Lying in his bed, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, dread in his stomach. When Rommath thinks of his own soul, he thinks of that. His mind becoming both clearer and less clear, the edges of shapes becoming sharper and the details being swallowed in velvet black. It was never truly dark in Outland. There was always some kind of unnatural light source at the edge of his vision, green or red or violet. Colors of an intensity that made the head swim. Of a depth that disturbed.
He hears the door creak. Speaking of unnatural lights, if the one glowing eye in the dark isn't, Rommath needs to turn in his uncanny bona fides. He smiles at the thought. Does his intruder think the smile is for him? Well, let him.
He smells spice and smoke. Moves over to make room. Feels hot.
"Are you drunk?"
He neglects to fill the silence, electing instead to thumb the gold ring on his little finger. Turning it round and round like the sensation might change. His skin is so warm. It prickles.
"I'll answer then. I'm not drunk."
He thinks that is a lie, given the smell of sweat and wine mixed with the spice and smoke. Anyway that question is beneath him, beneath both of them. So is the fact that he's a little hard. But no matter.
Shadowmoon was always dark, but again, not true dark. The hard and barren land was always lit by fel fire. A chartreuse that roiled in the stomach. The same color as his eyes. As the single eye of the man next to him. Who has begun to trace the tattoos on his arm with nonchalance. He can't decide whether it's feigned.
"These seem different every time I look at them. Do they actually change, or is it just a trick of the light?"
Speaking of, is this real? He feels trapped in a dream but the heaviness in his veins and in his half-hard cock feels real. The hand that's touching him is uncomfortably hot. Is he going to swat it away? Probably not, he hasn't so far. Why break his duck? Anyway, it's traditional. Can that be why this is happening? Probably not, given that the man by his side generally doesn't even bother to hide his boredom when Rommath begins to lecture him about traditions.
"I'd ask if I've upset you, but I think you come pre-upset, Rommath." A teasing flick to his arm before he feels the weight on the bed shift, and two hot hands, now, on the buttons of his robe.
Just a trick of the light.
...
His eyes adjust to the darkness. He can see a bottle of something on his dresser. A potion. He's forgotten what it is, which means probably a priest prescribed it. Does it have a shadow, even in this darkness? It almost seems to. The glow of his eyes maybe causes it, but the light doesn't reach that far, fading once it reaches his cheekbones. How strange, though, to see the fel glow on his own face all the time like a stain. A constant reminder.
The silks on his bed remind him of the Temple, of the Den of Mortal Delights. What, exactly, did Illidan Stormrage need whores for? He does not think he has ever seen him with one. He was there often enough, not partaking himself, but because of Kael. Can demon hunters still fuck? Grand Magister Rommath, philosopher. Right. No. He works better as a proselytizer. As a servant.
Was his mouth really dust-dry all that time, in another world, in another life, or was it just his own fragile memory? He thought of those words the other night. These seem different every time I look at them. Do they actually change, or is it just a trick of the light?
That broken planet, red or black skies. The goose bumps on his skin, now as then, offend him. Grand Magisters don't get goose bumps, don't sweat, don't breathe, don't get hard when they think of green eyes at night. It was hot every night there so he'd sweat and then his skin would get cold and greasy. His long hair would mat. Is it matted now? He is sweating. Also breathing. Also hard. Four sins already and it is past midnight, so he's started the new day with four sins under his belt. Five, he is drunk. He forgets.
The door creaks. An eye in the dark. He can see the shape of the face but not the expression on it. He can smell a few different herbs. Does he know what they are? No. Does the other know? He pictures him, crouching in the woods, which were once thicker than they are now. Is it day or night in his dream image? He does not know. The woods he sees are suffused with a kind of silvery-white, intermediate light that could come from either the moon or the sun. A light the same color as the hair of the man who is now walking towards his bed. He sees a white, scarred hand gently closing around something with leaves like blades.
The bed dips. He hears breathing, deep and slow. He does not know when his visitor will come or when he leaves. After they're done he is always immediately swallowed by the deep warm sleep that comes after alcohol and sex. He always wakes alone with the taste of whatever it is his visitor smokes in his mouth.
"Are you ever going to speak to me?"
A challenge. Rommath does and does not know what he's talking about. He speaks to this man a lot. He is tempted to ask, Are you ever going to pay attention? But he does pay attention. Rommath knows this, has made the mistake of thinking he isn't before.
He smiles coldly. Twists the ring around his little finger once. "Why don't you come find out?"
...
He licks his lips and tastes come. Musky, salty. His whole body feels bruised, sweet aching in every limb. He thinks of how amorphous bodies become in the dark. Indistinct shapes, almost monstrous. He thinks of the clouds above Shadowmoon.
"Do you know what's in the pipe I smoke?"
What a strange question. How conversational. Strange.
"No bloodthistle, it's too distracting. Tobacco. Some kingsblood. Healthy. Peacebloom. Relaxes me. Vanilla. Cinnamon. For flavor. Silverleaf. A little flower called blackbloom, native only to Quel'Thalas."
"I know it. Isn't it poison?"
"Not in very small doses." Is he sure about that, or is he lying? Rommath knows it's a sedative in smaller doses, but he thinks it's prepared differently, in some way that neutralizes the poison. He also knows that healers use it only if nothing else works. It's in the sleeping draughts he does not take. He wonders if his bedmate knows about those. Probably. He does not put them away when he comes over. Partly because who knows when he'll come, partly because he resents the idea that he should have to accommodate this repeated intrusion, but mostly because they are the only two people ever in these rooms, except for servants, who are generally too terrified of him to bother gossiping. As is anyone who might listen to them.
He can also smell a hint of jasmine, which used to suffuse the prince's quarters in the Temple. Sickly sweet, clouding the mind. Rommath had once suggested that Kael use something a little sharper, verbena or eucalyptus, which could freshen the mind, even enhance one's arcane abilities. I like jasmine, Kael'thas had said. It's sumptuous. Is the jasmine there or just in his memory?
A hand is on his chest again, tracing his tattoos. "Rommath."
He does not respond. He does not have to obey the implicit command, the suggestion in the voice that it is his duty to acknowledge or answer it, not here. This is his place. His den. If the other man wants to keep coming here, he has to play by Rommath's rules.
"What's wrong with you?"
It is a gentle question, a healer's question. But he cannot figure out if he is supposed to answer. Anyway, what would he say? Nothing. Everything. If it were daytime he would smile poisonously and ask, Am I displeasing you, my lord? Now, well. Is this a question about what they are doing? It is not as though Rommath knows. It is not his job to think. It is his job to do magic and perform. He forgets that he's decided that his job does not pertain to this situation. That his mask is off, so he is not Grand Magister right now. If the Grand Magister fucks in the dark, is he still Grand Magister, or just some man? He already knows he doesn't make a sound.
...
He hates the way his senses heighten at night. Old though he is, his blood still runs hot in his veins when it gets dark. At night he remembers he is alive and hates it and cannot deny the animal excitement of it. Whom is he punishing with his silence? He wants to believe he is punishing the green eye in the dark, which always has some feeling in it he can't read, doesn't want to read because he suspects it might be pity. He has a feeling he is punishing himself. He usually is.
...
"You should at least put the bottle away when you drink." The tone smacks of complaint. Rommath is annoyed at him for bringing it up, so he says:
"Why? Isn't that part of it for you?"
Once, he thinks, this man might have looked indignant, might have yelled at him. He almost wishes he would. Instead he smiles, leans over and twists one of Rommath's nipples, hard. He doesn't gasp but his cock jerks and throbs. He wishes it wouldn't. The other man responds, "That, and the tattoos."
...
"Do you imagine someone else? When we fuck?"
Rommath sneers in the darkness. They are far too old for these games, not that his opinion bothers his late-night visitor overmuch. He doesn't imagine anything when they fuck, doesn't use his mind at all, just feels. He can hear the other man's breathing, quick, excited, almost panting. Disgusting. "Yes. Halduron," he replies, managing to keep most of the disdain out of his tone.
"Ugh. Really. If you're going to lie, at least come up with a better one."
You want me to lie, Rommath thinks resentfully. He says, "So naïve. You think your friend above hate sex? Above bending me over a desk in a rage and just rutting like the beast he is till he comes all over my robes? Above muddying himself with a nasty warlock like me?"
A snort. "I bet it's Kael'thas."
"Would you like that?" he asks, his voice velvet, smelling jasmine.
A pause. Is he actually thinking about it? Imagining Rommath worshipping Kael's cock in some dark little corner of the Temple like the dutiful little servant he was (is) or Kael thrusting into his ass, yanking his hair? Or something more restrained, ritualized, Rommath kneeling before the prince and praying to the arcane before tasting him? He realizes he hasn't thought about Kael'thas these past few nights. Busy. But he still feels guilty for neglecting his vigil. Not that he imagines the prince would care. Can't care, anyway, as he is currently six feet under on the Isle of Quel'Danas.
Finally, his visitor answers. "No. Too obvious."
...
In his mind he conjures Outland. The dust, dry, damned landscape. The brimstone reek of fel magic making him sick to his stomach. Was it the fel magic making him sick? Was he actually nauseated then or is it just the memory troubling his gut now? Or is he sickened by the fact that he has started to sense which nights he won't be alone?
No, no, no. This is his time, his visitor is just impinging on it. Or enhancing it, increasing his shame. He supposes he should feel grateful.
He imagines the phoenix. Great burning bird, symbol of his people's glorious rebirth. Symbol of Kael'thas's refusal to stay in the ground. Well. Maybe it's not fair to blame the prince. He doesn't know if he would stop wallowing in these memories if he forced himself to or not. He hasn't tried. Has no desire to try. Does that count?
The door creaks. A green eye. Does it insult him or thrill him that Rommath's fist is already loosely circling his cock, the cool metal of his ring against the base of him? Rommath strokes himself again. Well, it doesn't matter. It's not his business what his visitor feels.
...
"My eyes were brown. Before the change. A light brown with gold flecks in it, I'm told. A warm color."
Rommath lolls his head lazily to face his visitor, obediently imagining. He's come good and hard tonight, his body warm and loose, his very marrow saturated with the pleasing afterglow, so perhaps his visitor deserves this acknowledgement. Anyway he's curious. He almost thinks of asking whether he lost the eye before or after, he can't remember himself. They were both a little busy when they'd first met, what with the Scourge invading and everything. And who told him that? Such a romantic description. But his orgasm wasn't that good, so he banishes these thoughts and closes his eyes.
"What color were yours? Blue, I imagine. Or violet, like the arcane."
"Wrong on both counts."
"Well, enlighten me."
He opens his eyes. "They were black."
"No one's eyes are black," says his visitor, almost teasing, lightly exasperated.
"Mine were," Rommath insists.
Silence. Then, "I can imagine."
...
Does this feel good or bad? Why does he always ask himself questions he does not want the answer to? He blames his visitor. Stupid habit. He smells that spice and smoke as much as he does jasmine these days. Not that it matters. They mean about the same thing.
...
"What are you most afraid of?"
"Talkative lovers," Rommath snaps. Is this the most annoying question he's been asked? The real answer looms behind his eyes like the silhouette of the Black Temple.
"It behooves a ruler to know his advisers well," his visitor says mildly, but Rommath is now even more irritated that he has broken their unspoken moratorium on referencing who they are in the daylight.
"Ask Kael'thas." He's being petulant. He is ashamed, but what's one more drop in the ocean? Drowning men don't tend to notice how much water is filling their lungs by the fluid ounce.
"Is it me? Come on, Rommath, what do you fear?"
"Nothing." The idea that suffering only throws what was already in the soul into sharper relief. The idea that he was this person even before Kael'thas, before the black tide of the Scourge swallowed his people, before everything. That he was born with this hole in his chest.
...
Hot. Hot, and hard. He's being fucked, he can feel the restless fury in the jut of his visitor's hips, in the jerking way he fucks tonight, in the scratches he leaves, marring the tattoos he likes so much. A particularly hard thrust makes him grunt, fierce pleasure crashing through his body, and he decides it's high time he asked an annoying question of his own.
"Why—ah—why do you come here?" he grits out, his fists clenching on the other man's shoulders.
His visitor stops moving without even a stutter of his hips, going from frenzied movement to complete stillness in a single instant. Did the rangers teach him that or is it a new trick? "Ugh." Was that disgust or pleasure? The Grand Magister can identify over one hundred potions by bouquet alone, still more wines, but ask him to differentiate between two polar opposite emotions and watch him stutter and hesitate. His visitor picks up the pace again, ramming into him, and Rommath gets lost in it, cursing and hissing his pleasure until they're done.
His visitor rolls off him, his cock slipping out of him in a delicious, obscene slide, and there is an expectant silence, coming from Rommath for once. Really? You won't even answer me? Is that fair? Well, Rommath's not really sure if he's answered his visitor's questions either. But he at least says something, these days.
His visitor begins tracing the tattoos on his chest, fingertip moving languidly over them. "Funny. Still can't tell if they're always the same or always different."
Rommath keeps his silence. Considers shoving the hand away as punishment.
Then a sigh. "Really, Rommath. Asking me such a stupid question while I'm still inside you? I didn't think even you were quite that perverse."
Why had he done it? In hopes of getting an honest answer? Would his visitor be the type to be more honest during sex, or less? Oh, how he hates this.
Well, rather embarrassingly, Rommath's definitely the type to be more honest, during and after. "Believe me when I say, my lord, that there are no depths to which I will not sink." He twists his ring around his finger, metal digging into his flesh a little as it makes the turn. The finger on his chest continues its path. When there is no reply forthcoming, he closes his eyes and drops into sleep like a stone down a well.
...
"Have you ever smoked blackbloom? It's a wonderful feeling. Sits nice and warm in the chest, like alcohol. You might try it. Give your liver a break."
"No." Some of the whores smoked it, so the Den of Mortal Delights typically reeked. Savages didn't even bother going outside to smoke after a while. Awful habit. Can he hear some small part of him that might still recognize the truth peeping about glass houses and stones? Amazing.
"Well, very much your loss. I'm surprised at you, actually. Alcohol is such a common poison."
"Less expensive than blackbloom," Rommath comments with less venom than he'd prefer.
"Ha. First time I've ever heard you championing frugality." He pauses and Rommath feels him stretch next to him. "Blackbloom is a beautiful plant. Black flowers with silver patterns woven in. Non-fatal only in the smallest doses. Any more than a shred of a petal and you'll start bleeding from every hole, including some you don't even know you've got. Truly nasty stuff. We used to use it on the trolls. Dip our arrows in it."
If Rommath had a copper piece for every time he's thought Why is he telling me this?, his wealth would dwarf even that of Trade Prince Gallywix. He wrinkles his nose at the thought of the fat, smirking goblin.
"But the high it gives is lovely. It's this creeping warmth and pleasure that spreads nice and slow through your veins. Like after sex. You can feel it's poisoning you, but you're sure it'll be the most wonderful death. Fully worth the risk."
Is he supposed to be reading between the lines here? The very thought horrifies him. Rangers getting poetical on him would be about more than he could possibly stand. "When did you become an herbalist?"
He snorts. "It's called being a ranger lord, Rommath. They don't just hand the title out to anyone, however simple you might believe rangers to be," he says, almost as if he's heard Rommath's last thought. Rommath almost believes he has. The dark makes a believer out of him. "We know every inch of our lands. I know every inch of Quel'Thalas. Every gradation of shadow. Every beast, every plant, each rock or stream." He sighs. "It's rare to find a magister who would dare wander even a foot outside the city walls. You are all either bored or frightened by other living things. Which is a shame. I can't describe to you the feeling of belonging to the woods. Connection. Companionship. Wholeness, even still. Liadrin hears the voice of the Light, which is fine, useful, good, but I hear the thousandfold voice of the wilds. I hear blood, lust, hunger, satiety. Birth and death. Everything. It's a fascinating conversation." That one green eye meets Rommath's for the first time in a long time, there in the dark. "I have my secrets and my deep mysteries too, Grand Magister."
What the devil does he mean by that? No answer in that gaze. Rommath can't decide whether he has the energy to pretend it doesn't matter.
...
It is the night of Kael's birthday. He lights a candle that fills his room with the scent of jasmine. It clouds his mind like the red dust of Outland, and his room is full of living shadows, full of deep, intense colors, which are not as deep or intense as those of Outland. Shadows of shadows. This pleases him.
The candle is sputtering out when he hears the door creak. For once he's still dressed, sitting up in the middle of his bed, his legs crossed, almost as if he is some monk.
"How can you breathe in here? What a romantic old fool you are," his visitor comments, but his tone is something approaching warm. He walks over to the bed and flops over the end of it, a foot or so from Rommath's legs. He folds his hands behind his head and leans on them, his face turned to Rommath with a curious, amused look, continuing, "Anyway, would have thought you might prefer a pilgrimage to Quel'Danas to go spit on his grave."
Rommath flinches, and the amusement leaves his companion's face. He reaches out to touch Rommath's knee, a conciliatory gesture.
Rommath takes a deep breath, jasmine with new topnotes of spice and smoke. He can identify the baseline of blackbloom. "Lor'themar. Are you here because you love me, or because you hate me?"
Lor'themar takes a moment, then says gently, "Would it really matter which I said?"
Rommath thinks. Considers the void in his chest, made of queasy bright colors and dust, full of fel magic and scented jasmine. Twists his ring around his finger, feeling it move against the cloth of his robes.
"No." He sighs. "No, I suppose it wouldn't."