lips spill violet daubs on Kyle's skin, dips between his bones stained with Kenny's nipping marks. Remnants of past night's kisses colour his skin, fill the blank spaces between sparse clusters of freckles. Kenny's mouth paints Kyle's body, with the hue of their dusks and evenings, with the shades of their midnights and dawns. Imprints are all they have, when the day's light illumines the land, when the two are forced apart as a chariot carries the sun across the skies. Then they must adhere to their titles, restricted by roles plastered upon them, by gods and men alike. But hidden under night's blanket, they cast such things aside and reunite. Kyle strips Kenny of his heavy destiny, and Kenny frees Kyle of his persistent anxiety.
Kyle bites his lip as he stifles a low groan, sound climbing up his throat as a smooth hum, barely heard over his breath. He weaves a hand through sleek locks, clutching Kenny's head to his chest, twisting threads of gold around his fingers like spindle whorls. Kenny kisses the bare skin over his heart, as it beat, beat, beats to the rhythm of the crackling fire, burning just as fiercely. Kyle feels his mouth with every rise and fall of his chest, every heave coaxing out another hot breath, each gasp another breeze through the fields of his head. A linen sleeve creeps slips down his forearm, other already unfastened, garment reverting to fabric as words regress to moans. He feels Kenny's hand travel along his spine, to the small of his back, and a smile teases at Kyle's lips.
He never could have imagined this, not when he was young, not the day he was taken. Kyle had his former life scorched before him, only for the ashes to be thrown into his eyes and blind him, as the Anax of a foreign land seized him and carried him back to his camp, to be a slave and a toy for a cruel gluttonous king. His fate, he thought, was final, each silent prayer to God tinged with scared resignation, wondering how much faith could counter the tangible bleakness of servitude. But that night, as the handpicked generals gathered in their king's tent, to watch him flaunt his possessions as he hoped to inspire envy, one of them spoke out, pleaded on Kyle's behalf. Kenny threatened his own ruler, for the sake of Kyle's freedom, argued for his humanity when all others accepted him as property, chattel, a spoil of their fabled war. Cartman banished him to his quarters, told the other men to leave too, but soon learned that Kyle was just as capable of insolence, cinders scarring the fat king's face for trying to 'claim' his prize.
He quickly passed from to Kenny's charge, Cartman assuming he'd have the same problems of defiance, but Kenny isn't like him, isn't like most. He knelt down and wiped the painful soot from Kyle's eyes, restoring his sight as he showed genuine care, tried to ease the pains of awful circumstance. While he admitted he can never understand exactly what he's been through, he knew what it was like being trapped by fate's labyrinthine turns. He was patient, letting Kyle take steps at his own discretion, unexpected kindness allowing trust to build. Stranger became friend, as time braided them together, and friend became companion. The tended to each other, sowing seeds that sprouted and bloomed, into a lush and verdant garden, sweet as a thousand pomegranates, lyric as poetry and song.
His voice reminds him of a strumming lyre, enraptured in a Muse's melody, as Kyle gasps, and Kenny feels him shudder at the wet touch of his mouth, his tongue. Kyle's legs press against his sides, tightly hugging metal and leather, ushering him closer, closer still. Kenny listens, listens to Kyle's breathing hitch, pant, moan at each sloppy kiss trailing to his collar. He traces constellations on the base of his back, while dragging his lips along the bone, paving over perspiration. One hand tugs at the locks on his head, and he feels another sneak along his torso, searching for the cord securing his armour in place, dexterous fingers eager to unlace the strings and free him from his uniform. Kyle is fire, writhing restless with a carnal burn, Kenny's mouth seared with the heat of his skin, starving flame hungry for kisses and pets. They've sated their appetites for food and drink, craving the flavours of each other, of sweat, spit, and come.
"Mmh," He lolls his head to the side, Kenny following the curve of his neck, sharp playful nips interspersing long lingering pecks. A caress sweeps up his back, and Kyle rolls his shoulders, bucks his hips, already twitching before he can shrug the linen off. Kenny laughs, husky and loud to his ear, Kyle hearing the smirk in his chuckles. Kenny peppers the side of his face with a barrage of swift kisses, searching for Kyle's lips, to lap the taste of honeyed wine from his palette. A thumb tickles the nape of his neck, as a tongue flicks the corner of his mouth, sly request for entry. Kyle grins, parting his lips, kissing Kenny to intoxication, stupid drunk off his promises of tender fucking. No, a flagon of the finest drink couldn't do this to him, couldn't bring him to a quavering mess, rattled with love and lust and the neediest longing.
Kenny draws back, slowly, stretching a translucent gossamer between them, thinning it to nothing. Kyle lets out a huff of frustration, a hot gust in Kenny's face, pulling on his hair in protest. But Kenny's hand rests under his chin, tilting his head up, so he can gaze into brilliant green. Their heavy breathes mingle together, eyes meeting, hearts pumping. Carefully, his thumb traces the curve of Kyle's lower lip, still wet from the kiss, and Kyle lets out a long, dreamy sigh. Never, Kenny has never loved someone like this, the way he loves Kyle, the boy who gave him more than any oracles' decree.
"'ave I ever told you," Kenny has an airy voice, buoyant and light, a music all its own. Kyle could listen to him talk all day, the loving timbre, the caring tone. He speaks in songs and harmonies, melodious and choral, hinting at his divine parentage. Kyle's lips quiver under Kenny's smooth thumb, a smile sneaking on his face. He watches Kenny reply first with a grin, then slowly lean in, take in Kyle's breath, then say, "You're the best cook ever?"
Kyle rolls his eyes, twirling the leathery cord around his finger. He wishes the knots weren't so tight, wishes he could, in one fluid motion, undo those damn ties, tear off the barrier between them, so he can finally press his palm on his skin, rest his lips over his heartbeat. The morning feels like eternities ago, ages since he last had Kenny naked beside him, lying on the blankets making up their bed. All day his mind lingered, on how their bodies fit so well nestled together, on how Kenny purred as Kyle glided a hand over his torso, on how he hummed as Kenny carded through crimson curls; and how later—now—they'd continue from there, how Kenny would thrust into him, how Kyle would choke on his name. A nail pries at the twine, as he says, dryly, "Only after every meal, you do."
"Well I'm right," A playful glint flashes in Kenny's eyes, like a streaking meteor, smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. His hand runs along his jaw, cups his cheek, cradles his face. Kyle feels the heat in his ears, pooling under the skin, blush creeping like the dawn's rosy fingers. But, before he can lean into the sweet brush, Kenny shifts, his hand darting down. A rough squeeze pinches his ass, shudder running up his spine, yelp escaping his throat, while Kenny pushes him between his legs, so they feel the other harden and twitch. Colour leaks to Kyle's face, a flush betrayal, and Kyle lets out a low grumble. Kenny's chuckles fill the tent, stealing a kiss from Kyle's frowning lips, then says, "'N you love my compliments much as I love your cooking."
Kenny's breath overwhelms him, Kyle dizzy and dazed. His words echo in his mind, as he bathes in raw emotion, the kind only ever brought out by Kenny. Love, Kyle smiles, that's what this is. And despite all that's happened, all he's lost, all he's felt, Kyle has someone who loves him, and who he loves, too. He stares into those stunning eyes, and sees the skies looking back at him, like he is their world. Kyle smiles, closing the gap between them, and kisses him, vehemently and completely. After all his loss—of family, of friends, of status and place—Kenny is all he has, hope of a future harboured in his embracing arms. He won't lose him, what they have, what they are; Kenny is the kingdom he calls home, the source of his infinity, and Kyle will give him every ounce of his soul.
He kisses back, deeper, harder. The armour loosens, Kyle at last untangling the string, skilful fingers rewarded for wresting with the lace. Kenny's tongue rolls over the roof of his mouth, thanking him for his diligence and determination in vanquishing their twisted foe. Kyle's hand slides down the back of his neck, starts pulling on the collar of his chest-plate, overcome with eager excitement. Kenny tightens his hold on Kyle's ass, coaxing a soft, victorious moan from the back of his throat. He swears Kyle's voice has a taste, his noises tinged with spice, and Kenny never wants to be without his flavour. He lets Kyle peel off the leather, while he savours his mouth…
"Huh-hello? Strategos Kenny, Sir?"
A voice calls, high in pitch, hesitant in nature, from beyond the entry. Wind carries the noise, cutting through the canvas, robbing them of total privacy. It enters Kyle's ears, piercing the drums, and he leans back, their lips parting with a wet smack. Kyle breathes in, sharp, while Kenny's mouth hangs open, mind too sticky to notice immediately. Lead lungs take in the heavy air, Kenny blinking one, two, three times, then realises; the Anax's personal envoy waits beyond the canvas, completely oblivious to the poor timing of his arrival. He damns him, damns their king, damns the gods, for the disruption, for robbing him his one peace. His tongue licks over his bottom lip, eyes fixated on Kyle's wide eyes, still brimming with the moments' fire, and Kenny, voice hoarse, bellows out "'m busy, Butters. Fuck off."
Kenny's words echo in Kyle's ears, as oxygen sobers his mind, subdues lusty impulse, enough for him to process. More and more often, to intrude on their nights, Cartman has sent Butters over with some brand of summoning order, whether for a needless gathering of generals or a private lecture. While their morning rituals do, on occasion, run a little too long, Kenny claims that has nothing to do with the random meetings. No, it's because, although Cartman holds the title of Anax, he's only barely a king, sitting on the throne as the bastard heir, claiming his self-proclaimed birthright through conspiracy and murder. But Kenny shares the blood of the Healer, thus inheriting powers beyond any mere mortal; and Cartman, no matter what he does, can never be what Kenny is. History remembers great rulers, but the people worship the gods. Worse yet, Kyle, who he seized as a slave, now sleeps happily alongside Kenny, devoted to him like the priestesses with their temple patrons. A petty leader is a weak one; within a few generations his reign will be forgotten.
"Oh… he said you'd say that…" Butters' words string together in a directionless mumble, indistinct. He clears his throat, anxiously, mustering up a semblance of confidence, a mask for his fear. While he remains loyal to Cartman, he still fears the gods, fears the divinity in Kenny, a son of the Pantheon. Butters, reluctantly, continues, speech slow and enunciated, "His Highest Kingship told me to tell you that you pledged your service to him… and your duty to serve is…" He wavers, hesitates, questions whose wrath is greater, "Is, uh, more important than… well… 'fucking your whore'… sir…"
A harsh exhale, from the nose, as Kenny's eyes sharpen, blades whet in blue. He grinds his teeth, features hardening, hearing such insult sputtered out by a mindless sycophant, by a coward meekly parroting a hateful man's slurs. The other men are smarter, holding their tongues when they think Kenny might hear them, but he knows the vileness that steeps their clandestine whispers, how they hate Kyle for being, and, at the same time, for not being theirs. They search for catharsis in their petty abuses, though Kenny's since guaranteed a lofty punishment for those who go too far with their small-minded opinions. Of course, there are still the few, the brash and bold, who scoff at his threats, shrug him off and continue their needless harassment, their sick coveting. And then there's Butters, with the far more pathetic reason of blind obedience, using his master as his shield while pleading mercy at his feet. Disgusting.
A hand soothes over his neck, cooling blood hot with rage, fingertips gliding up his cheek. Anger melts, bated by one gentle touch, and his eyes flit to Kyle, to the placating green gazing into him. Kyle's lips form a tight line, pensive and thoughtful, forcing himself to think logically, rationally. He exercises restraint, listening to reason despite his whims, despite the struggle lurking in his eyes. He tucks a few strands of gold behind Kenny's ear, slowing as he traces the curve, and heaves a sigh, one tinged with regret and exasperation. As the whistling breath leaves his lips, Kenny cranes his neck, leans to rest their heads together, salvaging the moment before its ripped away.
"Go on," Kyle says, hushed but decided, as he stifles a groan. Kenny can hear the reluctance in his voice, how much he hates saying it, even when it's best for them. Fate may have granted them solace, pairing two troubled souls together, but that can easily change; it doesn't take much to make life more difficult, for either of them, for both of them. Their noses brush together, and Kenny feels the heat radiate from his lips. Then, whispering, soft smile in his voice, "I'll be here when you get back."
He says it like a promise, an oath, and it echoes, in Kenny, in the caverns of his chest. He wishes he could do more for him, offer him a better life. But he cannot return what was stolen, only improve upon what they've been given. One day, he hopes, when this war is done, when this prophecy turns to legend, they can have a real future. Maybe then he won't feel remorseful, when they never again refer to him as slave. Kenny breathes out, simpers, and plucks a kiss from his lips, long, apologetic. If only he could stay, if they could be unburdened by the banalities of men and trivialities of gods. Their lips draw apart, quivering in resistance, before Kenny says, "How 'bout I swipe a few 'f 'is oils? Those imported 'nes 'e hoards?"
"Hmmm…" A grin sneaks on his face, teased at the thought. Caravans frequently supply the king's quarters with more outstanding shows of his greed, Cartman refusing to sacrifice materialist pleasures even on a warpath. He prides himself in his excess, in having so much go to unused waste, amassing a collection as if he still lived in a palace. Kenny spent his youth on the streets, honing roguish talents by taking from people just like him, skimming a taste from the glut. So, every now and then, he steals something miscible, nothing worth too great a reprimand, but enough to pique and perturb. And, oh, how his expression would warp just piecing together how Kenny put his precious luxuries to use… Kyle drags a finger along his jaw, playful mischief imbued in his words, "We better use a whole bottle tonight."
Kenny smiles, can't resist, and seizes his lips once more. He kisses him and thinks, how Kyle's mouth is his hearth, the flame that keeps him burning, the light that illumines his soul. Kyle came in by force of chance, independent of the gods' premeditations, unexpected and, by extension, sacrosanct. While others look to the mountaintops for hallow blessings, Kenny looks no further, revering him, venerating him, cherishing him. People waste their times with the gods, searching for favour from the callous and the careless. It's those like Kyle—compassionate, sincere, so completely human—who deserve respect, admiration, love. Maybe it's his bastard blood, his own partial godship, that's made adopt such philosophy. Kenny doesn't care; if it was for Kyle, he'd gladly sacrifice his immortality, just so he'd never be without him.
"Uh…" Interrupting, again. The silence gave Butters time to consider the consequences of his offense, recall each instance of his temper flaying men alive. He brims with trepidation, only just regretting his mistake, and anxiously croaks out, "Keh-Kenny…?"
Kyle breaks their lips apart, grudgingly, regretfully, sadly. He breathes in, fills his chest, and looks into the soulful blue. That was one of the first things he noticed about Kenny, how expressive his eyes are, how truthful they are. They used to scare him, when this tent was still foreign, fearing the trusting glint cloaked wicked deception. But his gaze cannot lie, has never lied to him, too genuine, too candid and raw. Kyle sees, in the hue, all they've shared, every word uttered, whether in a whisper or a yell, each syllable saturating his stare. It's simple to say, say what they have, but it's another thing to see, inscribed on his face, crystallised in his eyes. He forgets their common language, thinking only in his first, different letters and sounds but still the same meaning. Ahava, that's what this is, love.
A melancholy hangs over them, thick in the air, just like the one always present at their morning departures, but worse now since the sun's set. Kenny shows reluctance, moving back, too quickly missing the warmth of Kyle's body, his clinging embrace. Their hands withdraw, push away, despite their wants, to reach out, to hold tight. They disentangle from each other, and Kenny notices how the leather plate dangles off his chest. He reaches for the twine, tightens the cords bitterly, and ties a careless knot. Kenny heaves a sigh, as he rises to his feet, then looks at Kyle. He watches Kyle's eyes fall, glumly, and bring his knees to his chest. Kyle hates to see him leave, just as Kenny hates leaving him, even knowing they'll return to each other. He stands paused, observing every curl on his head and odd freckle on his skin, lost in how much he wants to stay.
He takes one step, lets a hand drift down. His fingers ghost over Kyle's hair, soft as fresh wool, flowing off the spindle, waiting to be spun. They founded their relationship on furtive touch, long before Kyle graced him with his timbre. Accidents of contact became their way, stealing minute touches, even when Kyle began to talk. In his breeze, he says, I'll be quick. Then, on the back of his calf, he feels the back of Kyle's hand, sweep up. He grazes over thin blond hairs, their skin scarcely touching, in tantalising propinquity. With smooth stroke, Kyle replies, I'll be here.
"Erm…"He's taking too long, too distracted by silent conversation, "Strate—"
"Shut up," Annoyance resonates, as Kenny hisses through clenched teeth, "I'm fuckin' comin'."
He walks on, careful not to slow his stride with dragging feet, not to make Kyle wait longer than required. Kyle sighs, bringing his hand down, listening to soles steadily beat against the earth, to canvas ruffle apart. He hears Butters pipe out a cry of shock, then bursts into grovelling apology, bleating like a sheep at slaughter's block. But Kenny pays him no heed, no break in his footsteps, passing him wordlessly. He pictures the glower on his face, how his features rest distant and aloof, but his eyes burn, unable to mask his anger's ferocity. Those looks always rattle the subordinates, unhinge Butters in particular, thinking just a glance may smite them; Kyle stifles a laugh. They'd probably be embarrassed, if they knew Kenny's gentle side. Why, even if they bore witness to the tenderness lavishes Kyle with, they'd probably still deny it, out of inability to comprehend, to cope.
The fire's boisterous crackling overtakes departing steps, as they fade into the distance. Kyle opens his eyes, looks to the blaze, radiating heat. Black and charred wood fosters healthy flames, their embers flashing in the ether, amid a silken screen of ash. His eyes follow the flares, watches them rise from the metal bowl. They dance and tumble, flicker between red and orange and cinnabar, a gradient in fervour. He wonders if those colours can be replicated, turned to dyes and transplanted to yarn. Kyle peers beyond the smoke, squinting to make out the standing loom near the wall, displaying his vivid, unfinished patchwork. He learned to weave in his youth, casually taught from his friend Bebe, but Kenny didn't know that, not then. No, the moon lounged in the sky when he returned, dragging the loom behind him, a few skeins in a sack slung over his shoulder. He got it for Kyle, hoping it would help him feel better, give him more to do than lay as depression ate at his heart and mind. Kyle took to it quickly, surprised himself how therapeutic it was experimenting with threads. Every few weeks, Kenny travels a half-day's journey to a shepherd's lot, spending the bulk of his meagre salary on vivid yarns, so Kyle can continue his bright and vibrant masterpiece. He still can't decide just what it will be—a cloak, a shawl, a rug, a shroud—but he knows what it is: their story, stitched together and given life, the unsung romance within a grand heroic epic. Historians years from now can overlook this, with the generous offering a brief aside whilst the rest omit entirely; but Kyle will remember, Kenny will remember, and any who come across their tapestry will know, know who they are, to each other.
A glint catches his eye, goldish glimmer from the ground, sparking his interest. Kyle's eyes flicker to the brazier's base where a fastener lies, discarded and abandoned, casualty of their voracious exploits. He tilts his head and smiles, wondering how Kenny might react to finding Kyle better dressed than he left him, all his laborious handiwork undone, forced to do it all over again. He'd probably just pout, complain in some childish manner, but fully enjoy stripping him all over again. Kyle pulls up his sleeve before leaning forward, snatching the pin. Quickly, cloth turns to garb, as he secures the linen at his shoulder, in a folded style his family never used, refusing to adopt some pagan fashion, their sense of tradition strong despite life in diaspora.
Sometimes his mind wanders, considering how his mother, father, and brother might see him now. He keeps his faith, through ritual, through prayer, but what would they say of the gentile he keeps in his bed? Would they remind him how it's not his bed to keep, how their people have been kept before, how he shouldn't be complacent to the customs of oppressors? Even if he had the chance, to return to those he left behind, how would they react to the ways these seasons changed him?
Nostalgia used to be painful, but simple; now it is just painfully complex. He doesn't like to think about it. He stares at the fire, numbs his thoughts with idleness, searching for ease through focus. The more he concentrates, on the spits and snaps, the swifter time will pass. And the swifter time passes, the sooner Kenny will be back, with caring arms and blue eyes. And he'll abate the troubles still lurking in his mind, help him cope with the old by reassuring of the new. Ironic, how recalling the past with its familiarity brings malaise, while looking to the future with its uncertainty gives such comfort. The peculiarity—or the illusionary feeling of it—will pass, eventually, a mirage ebbing away.
Canvas rustles, a soft susurrus barely audible, and Kyle perks up. He blinks—once, twice—breaks from dull fixation, from wistful thought, and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. A desert during nightfall can be cruel with its harsh winds, so he listens, to determine whether or not a tricky gust is trying to dupe him. A sceptic mind cautions, says Kenny left only minutes ago, but an optimistic heart hopes, prays his dreaming sped time's meandering passage. He slowly tap, tap, taps the back of his front teeth, then hears feet pat-pat sand, a tiptoeing approach. Kyle closes his eyes, lips easing into a grin, muted laughter mingling with his exhaling breaths.
A myriad of possibilities, he thinks, open to them again, interruption eliminated, their privacy reclaimed. Kyle can banish his harrowing spectres, refuse to let them haunt him in Kenny's company; they can't touch him when he does. As he turns, his posture shifts, moving to a kneel. Fabric protects only parts of his legs from the hard ground, exposed skin scratching against the rough granules, a mess of clumping and folding. His head tilts to the side while his shoulders roll, loose and fluid, wave of levity drowning his hauntings. He opens his mouth:
"Did he call you just to dismiss yo—"
Then he opens eyes.
But he doesn't see Kenny. Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kenny. A ghost.
A man stands a few paces before him, shrouded in a military mantle, but not one donned by the soldiers of this army. The colours are different, wool a lighter texture than the coarse ones from the western peaks, fashioned for those more accustom to the plateau states, to the flatlands Kyle called home. Once upon a time, he watched servicemen patrolling the quiet streets of his village, wearing those same cloaks, while his best friend boasted that, one day, he'd be among their ranks. He teased him then, gloating how whenever they sparred Kyle always ended up the victor, but matters changed as they grew older, as tradition more vocally dictated their lives. As Kyle became a man of law and scrolls, Stan trained to be one of state and defence.
Defences, Stan warned him, the place he was headed had very few, located on the outskirts of the domain, with only a small company stationed in an unwalled settlement. This was before the legions rose from the wicked abyss, before the alliance of the mountain states, before the prophecy's terrible business started coming to fruition. Kyle rolled his eyes then, wrote him off as paranoid, position in the village garrison overwhelming him with ungrounded fears. I'll be fine, he assured him, because though where he was going was far from their home, and farther still from the capital, the town withstood the test of time, accumulating a library on par with one of the cities, a treasure for someone so devoted to knowledge. And Stan furrowed his brow, but knew no amount of dissuasion would overturn his decision, Kyle far too stubborn once his mind was made up. Kyle remembers, just before he left, how Stan looked him in the eye, a certain severity in the dark deep blue, and said to him, Just stay safe. And Kyle, in all his candid confidence, looked back with a smile, I should be telling you that.
But Stan was right, he wasn't safe. Virtually nothing stood in Cartman's way when he and his raiding party stumbled upon the town. The amateur militia couldn't battle trained fighters, quickly overtaken by their numbers and their skill. And as roaring flames engulfed the codices and texts, the structures and the streets, Kyle lost the life he had, and ended up here. Kyle breathes in, harsh, as his blood ices in his veins; yet here he stands, after long over a year, with the same intensity in his eyes. He draws in a breath, so sharply it cuts his throat. He never expected he'd see him again, at least not until he crossed over to the other side. The air suffocates Kyle as he wonders, is he still dreaming? After all, considering how many cycles the moon has phased through, wouldn't he have given up hope? Shouldn't he think Kyle long dead?
His eyes flutter, expecting Stan to disappear, but he remains, thwarts every rational explanation Kyle proposes. His existence is obstinate, the midnight shade of his hair as resolute as it is striking, his presence emanating strong determination. No, not just that; his stance is audacious, bold to a fault, recklessness so uncharacteristic. He can't be a vision, Kyle concludes, because no illusion can be with such gall. He figured everyone had mourned and moved on, equating disappearance with death, a loss more tragic without a body to bury. He underestimated the persistence of hope, how desperation changes men at their core. But shouldn't he, of all people, know that best?
"Kyle," His voice creaks, a branch bending back after nearly being broken in two. Joy dominates Stan's eyes, illumined with elation, heart wrenching relief. His features soften, dulls the hard edges chiselled by his dogged quest, relieved his belief drove him to Kyle and not to madness. The way he looks, as though he physically stepped from the brink of insanity's chasm, Kyle's sure he did think him dead, at least for a time. A wide, wide smile grows on Stan's face, unshackled from the heavy chains of doubt, and freely rushes forward, practically falls to his knees, and wraps his arms around him, the way no hallucination could, "Holy shit, it's really you."
Kyle stays silent, stunned, struck dumb. Stan's warmth is asphyxiating, his embrace strangling, happiness smothering. He inhales the scents of sweat, of sand, of arduous toil and exhausting tenacity. Every breath Stan heaves edges on a thankful cry, because he must have thought Kyle long gone from this world. Then something sparked within him, inspired by some minute shred of proof that he survived, and fought against all reason governing him, for oh so long, and that brought him here.
"I thought I lost you," Stan says, in some hybrid of a laugh and sob, gripping Kyle tighter, "There was nothing left and we thought they were some bandits who did it, not…" He clears his throat, shakes his head, tufts of black rubbing against Kyle's cheek. He clenches his jaw, gaining some composure, then, "Some rumours started going around, along the border towns, about this place. Do all sorts of trade, hear all sorts of stories. One 'f 'em about some half-god prick, can't die or something."
He gulps, forcing down salvia like a jagged rock down his throat. Should anyone see Stan, they'll see him an enemy, sporting the colours of another state's forces, sneaking into the quarters of one with both high-rank and divine blood. Kenny could be back soon, possibly with that boorish sycophant on his heels. Anyone who spots him would kill him on sight. Anyone who spots him will kill him on sight.
Kyle wishes he could return the hug, to embrace the best friend he's ever had, as though they were still young boys with a whole life ahead. He can't deny dreaming of a moment like this, not when during his first weeks he prayed to be back home, despite impracticality, impossibility. He thought of it on and off for months, as he developed a routine, as he and Kenny became friends. Even after they started sleeping together, sometimes, his mind wandered there, but with a shift in tone. Then he began rejecting the fantasies, because his future no longer matches what his past aspired, because his reality no longer aligns with what once was, because he is not the person they lost to raiders' fires. He bites his lip, then places his hands squarely on Stan's shoulders. Palms flatten woolly fibres as his fingers act as clasps, and with an aching heart and upset force, Kyle pushes him away.
Stan jerks back, surprised by the rebuff. He releases him, giving him a few inches' space, lets Kyle hold him at arm's length. Puzzlement befalls his expression, in something like a betrayal. He stares into his eyes utterly confused, driving a knife in his already bemoaned heart, and twisting the blade. Kyle's teeth burrow, nearly break skin, and takes a calculating breath. Then, he speaks, but the stress warps his voice, words leaving in a sharp hiss, "You can't be here."
Stan opens his mouth, closes it, and thinks a moment longer. Then, befuddlement fades, talking matter-of-factly, "And you shouldn't be here, Kyle."
You should've never left, I told you it wasn't safe, Kyle hears, lurking in his tone. His fingernails dig into the cloak, and he holds back his anger, over Stan's stupidity, guised as heroics, appearing brazenfaced and cocksure. He slowly inhales, the air igniting in his lungs, before he heaves an elongated sigh. He exhales, but no ounce of frustration subsides, and he feels his veins burn. He narrows his eyes, to concentrate on what else to say.
But as he thinks, Stan looks, scanning Kyle up and down, noticing every marked change, each observation reflected in the blue. First, he catches the obvious—the pagan fashion his family refuted, the clean shave his people disavowed—the alterations of assimilation, customising over culture. Those, while jarring, while humiliating, are to be expected. But then he focuses on the nuanced—curls dishevelled and unkempt, complexion stained with the violet daubs—blind to the complexities, seeing only grim, alarming conclusions. His eye twitches, assuming them scars from a conqueror demanding subjugation, rape for power and pleasure of empowerment. He grinds his teeth, then flits back into the green, looking at him with only one thought etched into his mind: victim.
Kyle stomachs a wave of nausea; he never wants to see that in his eyes—in anyone's eyes—as long as he lives.
"I…" Stan pauses, blinks, breathes. His reluctance tells him everything—how Stan regrets not stopping Kyle from leaving their village, how he feels in some way culpable for Kyle's fate, how sorry he is for what he imagines transpired these many months—and hurts Kyle all the more. But Stan reaches up, a hand atop his, "I'm getting you out."
"No," Kyle hears himself say, loudly, without thinking. He watches concern blossom on Stan's face, producing buds of genuine fear, afraid his friend lost his spirit in captivity, broken like a child's toy. Kyle shakes off his hand, brings his arms back to his sides. Stan searches in his eyes, for some indication that could reassure him, but Kyle dodges him, glancing to the door. He takes a steady breath in, steady one out, "How did you even find me?"
"I'm a scout, Kyle," He sounds austere, adding a sense of authority for his own sake, "I've spent the last year running around the borders because there's a fucking void leading to Tartarus that's falling cities," Spite rings in his voice, Stan spending their youth ambivalent to the gods, "And then I caught wind of this so-called expedition made by the western states with some half-god," Disgust drips from the term, "Wasn't until a couple months ago that anyone told me he had a…"
Kyle glances out the corner of his eye, sneaking a glimpse as Stan trails off. He sees him cycle through the ugly phrases, all the things Kyle is considered. He shies away from each, deeming them all too ugly. Kyle hates this coddling, treating him with such delicate sensitivity, half-forgetting who he is. With a mocking sneer, Kyle offers his tamest title, "Captive?"
Stan blinks, eyes darting back to Kyle, only for him to evade him once more. He hears a stifled groan, before Stan presses forward, "No one gave a shit because it's legal," Even in their home, though the practice is less common. Stan always hated those laws, with exclusionary protections, even though his duties in part guarded them, "And no one had any facts, just rumours."
Kyle rolls his eyes, mutters with acerb sarcasm, "You? Believing gossip?"
Stan glowers at him—he feels it like the sun's burn—no doubt hating Kyle for being difficult. Of course, Kyle's always been difficult, so he shouldn't be surprised. However, a lot of things about his life would shake him now, "The popular one was about a spat, between the king and the demigod."
The fight over him, the night he'll never forget.
"They say the demigod refused to fight," Stan talks, but suddenly Kyle hears another voice resonating in his tone, "Threatened to take a contingent with him, unless he got what he pleased," Lies Cartman spilt in the ears of those beneath him, currying their favour by painting Kenny unstable, "So the king took a few men and set out, looking for a peace offering," Fury steels him, timbre tinged with venom and scorn, "Something he could kick and fuck to his heart's content."
Kyle turns his head, searches for the blue, but Stan isn't look his way. His gaze wanders, flickers to each corner of the chamber, observing every little thing. Kyle opens his mouth to protest, yell how the tale is a twisted man's fabrication, but Stan talks on, voice deepening, rage possessing, "The king scoured for someone exotic enough to fit his sick tastes, razed a village just to answer his demands, gifted him a red-haired Jew as his prized spoil of war."
"Stan," The name grinds, speaking it in warning, raised an octave in hopes of penetrating his ears, breaking his trance. Alas, his face is chiselled stone, hardened by the malice infecting his head. Stan's eyes then widen, the brazier's flame reflected in blue equally ablaze, as something else seizes his attention. The corner of his mouth twitches, tugging briefly at a cynical smirk, drawn by complete disbelief. Kyle follows his gaze, but freezes when he hears an airless laugh escape Stan's lips, the pitiful sound booming in his ears. His stomach knots, sinks, distracts.
"I've heard a few different endings," Stan sounds distant now, half-musing, almost lost. He stares at the loom with all the woven tracts, and his whole faces washes with a sad melancholy. The hobby was one thing when they were children, but grown men do not participate in such domesticity, "There's a lot about his greedy fucking but nothing like this—woman's work?"
Blood rushes through Kyle, anger flashing like fever. His pulse boils, eyes smouldering and raw, a den of burning coals. His breathing slows, heavier, harder, as Stan faces him again, with a gaping mouth, with a sorrowed expression. He thinks himself empathetic, but his compassion humiliates him more than any amount of stitching, degrades him worse than any passing soldier he's encountered. He's too infatuated in his own romantic rescue to realise the lies he's been fed. And, before Kyle can correct him, he adds, in a passionate mixture of wrath and concern:
"He's forcing you to be his fucking concubine?"
SOCK—clenched fist meets square jaw, with the solid sound of knuckles bashing bone. Fury strengthens an already powerful hook, hand driven by a surge of emotion, only satisfied by hard contact. He sends Stan tumbling, catching himself only at the last second, shouting out a sputtering curse—SHIT! Whilst he recovers from the blow, Kyle gets to his feet, in a hurried scramble, towers over Stan's prone form. When he looks up, Kyle already looms over him, with a glare that would make even a gorgon wince.
"I'm not being forced, asshole," His voice cuts, serrated, deadly, like the bronze-dipped tip of a warrior's javelin. His words slit Stan's throat, so loud they ring in his ears, so harsh they slice all his delusions to tatters. He watches Stan reckon with the gravity of his mistake, but offers no mercy, "How fucking weak do you think I am?"
"You're not weak," Stan shouts back, caring less about getting caught, more about getting his point across. He grimaces, snuffs out the peskier feelings, those that sabotage his argument, undermine his point. He swallows, hard, and straightens up, kneel switching to crouch, "You're smart, Kyle, smarter than anyone I've ever met. Because of that you know how to survive," He sighs, shaking his head, then look up to Kyle, brimming with pained honesty, "Know what you have to sacrifice to survive."
"Right, like my dignity?" Kyle scoffs, rolls his eyes. He walks away, only a few steps, but enough to turn his back on him, as Stan finds his footing. He understands his thinking, based on self-preservation. Stan highly values nature's influence, too highly sometimes. He overlooks that Kyle grew up singing the song of Moses and Miriam, by heart memorising the story of Exodus, because Stan ignored his own myths. Kyle curls his toes, digs shallow trenches in the loose sand, "Thought you of all people knew me better than that."
"Then what is this?" Stan chokes out, pained, confused. Hairs stand on the back of Kyle's neck, hearing the agony twisting him, plagued by gaps in logic, by inadequate evidence, by lack of reasoning. Kyle presses his lips into a hard line, and tells himself not to turn, but Stan continues on, poking his fingers in each and every wound, "You're dead to your family, and you're no one here—less than a person among these people. How in any god's name are you so dignified as slave to some foreign half—"
"Because that's not how hetreatsme," His throat throbs, grated raw, voice leaving hoarse. He whips around, eyes wide, dry, and he wonders whether tears will well to remedy the sting. Smoke fills his lungs, leaks from his mouth, just before he blows, "I'm not his slut or his property or whatever else they call me! I was captured for the Anax—not him—and after I scorched the fucker's face for trying to rape me he passed me off to Kenny, because I was supposed to be his problem. Kenny was—is—the only person who treats me as an equal. He never did anything without my permission," He stops, noticing Stan's gaze waver, pondering the question he dares not ask. Kyle still provides the answer, reaffirming "Everything we did was my choice; I wanted to."
Stan bites his lip, Kyle lifts his chin, and quiet falls over them, a thick woollen blanket. Rants and raves float above them, coalescing into stifling smoke, toxic and dense, painful to breathe. The past is a nasty thing, is what Kyle came to terms with, even though he wrestles with it, misses it. And it hurts, reckoning with how separation takes its toll, how misunderstanding takes root, how people defy who they once were. A troubled sheen coats dark blue, upset and overwhelmed, begging him: What happened to you?
No, they implore: What has he done to you?
Kyle shuts his eyes, pulls his lips into a tight line. He lets the water rinse his eyes, soak up the tears before they fall, but they singe him, hot from his temper. If only he could take the time, time needed to explain, tell Stan every moment he's missed. Then he might see, see how Kyle became this person, maybe even still consider him a friend. But they have none of that, even less if Stan is seen. Through the nose, he exhales, centres his thoughts, garnering a semblance of calm. He closes his hands, balls them into tight fists, and says, softly, "You need to leave," He opens his eyes, stares intently into blue, "Now."
The fire spits, spatters, while Stan holds his gaze, contemplates. He came with one purpose, a noble one at that. But Kyle made it difficult, because as much as he loves Stan, he loves Kenny too. He wants to accept it—for Kyle, as a friend, because he loves him—but struggles. And in his conflict, he hesitates, falters, stumbles. He chews the inside of his cheek, taking even, slow breaths, but his mind remains at war. He walks forward, closes the gap between them, and grasps him by the forearms. He cranes his neck, looks down at him. His eyes, Kyle notes, shine with tears, too.
"I missed you," He sounds wrecked, wretched, because he didn't lead with that, with his loss, his despair, his grief. His mission was to save Kyle, yes, but also to mend his own heartbreak. He blamed himself, for what happened, and this was his chance to rectify. But Kyle can't let him do that, so Stan must lose him twice.
"I…" Ruthless, Kyle thinks, love has made him ruthless. "I did too."
His palms slide down his back, and Stan hugs him again, a tight goodbye. The warmth floods Kyle again, but this time he reaches out, wraps his arms around in return. When he pictured their reunion, in all his dreams and fantasies, it was never this sad, this depressing. He imagined some brief flickers of sorrow, regret, but happiness always overcame, always won in the end. Childish, he thinks, so fucking naïve; but, in his chest, a fuzziness fills him, because never thought he'd feel their friendship's embrace again. He inhales his earthy musk, and swears he smells the faintest whiff of seafoam.
Kyle relishes the moment, even if it's bittersweet.
A hand follows Kyle's spine, up his neck, to the back of his head. Stan pats him, lightly, ruffles the bouncing crimson. He twists a curl in his fingers, thoughtfully, then steps away, lets go. Kyle lets his arms drop, listless, tells himself it's for the best. After all, if he returned to their land, the law won't erase his status as vassal, the codes protecting citizens not extended to members of refugee tribes. And even if he snuck back, to the village he was born in, raised in, the place he spent so much of his life—Kyle can't call it home, not without Kenny by his side. He can't leave him, won't leave him. Someday, Stan will understand, maybe even forgive him. Today, all he has to do is trust him, and his decision.
Stan's eyes sweep over him, preserving the image in his mind. Though a contrite gleam accents the deep blue, he looks calmer, more serene, peace discovered in the green. He opens his mouth, words teetering on the tip of his tongue, as he contemplates. Though not the satisfaction he anticipated, Stan assures himself that this—Kyle alive, Kyle healthy, Kyle happy—is enough. While not fully convinced now, he will accept it soon. Finally, he swallows, bobs his head, simpers. I'll see you soon, he solemnly vows, through the curve of his lips, the glint in his eyes, I promise.
Kyle doesn't know what he means by that, but he cannot deny the sincerity, reinforcing the sentiment. If there's one thing he's learned, the future is unpredictable, an arena of forces battling for control. Sometimes their tussles result in kidnapping, in arson, in loss, and other times they bring tidings of renewal, of love, of reconciliation. From what Kenny has told him, Kyle is a reckoning force, so maybe if he wills it, they will meet again. It might be wishful thinking, but he takes the leap of faith. He nods, blinks, smiles: I'll be here.
He goes, with the wind, stirring canvas and desert gusts. He moves like an apparition, swift and silent, vanishing, but such is his job. Scouts learn to become invisible, to wander unseen, and Stan mastered those arts. If he walked in undetected, he can escape just as easily, transform into a phantom and glide across the sands. He'll leave with only Kyle aware of his existence. In the absence, the reality hits Kyle, crushes him. Events enter a past tense, become a part of history, but not a yellowed entry in a piece long done, rather a freshly inked paragraph in an ongoing chapter. Their meeting happened, but what will become of it?
He brings a hand to his face, wipes away the half-formed tears, before they betray him, falling unannounced, causing concern. As he rubs eyes, he debates with himself, what to tell Kenny, whether to tell Kenny. His heart aches, knowing Kenny will believe him no matter what he decides, that much trust vested in him. He doesn't want to lie, break their unspoken pact of honesty, but what is he supposed to say? That his past did come to haunt him, and Kyle chose to stay? What would Kenny say to that? Kenny would sacrifice his own happiness for him, but does he know that Kyle's happiness rests with him?
Canvas rustles, and Kyle perks up, tucking his arms at his side. He blinks—once, twice, thrice—as Kenny crosses the threshold, whistling a tune, unaware any conspiracy transpired. He holds two corked flasks in either hand, fingers hooked through the loops, and a confident, smug smirk on his face, all too proud of his thievery. His face brightens, but his eyes are still distracted, preoccupied with ways to use a whole bottle of olive oil. He sees Kyle, but doesn't notice the conflict lurking in his eyes.
"Promise's a promise," Kenny says in a sing-song lilt, triumphantly lifting the bottles for display. The blue twinkles, another quip eager on his tongue, but when he meets the green, he pauses. He can always tell when something weighs on his mind, senses too keen, too sharp. Concern flushes his face, swallowing his pun, lowering his voice, "…Kyle?"
He gazes, into those genuine eyes, protective eyes, loving eyes. He knows Kenny will ask, but won't pressure, will wonder, but won't pry. They built their bond over time, with respect, can they really violate that now? After all, he does…
"I love you."
Kyle hears his own voice, speaking words he only thought, what he never uttered aloud. Love, people do crazy things because of it, but it makes them better people. Perhaps Kyle has changed, remarkably, over the course of his stay, but he's happy. He's happy, and he loves him. He can tell Kenny anything, anything at all, but Kyle will only tell him the complete and total truth. But he has to prove it to himself, know the depth of their bond, before he proceeds.
Kenny lowers his hands, drops the bottles to the ground, ceramic clattering together. Something flares in his eyes, something intense, something blinding, something pure. And in a few long, quick strides, he goes to him, wraps his arms around his torso, puts their heads together. His breath brushes Kyle's face, while that something radiates from his eyes, locked unblinking with the green. He looks, deep within him, to ensure it no deception, no lie, sees only confirmation, that the words he spoke were true. And by saying them first, Kyle gives him permission, words pouring out in a breath:
"I love you, too."
And that's all he needs to hear, to know he made the right choice.
A/N: It's been a while since I've been able to post, but I finally finished another part of this lil Homeric AU. I appreciate you all reading, reviewing, and favouriting, and sincerely hope you enjoyed! See you on the next story!