Iason Mink's Fourth Wonder

by IDespiseTragedy

Elves, futuristic background, magic and technology. A wrong beginning can bring a right ending—a happy conclusion for the much-disdained love between Professor Iason and his test-subject, Riki.

Title: Iason Mink's Fourth Wonder

Credits: Thank you so much to Tomas the Betrayer, kuiama, Kleon Luminia, CemeteryIsTheAnswer, EHeroFlareNeos & Stormecho for beta reading

Disclaimer: None of Ai no Kusabi or its elements is mine

Warnings: AU, dub-con, made-up pseudo-Norse vocabulary (except for the units of measurements and mythology-related ones)

Author's Note: Enjoy your yuletide present, Shrala!

This fic adheres to British English (single quotation marks for normal speech as well as some spelling differences).

Cultural notes:

1 faðmr (plural: feðmr) = approximately 2 yards

1 alin (plural: alnir) = 49.2 cm

1 ertog (plural: ertogar) = 8 grams

Angrboða = the giantess who, by Loki, mothered Fenrir, Jörmungandr and Hel

Váli = the Norse god who was birthed for the sole purpose of revenge and grew to full adulthood within one day of his birth to slay a fellow god named Höðr

Freyja = the Norse goddess associated with love, sexuality, beauty, fertility, gold, seiðr, war and death

Forseti = the Norse god of justice, son of Baldr (the handsomest god in Norse mythology) and Nanna

Tyr's Day (Old Norse: Týsdagr; Danish/Norwegian: Tirsdag) = Tuesday

Hliðskjálf = the high seat of Odin and Frigg allowing them to see into all realms

Brísingamen = Freyja's torque

Frigg = the Norse goddess of weaving, queen of heaven and royal consort of Odin

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I

To call the Kingdom of Tyzack in the northern hemisphere of Planet Shrala 'spellbinding' would be an understatement, if not an utter disservice.

As proof, one need only look to the luminous limestone caves along the Logielmùnd Mountains and the unfathomable Szychlôre Ocean with its iridescent wonders. Its capital, Drugœrlys, was a beauteous city of platinum edifices and marble fountains nestled below vast terraces crowned gold in the sunset. At the city border where Phröug's gates opened stood a resplendent terminal of granite, decorated with jasper and tourmaline. Seen from the air, all the land betwixt city and the coast lay open to one's sight, with Biðçourn's Volcano and its smoke mystical in the distance.

Of course, having observed this same airborne vista numerous times before, owing to the high demand in business travel necessitated by his profession, Professor Iason Mink felt more than entitled to forego another look, and so busied himself reviewing the notes on his tablet computer while his flight was preparing to land.

'All right, sweetie, let's get a look at our new home! Come on up, there we go.'

'Careful, dear, she's still a little fussy.'

The professor took passing note of a doting couple who occupied the row across from him raising their infant daughter up to look out the shuttle's window. They chatted to one another good-naturedly, and seemed delighted when the new-born made certain squealing noises. Iason could forgive them such behaviour only because their offspring had proven remarkably well-behaved during this flight, which was not usually the case with infants, at least in his experience. In fact, most elves chose to have their offspring raised in breeding centres known as 'ræktaflr' until the younglings grew old enough not to place too heavy an encumbrance upon the parents. After all, it was a common practice that procreation was developed artificially by means of incubating externally inseminated seed.

'I hope it's as wonderful up close,' the oblong-faced elf murmured to his partner, who patted him comfortingly on the shoulders as all three enjoyed the view.

Iason considered this statement. The start of their civilization here on Shrala had been a hopeful one. As a lifelong academic, he knew better than most the historical records inscribed on the ancient Sännhæt Stone by the first generation of Shraleans, which he reflected upon now.

Following the declaration of a truce in the age-old war between Álfheimr and Svartálfaheimr, a peace mission comprising fifty members of both light and dark elves was despatched to settle on Shrala—a planet orbited by six moons. Located in the Whirlpool Galaxy, the planet's distance to its sun was farther than that of Earth's; hence, milder was its climate. Of flora or fauna, neither flourished on Shrala. The molecules of the terrain sufficed to produce air without photosynthesis. The oceans and lakes were watery bodies containing nothing more than rocks, minerals, sand and sediments. Mountains and plateaus were simply grounds higher than their neighbouring areas. Jungles and meadows were naught in existence.

Bereft of their accustomed greenery owing to the hydrogen-methane atmosphere, these elven emissaries made do with the rich geological resources available to them. Their natural creativity served the two races well, bolstered even further by a yet new-born sentiment of cooperation. This in turn led to the sharing of techniques in metallurgy and its applications which previously were closely guarded clan secrets. A result of these natural and cultural inclinations was an explosion of technological achievement their forefathers could never have foreseen. Science flourished and electricity had come at the early stage of their life, facilitating their craftsmanship in building computerised grand cities of metal and gemstones.

Alas, utopia proved not without costs. As they came to learn upon further intermingling, far more than mere cultural differences had risen to separate the two species since their schism ages past. They had also grown far apart in terms of genetics. This was made abundantly clear, to their horror, when it was revealed that crossbreeding between light and dark elves was not only highly problematic, but ultimately fatal to the mothers should an actual birthing take place.

The first generation female population suffered a shattering decline. Owing to this, it became a matter of sheer necessity to develop a means of same-sex breeding, the success of which came almost too late to save the faltering peace mission. Nevertheless, the colony managed to survive, and soon adapted its culture to this previously underrepresented family model.

Such account, however, was nothing but a dim-remembered tale of the old time entombed.

The official record did not reveal the harsher reality that at one point during the second generation epoch, the two elven races began dividing each town and built their domiciles in separate territories. Typically born with superior intellect and abilities, light elves were and considered the alphas of the society. Dark elves, on the contrary, were considered the omegas and allotted with lesser comforts. Although exceptions did exist and a scanty number of dark elves and mixed breed were successful in climbing the social ladder and vice versa, the racial prejudice remained inerasable.

Millennia later, with all the original settlers long dead, their descendants had grown so numerous there was no longer any fear of their civilization failing. Now there arose the eleventh generation over the planet, who acknowledged not the tiniest glimmer of peace and equality once shared amongst their ancestors.

Returning from his reverie, Iason quaffed the remainder of his drink. He then handed his empty glass to the air stewardess who passed by with the refreshment trolley.

'Would you care for more drinks, sir?' offered the hostess with a kind of diamond-edged clarity, as though she were to set syllables down next to one another in line with a pattern she had already memorised. Notwithstanding that, within her timbre sparked an enthusiasm reserved from such routine.

Without taking his gaze off his tablet computer, Iason replied in an insipid tone, 'No, thank you.'

The trolley glided away forthwith after his refusal. She was the sole female crew on board and a mixed breed—her skin was neither as fair as Iason's nor as swarthy as the couple across the aisle. Nor did it escape his notice that she did not extend her hospitality to any other passenger. He guessed that she had seen his photograph in the mass media.

While Iason Mink could claim no ancient pedigree, he was the best graduate from the academy of science with a summa cum laude honour and held the highest grade of students' record of the century. Upon the successful completion of his degree, he then became a metallurgist in his native country, Schůqoeia, who had brought the multiplication of metal resources to the service of his species. No matter how copious metal was in their planet, it remained exhaustible; howbeit, Rhysdav—the solar-powered apparatus of his invention—duplicated metals and minerals with exact appearance and quality.

Subsequently, the professor invented a chemical that prevented rust even on the most corrodible metals over the span of two years. On the strength of such a feat, he had won several more prestigious scientific awards. Yet, this did not bring him idleness either. Three years later, he discovered another wonder: synthetic fuel. This earned him the one and only card that granted a lifetime of complimentary fuel for his personal vehicles when presented at any filling station, among other perks. With the rapid flourishing of all these advancements, Iason's name became so exalted as to be one of the pinnacles of existence, and so it behoved the world to do him homage.

Even so, rather than passing his days basking in glory, Professor Mink indefatigably worked on enigmas and decipherments of ancestral scripts, cocooned in his laboratory with nothing but chemicals and machines as his companions. Only in solitude could he find peace and certainty. He made himself a friendless individual despite the countless number of admirers and business associates, whom he kept at arm's length, having met hapless occasions during his tender years in which those who had allied themselves to him proved to be sycophants.

When the airplane landed, the sun had risen higher over wind-carved slopes of dolomite. Iason's aristocratic status enabled him to exit the airport swifter than other passengers, as he was not required to undergo X-ray luggage check, customs or anything to report. Furthermore, in the planet in which nearly everything was composed of metals, minerals and rocks, airports were not equipped with metal detectors.

However, after Iason put his belongings on the ground and turned around to pay the chauffeur of his rental car, an exigency presented itself that made any mere delays in travel irrelevant. While the driver began to load his luggage, the scientist discerned that his computer briefcase which he had made sure to insist remain with him was no longer present. Dread seized him, hot on the heels of which followed vexation. The sound of an engine revving alerted him to a possible culprit, and he looked up to see a dark elf speeding away on a motorcycle with the briefcase in hand.

In a flash, the theft victim came to a decision. With measured calmness, yet not without the urgency of allowing another nanosecond slip by him unemployed, he leapt into the vehicle's backseat and instructed his driver in proficient Tyzackean: 'Chase that motorcycle!'

As soon as both elves boarded the car, the chauffeur started the engine. Only after the combination of titanium and carbon hovercraft of the car's body had taken off and flown smoothly at an eleven-faðmr altitude did the chauffeur dare to suggest, 'Wouldn't it be better to take up this matter with the police, sir?'

Iason rotated the ring, of which features he always had discreetly hidden within the fold of his middle finger, until its stone became evidently apparent. The moment the chauffeur caught a glimpse of the large, translucent greenish-blue elongated crystalline gemstone in his rear-view mirror, he acted in strictest accordance with his passenger's wish. Every Shralean recognised such an orihalcon ring to be the symbol of nobility. Its inner band was engraved with the word 'ádieł' whereas its top bore a different type of gemstone for each rank. Grandidierite was the attribute of a hærtveìn—the highest rank of aristocracy in the planet. Only ten hærtveìnar existed throughout the entire elven race, each one immune to the jurisdiction of any governmental law.

A highly meritocratic society, the elves established their social strata based on personal achievements rather than by birth right. The lowest of these seven layers of nobility was the local leader, mauld, followed by—in ascending order—pteinz, gjōst, uxassøl, ñersa, jŭrl and hærtveìn. While mauldin could acquire priority seats in public places and ñersar dominated the parliament, jŭrlar could go as far as to legalise or nullify a non-noble's citizenship. Law was the pre-engaged servant of higher intellect. Thence, the light elves, who had proven to be superior in various achievements, ruthlessly condemned their darker kindred into labour and made their lives bitter with hard service in all manner of lowly work.

Persistently they followed the thievish dark elf past the purling Dyrathòjn River that marked their course. From the side they had departed, spired halls and mansions rivalled one another in grandeur against the beckoning sea of opalescent sky. Landward beyond the river lay the slum area, where decrepit structures were squashed betwixt narrow roads. The west wind drove into the town, slipping in between the interstices of the dingy shacks—solid proof that the plutocrats had always sequestered themselves in the better parts of the city, turning a blind eye to the struggling outskirts.

Eight other motorcycles had moved in and blocked Iason's way, besieging the car from different directions. Sneers splitting their murky-complexioned cheeks, the riders roared their engines provokingly. There, in-between the two hoodlums, they spotted the motorcycle Iason had been pursuing descend onto the ground and slue to the right ere vanishing behind a corner. Iason narrowed his eyes, determination to capture the offender clear on his visage.

'Sir…' called the chauffeur, panic edging in his voice. He was a dark elf himself, but not a senseless one, and he had made clear of which side he chose: his occupational dedication disallowed the passenger to associate him with the barbarity of his race.

'Continue the pursuit.' Reaching for the holster around his hip, Iason took out his gun. He opened the passenger's window for a better aim at the closest cyclist. The laser pointer hovered on the hoodlum's sternum, and without as much as a blink, Iason pulled the trigger.

A chartreuse beam sparked from the mouth of the barrel and hit the pectoral tattoo showing above the cut of his battered tunic. The electric shock made the dark elf's eyes widen and his body convulse. The spasm lasted but for three seconds afore he slumped onto his vehicle, leaving it afloat nine feðmr high. Pressing the reload button of his weapon, the professor pointed the laser towards his next target, starting to feel short of time.

'Grab 'is stunner!' Iason heard one of the delinquents say.

Shooting as fast and as steadily as he could, missing his target only once, he managed to repeat the process with five more opponents ere the other two got close enough to wrest his weapon from the open window, halting their motorcycles a breath away from the car door.

The chauffeur cried more importunately, 'Sir, let's leave this place!'

'Stay!' Iason insisted, his harsh tone betraying his former composure; even his prodigious brain precluded him from elaborating his word while he strove against his assailants. Momentarily side-tracked by the chauffeur's perturbation, he failed to realise that his opponents had closed the distance between them. Crimson liquid drizzled from the back of his hand as the hoodlums slashed his skin with their jack-knives. Iason bit down on his lip, suppressing a groan from the pain.

Emboldened by the sight of Iason's blood, one of the two remaining delinquents tried to rob his ádieł ring, as well. The hoodlum sporting a tenné Mohawk grabbed the scientist forearm.

His compatriot—a skeletal elf with several body piercings—warned him, 'Look, mate, you're gon' get us all in trouble!'

'Quit bitchin' out! Once we break 'em, geniuses and idiots all become rubbish.'

Convinced by his crony's words, the lean elf aided the purple-haired one by zipping in and grabbing the gun barrel with one hand to prevent it from being aimed their way. Now freed of that imminent threat, his accomplice set to work on divesting Iason of his ádieł ring.

Iason breathed hard, the stinging from his injured hand growing more aggravating by the second. The look of terror on the driver's expression was not at all difficult to notice. To lose at least one of his assailants, Iason dropped his stun gun. Taken by surprise at this sudden lack of resistance, the shorter dark elf pitched backward and lost his balance, after which he and his motorcycle plummeted in pursuance of the discarded weapon.

The tenné-haired elf, unaffected by his chum's absence, leered snidely at Iason. 'Wot're ya gorner do? Get rid o' the ring, too?'

'As a matter of fact…' Face impassive still, Iason began to slide the ring from his finger. The avaricious glint of the dark elf's eyes followed his every movement. The next moment, the ring plunged several feðmr below, coruscating in the sun in the likeness of a daylight star.

The dark elf veered his motorcycle and chased after it, mocking him, 'Turns out ya worry 'bout yer sorry arse more'n that ring, after all!'

The motorcycle had not plunged an alin when Iason whipped out another gun from his inner pocket. He pulled the trigger of the short-barrelled revolver twice: one for the motorcycle's fuel tank, the other to set the now spurting fuel on fire.

'…no one wrongs me with impunity,' Iason stated as he looked down from the open window, the dance of flame reflected in his blue eyes to the musical accompaniment of the motorcyclist's scream.

Having replaced the revolver in his pocket, Iason ordered the driver, 'Hover closer to the ground. After I dismount, park the car by Dyrathòjn River and await me there.'

Although the driver obeyed and steered the car low, he swallowed hard and made bold of himself by means of a suggestion, 'Sir, with all due respect, despite the significance of a grandidierite ring, the risk of losing your life is greater when you wander alone in the slum.'

Even though the chauffeur did not mention the fact that travelling by car in the slum would not alleviate the hazard potential since it attracts even more unnecessary attention, the passenger was well aware of it. Iason held to his purpose still and unclenched his other fist, revealing his grandidierite ádieł' ring.

As he put the band of orihalcon on his finger, the driver interjected, 'By Loki! How—uh… Was the ring you disposed of as a diversion an imitation?'

The car was floating seven feðmr from the ground and still descending. Iason nonchalantly asked, 'What is your name?'

'It's Daryl, sir.'

When the craft was five-faðmr high, Iason saw that any lower altitude would be impassable, since the vehicle would not fit in the narrow thoroughfare. He placed a miniscule tracking device on the passenger's seat and uttered in a flat tone, 'In the event you do not see me within two hours, you should assume me dead and return to the car company. Thank you for driving me today, Daryl.'

Iason had jumped out of the car ere Daryl even completed articulating his reply: 'It's been a pleasure.'

Dropping from the sky, Iason braced himself for the familiar tugging sensation that roiled in his stomach. Next, he fumbled with his watch, activating its gravity control function. About half a faðmr from the ground, his speed decelerated, and he landed with ease.

As he strode off, Iason pulled out a Global Positioning System from his inner pocket. Within a few taps, the street map of the Drugœrlys slum came into view. Two dots appeared on the monitor. The first one—the rental car—proceeded towards the upstream of Dyrathòjn River, while the other, which travelled with greater velocity, went downstream.

Is that the location of the odious purloiner's lair?

Iason spurred his feet to follow the downstream target. The tracking device would no longer be in effect once his tablet computer was removed from the briefcase. Absent the materials for his presentation, he would not have enough time to compose their replacement. If he lost the credibility from the prominent figures in society, his career would definitely suffer.

By the aid of his GPS, Iason endeavoured to arouse himself from the pitiable condition into which he had fallen, scouring the slum. The area was the home for dark elves and mixed breeds, who became the lowest echelons of society due to their career failure, of which bankruptcy, lack of intellectual capacity or no educational background were the common grounds. In their squalor, the denizens' timeworn attire was frayed around the edges and had lost the vibrancy of their hesternal colour. Some of them looked imploringly at Iason as he passed. Unswayed, the light elf observed with distaste that, amid the noisome corrosion and rickety build of the populously dismal slum, the inhabitants busied their souls in lechery with no one to reproach them anent propriety.

Leaning against one sombre wall was a chuffed-looking elf, while a four-decade younger one attended to his loins with his head bobbing up and down. At a different street corner, a she-elf with gown elevated waist-high was supporting her weight on all four limbs, a rotund customer taking her from behind, causing her bosoms to bounce with each sway of his hips. 'Yesss, oh yes! Stab me with your hard prick!' Even as Iason averted his gaze, he could hear, 'More … oh! Mm-moreee!' from the opposite street. Within a stone's throw from the rutting elves, emaciated younglings garbed in threadbare rags were fighting over a piece of bread, paying no heed to what must have been another quotidian occurrence to them.

The aristocrat had paced the dreary area full of peccant denizens and their unshepherded dissipations rapidly for fifteen minutes when a loud crash arrested his attention. Swerving, he perceived a familiar amber flare bursting skywards, along with grey smoke. Several screams punctured the air. Judging by its location, this was likeliest to be the explosion of a motorcycle. One of the ragamuffins whom he had stunned in mid-air must have run out of fuel. His vehicle toppled from the sky and there was nothing his paralysed body could do to prevent it.

Iason turned his back again and continued advancing southwards. That the scoundrel had risked to journey with such depleted fuel was no concern of his. Veritably, the less scum like that were to survive, the better it would be for the world.

The dot on his GPS had come to a halt at the Erynœvald Bridge for a while now, but no one was visible for boundless feðmr in every direction when Iason arrived thither. Aged and unsightly, the expanse of unyielding basanite climbed betwixt two sloping grounds, tenebrous against the daylight and nigh blasphemous in its vastitude. The scientist was considering the possibility of device malfunction when a stentorian thud assaulted his ears.

The clamour originated from under the bridge, whence two dark elves were exchanging blows. The thug with larger build, whom Iason recognised to be the thief of his briefcase, wiped the blood off his nostrils. A bruise grew on the other elf's cheek, but he looked otherwise undeterred despite being significantly smaller than his adversary.

The two fighters charged forward again. The bag snatcher threw a heavy punch, but this time, his opponent dodged with minimal movement. With an angry growl passing from between cut lips, the big elf pelted him again with an onslaught of rapid attacks. In response the other fighter twisted gracefully in one spot to avoid every strike and, when his enemy paused to catch a breath, delivered a solid left-hand jab to his nose.

As they resumed their match, Iason retained his distance to inspect the situation from afar. The platinum briefcase lay neglected on the ground nearby. Being occupied in their duel, it was not unlikely he could recover the source of their dispute and make his escape.

While calculating the possible ways in which he could retrieve his possession unnoticed by the combatants, something strange caught his attention that had previously not been evident. Hovering low above the gravel around where they fought, ruby-coloured sparks were seen to flash. At first he dismissed it as a mere reflection off elements in the shale. But in the shadow of the bridge there was no light strong enough to produce such refractions. And they seemed to grow stronger each time the bag snatcher's fist narrowly missed his adversary.

Then it finally dawned upon him what he was witnessing. Stunned, Iason lost all notion of withdrawing or even recovering his belongings. Instead he remained absorbed in the sight of something which sent a thrill of delight through his heart.

The shorter elf ducked under the blows his opponent sent his way, and rolled to the side when he landed in front of the larger elf, instead opting to go past it to draw it away. Managing to block a punch from the larcenist, he biffed him square on the chin with an uppercut that left the thief momentarily dazed. Seeing his chance, he then kicked his opponent at the back of the knee, hard and fast, giving the culprit no chance to recover from the previous hit.

With an almighty roar, the larcenist swung an arm backhand at his adversary, a pocket knife now evident in his fist. The unarmed fighter quickly hopped back again, dodging the swipe even as his leg jack-knifed up to strike the underside of the larger elf's jaw seconds later, propelling him up into the air, the knife flying from his hand. The brute landed with an outstanding thwack, his forehead hitting the abutment of the bridge as he clearly lost consciousness.

The tiny sparks of ruby disappeared. However, they had not only made Iason see a wonder disproportionate to the dark elf's vile environment, but also regard the smaller elf with an utter astonishment not unmingled with dread. Years of earnest studies enabled him to recognise this event as a symptom of what no Shralean elf had supposedly possessed for millennia: the wild, unpredictable element known in legend simply as 'magic'. Unlike the Earthian elves, the Shralean ones could not blossom flowers and fruits by singing into trees or heal wounds with their mere touch. Magic, thence, existed solely within the long-forgotten tomes and incunabula composed by the first generation elves. Yet here and now before him stood a gem in the rough. Whether he recognized it or not, his magic served to protect him whenever he felt threatened, and vanished when he was no longer in jeopardy. How vast his potential was, no mind could ever measure; Iason understood that no Shralean elf in his experience could ever have conjured such magic hitherto.

As Iason recovered from his academic ardour, the triumphant dark elf approached the platinum briefcase. He was bending to pick it up when its true owner's voice halted him, 'That is mine.'

The dark elf turned around. From this position, it was clear that he was a few years below Iason. His physiognomy was quite a feast to the eye: dark, unkempt hair; a finely moulded jaw; somewhat thin and colour-deficient lips, but of a surpassingly fair curve; a slightly upturned nose; and eyes that reminded their beholder of the lustre of obsidian.

Ignoring the wistful groan of his stomach, Iason came down from one slope and declared, 'It was stolen by the one you have just defeated.'

'Got mugged, huh?' The victor lifted the briefcase and examined it. 'Finders keepers.'

'It is fortified with so complex a lock combination that no one is capable of opening it other than its owner. If you sell the briefcase as it is, you will not obtain a decent price for it. Give it to me and you will be rewarded handsomely.'

'Don't want to.' The dark elf smirked. 'Some tone you've got there! Didn't school teach you to use "please" when asking a favour?'

Iason's countenance remained unfazed, yet something stirred within his blood. How could such a lowly thug expect a noble to do something so infra dignitatem as to implore? He had to

remind himself to keep calm, no matter how preposterous this imbecile was being. Only a fool would disregard the opportunity presented here. For a brief while, the two elves stood face-to-face in strained, static muteness.

As the aristocrat peered at the mongrel, an inner voice warned him that the dark elf looked nothing less than a forbidden draught—one sip introduced the dizziness of space and the fever of unimagined jungles to the drinker, and the more such potation was taken, the more incurable the drinker would become.

In the end, trying a different approach, Iason addressed the younger elf, 'I am in search for one with dark elf dialect expertise. Would you be my interpreter?'

'Get lost!' the youth yelled, raising his fourth and fifth finger towards his nostrils—the rudest gesture in the Tyzackean culture.

'For five days only.'

'To Niflheimr with you, dipshit!' He turned to leave.

'You will receive an ertog of silver coins should you agree to hand over the briefcase and another ten ertogar for your translation service.'

The youth paused, then slowly turned about. 'Ten ertogar per day,' he challenged, smirking confidently that the briefcase owner would not agree to such an unreasonable demand; the aforementioned price could afford the latest motorcycle model or even an overnight luxury cruise.

---

II

'Tell me, is it customary in Tyzackean slum to greet each other by way of overwhelming halitosis?'

'Hey, snobbish bugger, wanna know how to say "dickhead" in Svartálfr's dialect?'

Daryl the chauffeur showed no sign of ever hearing their banter. Cultivated with impeccable manners befitting the hospitality industry, he had allowed no more than two seconds of surprise when Iason brought his new associate, whose name turned out to be Riki, into the car earlier. Afterwards, he had addressed the dark elf with the same politeness he had his noble fare.

As soon as Iason had the dark elf's word of agreement, they had returned to the waiting rental car. Their first stop now was the most prestigious clothing store in Drugœrlys. Rather than deriving from the floral fibres, Shralean garb was woven from fibrous metal known as 'ætreklr' whereas paper was manufactured from a different alloy, qūklr.

An hour later, Riki—the dark elf—walked through the rotating door carrying bags laden with four sets of formalwear and one dance suit, each with a matching belt and cape. His stomach rumbled sonorously in remonstration against the lengthiest shopping in his life, but Iason would not condone dinner before they made the shoe store and the unguent shop their next stops.

'You will not comment unless asked,' Iason warned Riki as the latter let out an appreciative whistle at the sight of their hotel from the rental car window.

Evenfall had hushed the hum of the day when the car skidded to a halt in front of a splendiferous edifice. Featuring three hundred floors of exclusive rooms and suites, the Rëgvaldyr Hotel was the ninth loftiest structure on the planet and offered the unique chance to hold the power of the true Drugœrlysian landscape with a superb view from its balustraded balconies. Rows upon rows of illuminated windows shone brilliantly like gems in the dark backdrop of the gloaming firmament. The paramount lines of the local architecture had been harmonised with the in-vogue suggestions of prestigious lodgings. Comforts had been installed in a manner which detracted in nowise from the splendour of the bygone orthodoxy.

Although the lobby's traceries of palladium and other architectural ornaments exhibited respect to the opulence of the archaic epoch, its finest amenities promised guests more relaxing vacations. What brought the widest smug grin on the dark elf's visage, however, was how reverently the hotel staff treated him—a hærtveìn's companion whose attire would have remained unaffordable with half a year of their salary. The staff's courteous deportment only escalated after Iason upgraded his booked deluxe room into a VIP suite.

After handing their room key to the porter, Iason led Riki straight to the restaurant. The dining hall itself was the last word in grandeur, with elegantly-appointed interiors, majestic scheme and extravagant furnishing, wherein diners could enjoy sweeping panoramas of the vibrant city through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Riki rubbed his hands impatiently as the waiter brought them the menus. 'Whew, I'm so hungry I could eat a ten-course dinner!'

Iason waited until the service staff retired afore telling Riki off, 'Each of your unnecessary comments will deduct a silver coin from your payment.'

He did not need to endure Riki's glare for a long time; the dark elf dipped into the menu within seconds. Nonetheless, Riki flipped the pages quickly and closed the menu almost instantly.

'These lists … they don't come with pictures,' he uttered with unmasked disgust as he put down the menu on the table.

Iason enquired, 'Are you illiterate?'

'No, but I don't bloody get half the stuff they're talking about. What the heck are "jűrnelaræk" and "svìrthekkød" anyway?'

The aristocrat considered the new development. Since neither flora nor fauna existed on Shrala, all victuals were based on a mineral by the name of nëyrhig. It was mined in the form of crystallised friable quartz, which was then split open and cooked into a gamut of dishes with the enhancement of other mineral-based artificial flavourings. While the crème de la crème consumed a wealth of varieties, those with lower financial power barely knew different options beside bread and gruel of diluted nëyrhig.

He has no need of rereading the esoteric terms with which he is unfamiliar prior to pronouncing them; despite his uncouthness, at least his intelligence is not overly deficient, ruminated Iason before he asked, 'Do you have any food allergy?'

'What? No!'

'Would you mind having the same types of dishes as the ones I am going to select?'

'If they're good enough for you, they're good enough for me,' Riki answered with arms folded across his chest.

Iason waved his arm and the waiter from earlier approached at his summons. Attired in a royal purple uniform, he greeted them in the Shralean common tongue, his tone none too unctuous for the glamorous yet cosy atmosphere of the restaurant. 'How may I serve you, sirs?'

'I would like to place our order.' Iason read five types of victuals afore telling the waiter to double their portions.

'So, what do you actually need me for?' Riki asked in Tyzackean Language as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.

Iason peered at the alley dweller slouched across the table. 'As I have explained in the car earlier, I—'

'You're going to give a presentation and a lecture,' interrupted Riki, 'and just in case someone in the audience asks you questions, I need to translate those. Yes, yes, I got that excuse. But come on, who in their right mind would pay an unschooled street urchin more than tenfold a professional translator's wage?'

Iason stared long and hard. His brain, although prodigious in the fields of scientific research, was ineffectual in inventing confabulation for socialising. He tried to delay a few seconds of answering by challenging Riki, 'Hazard a guess at my intentions?'

'Dunno, you're probably feeling lonely or something.'

'Would I bring you here for mere…' Iason shifted his unaccented articulation into a more provincial dialect, but his steel blue eyes piercing like pitiless ice, '…shits and giggles?'

Riki retorted almost too soon, apparently unimpressed by Iason's poor impersonation of dark elf dialect, 'What then? To skrog with you?'

'I hired you to be an interpreter. Do not expect me to mix business with pleasure.'

'And I'm telling you not to give me such folderol! Even if there's a svartálfr or two among your brainy audience, won't they use the common tongue?'

If this kept up, the uncivilised elf might grow agitated enough to create a scene. To avert such an embarrassment, the flustered academic was forced to admit the truth. 'I would like to uncover the full potential of your power.'

'Power? As in me knocking off the bloke who nicked your bag? Many people can do that.'

'No, I mean the expression of magic that made its appearance in the midst of your fight with him.'

'What magic?' Riki's brow arched in undisguised curiosity.

'That is what we shall find out.' Iason sipped the cõrluje from the crystal goblet. The costly russet-coloured liquor was composed of thirty-one chemicals and powdered nëyrhig.

Setting down his goblet without for a moment considering how his assurance would strike his employee, Iason continued, 'Have no fear; you will be paid extra for your co-operation in each experiment.'

To the aristocrat's astonishment, the lowly dark elf abruptly snatched the goblet and splashed the drink into his countenance.

'You think everything goes your way just because you have money?!' the outraged youth replied through gritted teeth, 'I'm through with tube experiments, injections, electric shocks and all that crap!' With that said, his palm pounded the table, drawing glances from all who were present.

Cognisant that the stains on his jabot could not easily be removed, Iason simply dabbed his visage with a napkin. Seemingly calm and collected, he returned the rectangular royal purple cloth to his lap ere picking up the fork.

Before Riki could even blink, the four prongs of gold were embedded in the table between the index and middle fingers of his unclenched hand. The moment he looked back at Iason, the ever-present tranquillity that had formerly graced the aristocrat's physiognomy now transmogrified into a glower.

'Have I made myself clear that you need not cause a ruction each time you wish to establish a point?' Iason intoned, his expression speaking louder than his words.

Riki watched him for a moment afore flopping back into his seat. No further discourse took place between them until the same waiter appeared with two identical dishes of flaky pastry meticulously shaped to resemble Sleipnir—the eight-legged horse of Odin—in form.

'It's beautiful!' Riki blurted once the plate was laid down on the table before him. He seemed to be ready to take back what he said, possibly taking Iason's warning in regard to unnecessary comment into consideration, when he saw the waiter beam at his compliment. He cast a worried glance at Iason, but for once, the older elf did not rebuke him.

The fame of the Rëgvaldyr chefs' mastery in their arts had indeed not been exaggerated. One bite was all it took for Riki's eyes to sparkle. The transparent, spherical ingredient that served as the horse's eyes burst at the slightest touch of the tongue, while the fur-like, long ingredient that served as its mane and tail was crunchy to chew. When scooped, the inside of the pastry revealed savoury chunks of a brown ingredient with a meaty aftertaste. Despite their singular nëyrhig origin, all other victuals were tastefully designed with a touch of luxury and lavishly garnished with a heterogeneous range of modified shapes to make the mouth water.

Their repast was concluded without further incident, after which they made their way to their shared living quarters. The décor of the spacious VIP suite was obviously designed for those who were chasing the best. Divided into two tiers, with a bedchamber, dressing room, home theatre-equipped parlour, dining area, bathroom in the ground floor and another stately en-suite bedchamber with joint dressing room connected via a spiral staircase of tempered glass, the suite could accommodate up to four sleepers.

Upon entering, Iason disregarded ogling the environs as his nominal underling was doing and instead ascended the glass staircase. 'I shall grant you the lower level for your bedchamber. You must refrain from going upstairs.'

'Suit yourself. Just don't play your TV louder than mine… Angrboða's tits, this bed's as big as a house!'

As Iason proceeded to the upper storey, he heard a thump, followed by the squeaks of springs, each at a few seconds' interval. He had no doubt Riki was bouncing on the king-sized mattress, tasting what would for him be the ultimate sleep experience.

Having set his tablet computer on the escritoire and his garb in the armoire, the scientist set aside one set of formalwear and the lecture materials for the next morning.

That being done, it was time for their first experiment.

He took off his shoes and went downstairs, each tread soundless against the sheets of glass staircase. In this manner he arrived behind the sofa wherein Riki was sitting, the dark elf's gaze fixed on the plasma television. He called, 'Riki.'

'Yeah?' The younger elf swivelled around, to find a revolver nestled in Iason's hand, suspended in mid-air at a mere breath away from his forehead. Eyes widening with shock, Riki swore, 'What the fuck!'

A life spent on the streets determined what happened next. Riki immediately jerked to one side, his hand lashing out in an attempt to knock the gun away as he had with the knife-wielding thug earlier. But this time, his adversary was faster. Iason caught the outflung arm just above the wrist and twisted it expertly. An attempt to pull free only increased the pain in Riki's now contorted shoulder. The pressure was getting stronger and stronger until…

With what little strength he had left, Riki hollered, 'You brought me here just to snuff me? Is that it? You have a lust for blood and butcher anybody you could lay your dirty hands on?'

Without even the smallest reaction to what Riki had said, Iason angled the barrel to face Riki's heart. He let it linger there for a moment, looking straight into Riki's wild eyes, afore he pulled the trigger.

Click.

A large ruby spark—not diminutive like the ones under the Erynœvald Bridge—appeared out of thin air. It glowed brightly for a few seconds; however, it vanished almost as fast as it had appeared when no bullet came out of the barrel.

Still panting laboriously, Riki cast Iason a look mingled with accusation and perplexity. One moment the attacker had a clear intent on killing him, and the next it was all an act?

Iason released his hold and withdrew the gun with the same unperturbed expression as usual and declared, 'I had emptied the revolver of all bullets prior to descending hither. With this, we may safely conclude that your magical energy comes forth not when you are in danger, but when you assume you are in danger. The greater your exposure to the peril, the more liberal the size of the energy will be.'

The discovery apparently held less zest for Riki, who rolled his eyes sarcastically. 'What a huge discovery, as expected from the world-renowned scientist! And no, no apology needed in the name of science!' He punched the armrest of the sofa. 'Git!'

Without uttering so much as a monosyllable, Iason turned and ascended the stairs, returning in the next minute shod in the hotel slippers and carrying his precious tablet computer. He ensconced himself in the sofa an arm's length from Riki, and said in the condescending manner employed by a psychiatrist whilst communicating with his patient, 'Tell me about yourself.'

'First you try to waste me, and then get cosy with me—are you brainsick?'

Again, the benefactor offered no word as he rose from his seat. This time, he wheeled towards the door to switch off some of the lighting agents in the suite. Upon returning to the sofa, he turned off the TV and opened a long medley of serenely euphonic cadences on his computer. In the dim light, Iason spoke with the most soothing timbre he could muster, 'Relax your mind and body, Riki. Imagine you are in a blissful place.'

'How can any place be blissful with you around?' Riki stated matter-of-factly.

'Just pretend I never existed and you have more money than you can count.'

After a few seconds' interval, Riki asked, 'What's next?'

Iason timed his response to the sound of the other elf's breathing, with considerable elaboration and repetition far beyond the point of boredom in an ordinary conversation, 'You can feel a heavy, relaxed feeling coming over you. Every word that I utter is putting you will carry you into a deeper, more peaceful state of hypnosis.'

His supposed patient sat upright forthwith. 'As if I'm willing to get hypnotised by a weirdo supremo like you!'

Putting away his computer, Iason held Riki by both wrists, towering the shorter elf with his body and pinning him down to the sofa again. The rebellious youth fought to push him away, struggling with every twist of his body and every drench of power residing within him. The two elves' breath mingled in angry bursts, their faces only a palm away from each other's. Accustomed to handling the mobility of heavy laboratory apparatuses, however, the scientist had developed a superior gripping strength.

'I'm no slave of yours, Iason! You think I'd say, "With acetone, ethanol or toluene, master?" when you order me to burn myself to death?"'

Although he was tempted to inform Riki about other highly-combustible solvents, such as hexane, limonene, tetrachloroethylene, among others, the professor resolved with a vow: 'You will not be tortured or harmed in any method I can think of. You cannot be made to do anything under hypnosis that you do not want to do and I guarantee your safety.'

'Too bad I'm not mad enough to believe those words!'

Knowing that he could not win over Riki with just money, Iason recalled how wonted sexual intercourse was amongst the denizens of the slum and how light Riki's tone was while suggesting, 'What then? To skrog with me?' earlier.

The scientist released his grips from the other elf's wrists, forsook the sofa and sauntered towards the bed. To avoid suspicion, he left his computer behind.

'Come to me, Riki,' he beckoned.

'What?! This time, you want me to sleep with you?'

Iason neither confirmed nor denied it. He simply sat on the bed and stared at Riki.

'You should have just said so from the beginning. No need to get me hypnotised just for sex. Sheesh!' Despite his complaints, Riki approached the bed.

'Before you do that…' Iason halted Riki from taking off his attire, '…I would like you to lie down and gaze at me.'

Riki emitted an exaggerated groan even as he rested his back on the soft mattress. 'You're the melodramatic type who wants to hear all those sappy nonsense before fucking?'

'Sleep for me.'

'Hey, hey, you're supposed to say, "Sleep with me."'

'Look at me,' insisted Iason, his torso leaning forward and his hands cradling the sides of Riki's face, 'Rest the nerves within your body. Think of nothing. Let go of all your worries. Leave everything to me.'

'What do you think I am? A virgin?' Riki snorted, but his voice sounded nowhere near as fierce as his earlier remonstrations.

'You will go deeper and deeper into a trance. The deeper you go the better you feel, the better you feel the deeper you go…' It took several minutes of sonorous repetitive statements as such ere Riki's eyelids fluttered closed. Iason swiftly retrieved his computer.

'You will look back on the significant events in your life which have moulded you into the individual you are today. Tell me, one by one,' continued Iason as he tapped the screen of his tablet computer. A holographic keyboard appeared, hovering a palm's span from the device.

Riki spoke in a trance, 'I was one of the many orphans in the slums to be collected by the government for experimental subjects. The lab was an awful place. Sure, there was no need to steal to keep ourselves fed, but dizziness from blood loss was the most merciful treatment we got. They kept us in cells like prisoners. Heck, they even attached numbered collars around our throats! They never provided us with drugs when we got sick either. Although lots of us didn't survive half of those experiments, none of those cold-blooded scientists gave a damn; they simply gathered more kids from other areas to replace the dead ones. Seven years ago, I nearly died myself. But then, the Biðçourn Volcano blew up and there was a time some parts of the country underwent a blackout. Because of that, some kids climbed through the fence to escape without fear of getting zapped. Me included.'

Fingers tapping the ethereal keyboard with impressive speed, Iason typed the summary of Riki's account. None of the words displayed on the monitor contained typos.

'Life outside the lab wasn't any easier. I lost count how many times those toughies in the slums used me as a punching bag. I thought that by getting some friends, I'd become less of a target, so I joined this group called Bison. I was doing okay for a while there, with kids like me, who had it rough. But that didn't last long 'cause that was where I first learnt the taste of treachery. That bastard Katze sold us to a black market slave trader. Only a few of us got away, and Kirie, the youngest of us all, died from gunshots.

I should have trusted nobody after that, but I was a fool to believe that genuine care still existed. A female stripling named Mimea was kind to me; said that I reminded her of her late brother. I lived with her, and what we had, we shared. It wasn't long before we had sex. I thought we'd be happy together forever, but when a light elf came looking for amusement in the slums, she threw herself at him. He asked her if she was willing to be his, and she agreed without hesitation. He's a hærtveìn, just like you. His name's Raoul Am.'

Iason paused typing. He knew Raoul in person. In fact, that elf was the closest entity to a friend he had and one of the few individuals that he held in high esteem. Raoul was a year Iason's senior, but appointed a hærtveìn two years after the professor's inauguration, owing to his invention of a top-security computing programme. However, in lieu of taking the scientific path for the rest of his life, he had immersed himself in commerce and emerged as one of the world's most influential magnates.

Iason resumed typing when Riki mouthed, 'Well, I've grown up since then. I killed. I fucked. Get fucked—'

'That will be all,' dictated Iason, rather too abruptly. 'I shall count from one to five, and at the count of five you will wake, only to change into your nightwear and then go to sleep. You will rouse completely refreshed and absent of anomaly tomorrow morning.'

Riki complied. Meanwhile, the questioner returned upstairs, contemplating about everything he had just learnt. Clearly this unexpected encounter held more problems and puzzles than evident at first glance. After a while, the tired scientist finally closed his own eyes to slumber.

That night, Iason dreamt of a circular stage surrounded by unknown audience on raised seats. He and everyone else wore masks—every elf present, bar one: Riki. Standing in the centre of the dais, the dark elf was bare and bound. The shackles encircling his wrists were extended from the ceiling, forcing his arms to be tightly held uselessly above him. His ankle cuffs were fitted with looser chains to enable the control of his legs by his torturer. Above him, the heat from the spotlight caused sweat to roll down his exposed figure.

'The lesson I shall give you today,' Iason addressed the audience, 'is how to subdue an elf by means of sexual prowess.' He then circled Riki to inspect the captive's fascinating bareness from all sides, his stare spearing those tensing muscles. 'Only pain can satisfy you, pet. Am I wrong?'

'What nonsense are you spouting about? Let me go!' Riki struggled, but the harnesses only dug deeper into his skin.

Iason halted behind Riki, positioned himself between Riki's splayed legs and whispered as he leaned forward, 'I shall not let you go. The two of us will become one.'

'You're nuts!'

Iason husked, his voice sounding silky without sacrificing its depth and masculinity, 'Give me all of you.'

When Iason held Riki's hips firmly and forced his tumid member into Riki's rear, the dark elf squirmed against his restraints. Within that bondage, Iason could take and take and take, while Riki could do nothing but to give the light elf more, until there was nothing left of him. He shifted the angle of his thrusts, tilting Riki further back and slamming into him swiftly and vigorously, through which he was rewarded with a new sound: the hint of a whine to his moans.

Pectoral muscles inflating and deflating, the captive could do nothing more than gasp and groan while the light elf pleasured himself on him. Back and forth Riki swayed, struggling from mortification when he heard the clank of the metal plates making contact, then steeling himself for the intrusion to his body. Riki's breathing had grown shallower, his dark eyes clouding over with mixed emotion of overt discomfort tinged with covert delight.

Soon, Riki bucked back against Iason in yearning for the taller elf's unrestrained glory to slide deeper into his hind orifice. No matter how much he gritted his teeth to keep his traitorous mouth from voicing his enjoyment, he still rose to the tips of his toes as Iason pumped that entire length faster in and out with his sac slapping against the curve of Riki's backside. Riki's breaths grew louder, while his tensed form glistened with sweat. The exquisite fabric of Iason's attire caressed his naked skin. The chains above him rattled as he fought against them, desperate to bring himself to completion.

Iason gripped Riki's chained hands and kept the other on his thigh, forcing the bound elf's body back against his dominating rhythm.

Shuddering with uncontrollable spasms, Riki reached his peak. He spilled liberally over the floor as he tossed back his head, while making a ferine mewl that stayed confined in his throat. Then he slumped back, his entire weight hanging on the handcuffs which clinked together and gnawed viciously into his wrists.

Murmur of excitement traversed across the audience; Riki was indeed a spectacle of unchecked amorousness.

Without giving Riki a moment of reprieve, Iason put his hands on the inside of the bound elf's thighs, pressing the shorter elf back against his pulsating virility. He kept pounding into Riki, kept up the gruelling pace as he sought his own release. He heard Riki utter a faint protestation, and yet, eight more thrusts were all it took afore Riki's groin started twitching again.

Amidst the seducer's breath against his nape, the deft fingers encircling his shaft, and the conquering heat fully lodged inside him, Riki was left with no choice but to surrender when the all-consuming orgasm overwhelmed him once more. Iason, too, climaxed with a delectable thrill, a moan falling from his lips as he came inside Riki. Wave after wave rippled through the two elves' bodies, which bucked and writhed in erotic abandon.

Iason rose with bulging loins and wet stains on his bed sheet at dawn. Making a mental reservation about ordering an escort service as soon as he finished the lecture, he proceeded into the bathroom. Since sexual frustration would affect the high standards in his work performance and courtship would be time-consuming, he usually had a different prostitute delivered to his door each week. However, the last ten days had been so occupying for him that he had to neglect his routine.

The magnificent bathroom was furnished with sunken-in-the-floor Jacuzzis and rain showers reflecting the most up-to-date design and technology. As he masturbated under the shower, an uninvited visualisation obtruded upon his mind: Riki, standing with his legs apart and his back against the tiles, was throwing his arms around Iason's shoulders whilst moaning wantonly, 'I want you.'

Iason dismissed the impure thought as fast as his body permitted by mulling over whether blue topaz, apatite or aquamarine would serve as a better wall ornament than the current zircon. He vowed to make progress in knowing Riki's potential in magic, not sex appeal, all through that second day.

In the glow of that young morning, Iason marked that the sun seemed farther north than was its wont—the symptom that the wet season had commenced. Although the elves also divided their year into twelve months and used Old Norse lunisolar calendar, they had six seasons: blankness, dust, drought, plenty, wet and frost.

The scientist was checking whether all his presentation materials were in order when the furious stomps against the glass staircase disrupted s concentration. Based on its number, the climber was taking three steps at a time. Riki emerged within seconds, face scrunched up and legs shuffling in hurried steps.

Iason spoke first, his tone disapproving, 'I plainly expressed that you were to forbear visiting the gallery.'

Riki hollered, 'You hate it when I intrude on your privacy, but tricked me to spill the beans about mine?!'

With a mildly curious tone, Iason asked back, 'Would you prefer a truth serum in its stead?'

His rage only intensified, Riki raised his arm and poised it to punch Iason as he yelled, 'That's not the issue here, you big-headed álfr! That's unfair!'

'Unfair?' Iason scoffed as he caught Riki's fist before it could make an impact on his face, and closed his fingers around it. He applied enough pressure to make Riki yelp. 'You are the only mongrel to speak to an aristocrat in this manner,' asserted Iason, 'Continue to do so, and it will not pose me problematic to break your knucklebones.'

Breakfast passed uneventfully, apart from Riki's unsuccessful attempt to pile more than a dozen types of food on his plate from the buffet, much to the other hotel guests' disapproving eyes. Iason informed him that they would be going in to work straight after this meal, and that Riki would remain close at hand and not wander off until he was called upon.

Half an hour later, the professor and his translator had relocated to the campus of their new workplace. Situated on the south-western corner of the metropolis, the University of Lučvonar was bustling with thousands of students. It was one of the five oldest universities in the country and boasted architectural heritage as well as academic achievements. While Iason could not care less for the curious glances several students in the campus threw their way, he deemed it unwise to ignore the security guard's question on whether the dark elf was bothering him. Once that matter was cleared up and he received his visitor's pass, he bade Riki, 'Hold my luggage for me.'

'Oh, am I being upgraded from an interpreter to a lecturer's assistant now?' quipped Riki.

'You will receive—'

'Extra payment for my trouble?' Riki finished Iason's sentence as he snatched the mobile computer briefcase from the celebrated scientist's hand. 'Can't you take jokes? Sheesh!'

Over two hundred students, along with their lecturers, had crammed themselves in the tiered seats ere Iason entered the lecture hall. Of those, only five were dark elves, although the number of mixed breeds made up to nearly half of the participants. All whispers died down as Iason dimmed the light and activated the projector.

The lecture proceeded according to his schedule. At the end, all queries were addressed in the Shralean common tongue, as Riki had alleged, which thus left him with nothing to translate. When he pointed this out to Iason as they exited the building, the taller elf replied, 'It is not over yet. Some may try to embarrass me through my inability to respond to their svartálfrian conversation at the party the day after tomorrow.'

'Professor Mink,' a high-pitched voice called Iason.

The world-renowned scientist glanced behind his shoulder and perceived the dean running after him, past waves of departing students.

The dean was a light elf comprising half Iason's stature. Adjusting his lopsided half-moon spectacles, the dwarfish elf looked up and said, 'I'm glad I caught you. My colleagues and I are holding a small reception for you. Shall we have a few drinks?'

'That is outside our agreement. I have other matters to attend to. Please excuse me.'

---

III

'And this "other matters to attend to" turns out to be lazing around in the hotel suite?' asked Riki the moment they arrived at the Rëgvaldyr.

Without preamble, Iason stopped striding and swerved sharply to confront him. Had this been someone else, Riki was sure that the elf would start a fight. Since this was Iason Mink, Riki simply stood there and waited for whatever that high-and-mighty light elf had to say.

Iason pulled out his wallet and handed ten silver coins to Riki. 'Go whither your heart desires for the nonce and be here in exactly three hours.'

Riki snorted. 'Let me guess … you aren't going to tell me why, so I won't bother to ask.'

'If you understand that much, why are you following me back to our suite?' Iason questioned as he waited for the lift.

'I don't want to go places with this outfit, dammit! They'll overcharge me.'

No more words were exchanged between the two roommates until Riki finished donning his old clothes. Emerging from the ground floor dressing room, he perceived Iason sitting on the sofa, with a gaze transfixed at the gigantic TV screen, which displayed twenty elven photographs. With a push of the remote control button, Iason dismissed the monitor display and brought up another twenty photographs.

'Hey, isn't that escort service teleshopping?' A hint of accusation laced Riki's question.

'It is,' confirmed Iason, unabashed and unpretentious.

At once, Riki leapt at the sitting elf, his torso blocking the plasma TV from Iason's sight and his knee wedged between Iason's thighs. 'You're ordering a whore while I'm around? That's the insult of the year you've just thrown at me!'

Iason parted his lips, but ere he could syllabify anything, Riki's mouth covered his in a rough, furious kiss.

The kiss transpired in a manner similar to how a death-row convict would eat his last meal—edacious, desperate, but laggard, savouring each touch and slide and twist of tongue. Riki's hand coiled its way round Iason's nape and his arm came settling down Iason's lower back to pull him closer.

It was not that Iason was incapable of pushing his assailant away, but a small voice in his mind kept telling him, Just a second longer, just a second longer.

Even after the kiss ended, Iason still felt strangely airless. Riki's challenging voice sounded distant, as though it had been spoken from the other side of the wall, 'If you're going to decide you want someone else, at least do it after I give you bad service! I deserve a fair chance to try!'

'Then for this intercourse, you will recei—'

'Screw you and your money talk, Iason!' Riki pulled his tunic over his arms and tossed it onto the floor, exposing his torso.

Iason clenched his jaw. The real Riki looked even more enticing than what his imagination gave life to, from his exquisite clavicles down to his chiselled abs.

Riki produced a slim airproof packet from his pocket before removing his trousers from his legs. He tore it open and took out a sheet of disposable sanitised cloth called 'øntsmed', with which he wiped Iason's privates. Other than lubricating the genitals, the temporal 'coating' left neither odour nor taste while eliminating the risk of venereal disease as well as pregnancy at the same time. For this reason, most elves applied it prior to their intimacy regardless of their gender and background.

Squatting on the floor, Riki pulled Iason's tunic up to kiss his navel. It was a quick peck, yet left an invisible mark as though the light elf's skin had been branded by mystical fire. Even as the kisser pulled away, Iason still felt the release of electricity pulsing throughout his body, awakening his senses to new heights.

Riki dipped his head to kiss the tip of the pale shaft. Slowly, he worked his tongue over the dormant flesh, tracing along its length until it grew to full size. Only then did Riki engulf Iason's member, and Iason watched as the bulbous head of his revived masculinity disappeared into the hot cavern of Riki's mouth.

Riki started to take the hardened flesh deeper, sinking lower and lower. The bulge collided with the roof of his mouth as he whirled his tongue around it. His lips were twisting around Iason's girth and he plunged his mouth to the base, only to resurface and dive again. His fingers cupped Iason's sac and teased it with gentle pressure.

The aristocrat breathed more heavily as the speed intensified, the heat pooling in his groin. The tension built up and the familiar signs of an incredible orgasm gathered within him. He began bucking against Riki so that the dark elf had to hold onto the sitting elf's hips to keep him still. All of a sudden, Riki let the column of flesh drop from his mouth, to Iason's immediate disapproval.

Leaning back, Riki looked up at the seated elf with a concupiscent stare; he had the haughty light elf precisely where he wanted him. His grin widened for a moment before he took the rigidity back into his mouth. He employed his tongue to stroke the underside of Iason's virility, taking the heft of the throbbing member. When that adept tongue danced around the crown and flicked below it, Iason had to clench his jaw to keep himself from whimpering in excitement.

Once again, Riki imbibed Iason's entire length, his lips taut against the girth, causing the light elf to groan under his breath. Avidly, Iason thrust his hips, yet Riki, possibly accustomed to such a treatment, manoeuvred his head to avoid choking. For such an accomplishment, the dark elf deserved a reward, and for the rare moments in his life, Iason's idea of appreciation did not come in the form of monetary reimbursement. He caressed those cheeks—the cheeks that hollowed and sucked.

Riki's fingers refused to stay idle. They found all the right spots throughout Iason's body—legs, abdomen, chest, everywhere. Even with the barrier of Iason's attire, those little touches, ghostly strokes, feathery fingers managed to tingle Iason's skin. All the time Iason had spent to think of why and how it happened was deluged by the tide of his own orgasm.

Iason squeezed his eyes shut as he thrust forward one last time. With a shudder of delight, his seed spilled into Riki's receptive mouth. Rope after rope of seminal fluid landed against the roof of the dark elf's mouth and the back of his throat. Despite the convulsion of his throat, Riki made no attempt to regurgitate what he swallowed; he drank and drank and searched for more. To Iason's immense pleasure, the fact that his masculinity remained within its wet confinement only made him yearn for more.

The word 'sensational' might not even suffice to describe the full coverage of Riki's skills; all the same, Iason felt unease. Something was amiss, though he did not know what it was. Hence, when Riki climbed onto his lap and prepared to impale himself onto Iason, the aristocrat gestured at him to retreat. 'Cleanse yourself. We shall leave within ten minutes.'

Riki still displayed saturnine mood as the two of them waited for Daryl to bring the car to the front of the lobby. No word of complaint fell from Riki's pouting mouth, albeit Iason assumed that his sulkiness was caused by the fact that he was stripped off the chance to prove his skills further.

Once they were inside, Iason said, 'I would like you to show me the environment in which you maturated.'

The disbelieving look in Riki's eyes was apparent—why one of Iason's standing would risk robbery and murder for a jaunt down memory lane was beyond him—but he exhibited no objection otherwise. He pointed out a particular area on the street map displayed by Iason's GPS.

Upon their arrival at the slums, Iason bade Daryl to steer the car five feðmr high in a manner they had done the previous day, and then told Riki as he opened the door, 'We shall jump. Hold onto me.'

'Hey, I can—whoa!' Afore Riki finished his sentence, Iason had already pushed him out of the car.

Iason rested his hands on Riki's hips, carrying the shorter elf with him as he activated the gravity control. They landed smoothly in a matter of seconds—the duration too short for Riki to execute his order—yet, within that ephemeral moment, the professor had done the greatest mistake of his life: he looked into Riki. Those eyes of black kaleidoscopes stole the world away from Iason and then gave it back again translated into subtle, midnight shades.

Even as Iason released his grip and checked whether either of them sustained any physical injury, he had the strangest feeling that Riki had unknowingly taken a part of him.

Riki led Iason on foot. Eventually their course ended with an attenuated shack at the end of the road. 'That's where I live.' It was barely higher than an erstwhile phone booth and its disconsolate walls of nailed-up plasterboard were specked with leprous-looking corrosion. Its front—and only—door looked like it had been kicked in one too many times.

Upon entering the domicile, it was apparent no less a level of squalor prevailed here than the exterior. Iason wondered how anyone could live in so small an enclosure with the barest of necessities: a hob and a few kitchen appliances at one corner, a versatile cupboard at another, a frameless bed at the other end, and a collapsible table in the middle. Even the mattress was deflated in the middle, and who knew how many holes there were beneath that dingy sheet. Judging by the jaggedness under his soles and the old newspaper lining, the ground was floorless. The lavatory was separated from the rest of the property only by means of a thin sheet of aluminium. Only a single electric socket and a light bulb equipped the entire premise.

Riki appeared unfazed by the dissolution. 'My neighbour said my granny abandoned mum, as a child, in the ghetto. But then she grew up pretty, became the centre of attention and had no difficulties in whoring herself.'

Iason recalled Riki mentioning about his orphan status. 'When did your mother's passing occur?'

'Two decades ago, that slag bucket couldn't stand her flabby belly after whelping me, so she got herself a mercury shot and took a dirt nap from blood poisoning.' The lurid contempt in Riki's timbre was not unexpected to Iason; it was one thing to inhabit the slum because of an elf's own vocational failure, but it would be hard to imagine that any individual would not resent being born into such a wretched habitat.

The two elves exited the shack.

As Riki closed the door behind him, Iason remarked, out of courtesy rather than sympathy, 'My condolences for your loss.'

'Don't. I'd rather live as an orphan than know a mother who couldn't take the consequences of her own choice. If the government didn't pick up the tab for the younglings of the so rare natural births, there'd be no way she'd keep her offspring. It's a good thing she croaked a long time ago, that rotten cunt!' Riki spat, immediately after he had locked the door.

A wail pierced the air, interrupting their conversation. A young dark elf ran into the alleyway some twenty steps away from them, throwing a tantrum by screaming hysterically for his mother in a hoarse, demanding way through his tears. Snot was lathered on his lips. Soon, an older elf led him away with his arm around the younger elf's shoulders, trying to soothe the youngling.

'I suppose your younger self also behaved in a similar manner?' asked Iason. Then he caught himself in a surprise of why he attempted to make such a small talk. What was the reason for him, who normally calculated everything, to belittle his own intellect and betray his own reticence?

Logic be damned. Despite Riki's boorishness, whenever Iason was with him, he felt a strange comfort in a manner that he had never associated with other's presence.

'Damn right. I tried bawling once and got ten whip lashes. End of story.' Then a wild idea visited Riki's head. 'Hey, maybe it's you who used to be a bawling, snotty brat. Yeah, imagine how that straight face of yours twisted in a wail and—'

As he turned around, Riki's eyes bulged with abject terror, and ere Iason could ask what the nature of the emergency was, he had sprung in front of the light elf and pushed him hard enough to knock them both off their feet. Even as their bodies collided onto the ground with distinctive thuds, the soft whump of a pneumatic cartridge being discharged shattered the still afternoon. Behind them, a bullet embedded itself in the front wall of Riki's shack.

The hasty tapping of boots against the hard soil followed shortly after. Twenty-five dark elves and mixed breeds were swarming from the street corners, each bearing one of the deadly projectile weapons in hand. One of them pointed at Iason, 'Yeah, that's 'im, all right! That's the fuckwit who snuffed two of our brothers yesterday.'

Riki's eyes squinted in recognition as he splayed flat on the ground. 'The Lupin Gang!' 'You sure know to pick which enemies to mess with, hærtveìn.'

A string of possibilities came to Iason's mind as his adrenaline spiked. His eyes darted from the gang members, to Riki, to the ground, to the surrounding area; his mind was racing with what he should do next.

'Stay on the ground!' Iason bade Riki. He himself took out a lump of metal from his inner pocket and began unfolding it. Once restored to its full form, it became clear to every eye that the object was a gun. It looked nothing like the ornate little revolver that Iason had deployed the day before. Instead, the weapon resembled a sub-machine gun, though smaller in scale. Propping himself on both elbows and endeavoured to rise, Riki raised an eyebrow even as more air-powered projectiles caromed into the dingy structure.

'Tha's enough!' shouted one of their opponents as the bullets began to lag. 'Let's go in an' drag 'em out by their dicks!'

Even as the half-breed spoke, a golden dot appeared on his forehead, followed by a high-pitched humming and the smell of charred flesh. A barely visible aperture appeared through his skull, from which a few trickles of blood oozed out. Those around him stared uncomprehendingly as their comrade crumpled onto the ground.

More bullets ricocheted away into the dingy air of the slum. Some hit Iason's body, perforating his expensive garment with ugly holes, yet no blood spilled from them. The hærtveìn stood still.

'Shit, 'e wears a bulletproof jacket!' shouted one of his opponents. 'Aim fer 'is 'ead!'

Iason had taken his cue when the fuselage dwindled and edged into view sufficiently to fire his own gun. A succession of laser beams jetted from the barrel, hitting the surrounding Lupin Gang members in their heads. More and more of the opposing elves collapsed onto the hard ground, their bodies wobbling with the frailty of ashes before wind. In lieu of receiving a pristine puncture, however, the seventh elf's neck exploded. The flaming elf's body tumbled backwards, portions of his brain and spinal cord visible, blood gushing out from the cut muscles and forming little puddles in the dirt. The rancid smell of burnt flesh that lingered in the air made Iason's usually stoic physiognomy wince.

A chorus of expletives burst out of the remaining gang members' mouths as they shot their guns more intently at Iason's head.

Dodging the hits, Iason spun on the ball of his foot and twisted his body out of his opponents' direct lines of fire. The gunshots rang through the street as the gang met the near-endless emissions of laser beams, two or three more joining the fray for each elf felled by their deadly prowess. More gang members crumpled with a single hole on their heads. Yet, when Iason's laser beam hit the eleventh one, the victim exploded again, flesh and blood spewing in every direction.

'Monster! That álfr is a monster!' shrieked a dreadlocked dark elf.

As a last act of desperation, more bullets pelted down around Iason from the remaining gang members. Hysteria had caused them to aim haphazardly, hardly any better than if they were firing blindfolded. All that was left was uncurbed panic and, in the presence of that panic, a dropping rate of accuracy. Iason continued to sweep down his enemies without difficulty, exploding their heads every now and then.

Still, he was but one against several.

While the enemies at hand demanded his attention, the deceptive whizzingof the silenced rifle discharged by a sniper hiding on the roof of a grungy building two streets away went unnoticed. Time slowed. At the last moment, Iason saw the pellet darting towards him, but he found himself incapable of moving. His body refused to cooperate; only his heart hammered in his ears.

The spike sped up. Time rushed back in. That was it.

After cheating death through the numerous assassination attempts on him, he was now going to—

Clatter.

Iason's eyes flew open at the sound. The spire-point tungsten bullet lay harmlessly on the ground near to his foot, its former ferocity all but lost as though it had struck an invisible wall.

Only abnormal gravity can tamper it. His mind reeling, Iason shot Riki the briefest of glances. The dark elf was already on his feet, panting, his hand extended chest-high before him. Bright red lights the size of fists sparked on the ground around his feet.

Riki squalled, 'LOOK OUT!'

Another hail of shots rained down on their position. The professor let loose on the attackers with golden blazes of lasers, firing efficiently in each hoodlum's direction and letting his unpublicised invention eat through their flesh.

One of the fallen thugs had faked his death and managed to pull the trigger, the discharge startling Iason. Nausea tugged at his insides when he heard a small, metallic object swish past his ear. A knife embedded itself in the dark elf's throat in front of him, while he stayed frozen where he stood. He could not even turn around to figure out that Riki had saved his life yet again.

For all their efforts, the thugs' actions were futile. Only four gang members remained. The sniper had departed, unwilling to risk exposure. In spite of the initial advantage of their number, it became obvious that they were fighting a losing battle. Three of them dropped their guns and scuttled away.

Nevertheless, Iason's soul possessed no benignity. Even as the last goon to stand his ground fell dead with a ventilated cranium, the scientist shot the deserters afore they could make good on their escape. The first thug's body jerked as laser beams pierced through his skull. The second elf's head tore apart as if it were a paper bag as soon as Iason's laser hit him, while his arms flailed about and his blood sprayed in all directions. The last one soiled his pants, fell to his knees and ululated for mercy, but died all the same, pierced by a lethal beam from the scientist's indiscriminate gun.

Seeing the street festooned with the corpses of one of the most feared gangs in the district, Riki drily remarked, 'Now my front yard has turned into a cemetery.'

The author of the slaughter stepped briskly past him to pick up the rifle bullet as well as one of the discarded handguns and wrapped them with his kerchief, his gloves preventing his fingerprints from the two objects. He recognized not only the make of the weapon, but also to whom it truly belonged. Fashioned from high-carbon stain-free steel and tempered in liquid plutonium, the air gun was categorically unaffordable to the indwellers of the ghetto. Even without his nigh-encyclopaedic familiarity of all industrial metal producers, it was a simple matter to identify the supplier. Though someone had attempted to burn away the heraldic crest with acid, they had not done a very thorough job: still discernible was the gigantic serpent Jörmungandr surrounding Miðgarðr by biting his own tail. The Belxar Clan.

The head of the family, Gairovard Belxar, was at the edge of bankruptcy; he could not afford to buy more supply of arms and had to make do with what he already owned. While it was de rigueur for aristocrats' belongings to bear the heraldic crest of the respective families, such blazonry indubitably presented a dead giveaway when clandestinity was required. Even the hærtveìnar, with their immunity from law, could be persecuted for an assassination attempt against a fellow hærtveìn.

Ere Iason had the opportunity to ask regarding the magic, Riki beat him to it, 'What was that about? Is your laser gun set to go boom every prime number shot or something?'

'The chemical I included in the laser would erupt when it came into contact with a large amount of methylium cation. Those elves, thence, likely suffered from illegal drug addiction.'

From the distance, battle cries agitated the air and drew steadily closer. More figures silhouetted in the alleyways, bobbing along after the first one. The gang must have regrouped, preparing to launch another onset.

'We'd better get out of here,' warned Riki, 'They must really mean to finish you off. Last time I checked, their number was close to a hundred, but only a few of them had guns and definitely no sniper.' He looted one such implement from a corpse and examined the weapon, trying it out, getting the feel of the revolver without actually firing a shot. 'Do you always bring so much firepower with you?'

'As every hærtveìn should,' answered Iason as if it were the most obvious declaration, stolidity once again masking his visage as he started to run.

Hard breaths leaving his mouth and a moist sweat laving his body, Riki came abreast of Iason. 'Wouldn't it be easier just to hire bodyguards?'

'And allow others to invade my privacy all the time?' Iason responded, his eyes looking straight in front of him.

They were halfway to the riverbank where Daryl had parked the car when a bulky half-breed emerged from a street corner. Without warning, he leapt at Iason with blurring speed, his head crashing into the light elf's chin with enough force to make the aristocrat's teeth pierce his lower lip.

The impact from the blow propelled the hærtveìn back, but that attack was merely the prelude for the onslaught. The assailant clenched his hand into a fist in the air and brought it down with much force, aiming directly for Iason's heart. Reacting a second too late, Iason still received the hit on the flank as he flinched sideways.

Notwithstanding the missing target, the brown-haired attacker succeeded in slamming Iason onto the nearest eave with such enormous strength that several roof tiles flew in different directions from the force.

The wind left Iason's lungs before he could even register the thought of an agonised scream. As streams of blood cascaded down the sides of his head, the aristocrat beheld with watery eyes that the ground cracked and gave way under his assailant. An even greater peril awaited the professor the instant his body landed: the brunet readied his fist to meet him at the pit of his stomach, precluding his feet from reaching the ground.

Yet, something intervened.

Iason's vision transformed from his enemy's challenging face into Riki's back. At first, the back appeared in a straight line, then it became convex. Riki gave a pained yelp.

Although Iason could not see it, he understood that the tawny elf had punched Riki in the guts.

Simultaneous with the hit, three lead bullets met their mark, burying themselves in the brawny elf's temple and chest. Blood spurted from the wounds and a cry of agony escaped his lips. A loud click from Riki's gun signalled an empty cartridge, and he tossed it away in preparation for hand-to-hand combat.

There was no need. Before Riki could even get ready to throw the first punch, the mixed breed wobbled and fell facedown.

Every possible care forsook Professor Iason Mink. The pain from his injured head, the half-breed's no longer twitching body, the fact that more enemies might come any moment now—none of them mattered anymore. He saw nothing, smelt nothing, heard nothing, tasted nothing, but felt fury seething in his blood.

Riki was hurt.

Hands shaking from ire, Iason retrieved Riki's discarded gun and brought it down on the brown-haired elf's head. A loud crack roared as the handle of the gun broke clean through his skull. In nowise would Iason stop there. Tightening his grip on the barrel, he raised the gun and slammed it into his foe's senseless head again, and again, and again. Vengeful as Váli, he continued to bash the head of the bastard who had dared to inflict pain upon Riki.

'Iason, take it easy! He's dead.' A loud grunt from behind Iason forced him to look around.

Dazed and furious, Iason registered the injured dark elf leaning against a wall to support his weight. The scientist drew back, breathing hard. The wound at the top of his own head stung worse than ever and the formerly numbing pain in his hand while he was trying to destroy the brunet's head now started to burn.

Holy Freyja! Now that he had experienced losing control of his emotions, the answer for why the fellatio earlier had felt wrong unfolded itself: he did not want a reservoir into which he would dump his sludge; he wanted Riki to love him back. Taking a deep breath, Iason closed his eyes and then reopened them.

Advancing towards Riki, Iason cast a disapproving look at his employee. Not even Thor would slight the dark elf for his lack of courage. The scientist could conjecture that the greenhorn mage did not have enough time to concentrate and bring forth his magic, but…

'Why did you take that hit for me?'

Riki indicated towards what was left of their attacker. 'He used to be a professional boxer, but got sacked for knocking off—rather than knocking out—his opponents too often. Even with that arsenal you're packing, a geek like you wouldn't stand a chance.'

'That does not mean I would allow a bystander to suffer from broken ribs in my stead! You are not employed as my guard and therefore have no obligation to—'

'Ugh, shut it!' Riki cringed in pain. 'I'm going to get better real soon.'

'As in … minutes,' he appended upon seeing Iason's doubtful expression. He lifted the bloodied portion of the tunic covering his right ribs. 'Look.'

It took an effort to ignore the chiselled musculature of Riki's abdomen. Iason narrowed his eyes. The purplish bruise on Riki's skin lessened with every passing second. Illumination came swiftly. 'How long have you been aware of healing magic?'

'This only happened a few times before. After getting into street fights, my injuries just kind of took care of themselves. See, I wasn't born with special powers or anything. It's those weird experiments … after I got away from that lab, whenever I was really in for it, freaky shit would happen. Like when some toughies broke some of my bones with pipes, they all … kicked the bucket. Bones popped out of their skin, arms and legs bent all wrong, necks snapped and heads did a one-eighty… Gone. Just like that.'

'You left no witness regarding the appearance of magical power to whom the higher authority might depend for a report?' Iason inclined his head towards Riki in a gesture of approval, and then offered his hand. 'Hold on to me so that I might aid you in your progress.'

It was the first sincere compliment Riki had received in years. Customers might comment on his beauty before or during their copulation. However, that moment was different; he discovered that a new sentiment blazed in the steel-blue eyes that had previously understood only self-importance. He slung his arm over Iason's shoulder four seconds too late.

---

IV

The two of them spent the remainder of the day resting at the hotel. A plan was forming in Iason's mind as to how he might best turn this fiasco to his advantage. The next morning, when Riki followed Iason from the dining hall, the professor bade him to stay. 'Your interpreting service is not required this morning. I shall call for you later.'

Riki did not disobey him, but inserted both hands in his pockets as he turned towards the automatic doors—a gesture, Iason had learnt during their short time together, indicating that his ally was in a state of discontent.

'Why not try the swimming pool or the game room?' suggested Iason.

Without looking back, Riki waved a hand and unenthusiastically mouthed, 'Yeah, whatever.'

The Hall of Vrônhield—Iason's destination—was three-quarters of an hour's drive away. Its founder, an eminent architect by the rank of uxassøl in the seventh-generation, had triumphed over a cramped and formidable site, handling the carriage-ramps and approach steps, the vaunt foyers and lapidary staircases, both in section and plan, with confidence and skill. For that reason, musgravite—the transparent stone attribute of uxassølar, rich with beryllium, magnesium and aluminium contents—became the chief decoration on the precinct. The hall itself was monumental in style, classically based and opulently expressed, as the times demanded, in an elaborate language of circular windows, multi-coloured marbles and sumptuous statuary. Despite its airy coolness, the very atmosphere therein bore the echoes of the sequestered, quiescent feel of an antediluvian vault.

Iason pressed the security code key on the panel in front of the meeting room. Like a camera shutter, a set of blades parted into the casing of the circular door. Subsequent to his egress, the movable blades overlapped tightly and the door was once again closed. Before him lay a large elliptical table surrounded by ten elegant high-backed chairs. Directly above them loomed an oval dome painted with the concept of duality in nature: the flight of the sun and moon from the wolf brothers. On the southern half, Sköll was depicted chasing Sól against the gold backdrop of the daylight welkin whereas on the northern half, Hati was portrayed pursuing Máni against an azure backdrop of the night-time welkin.

A row of nacre basins awaited the entrants in at a fulgurite table along the wall. More than functioning as decontamination to travellers from dust on the road, the cleansing symbolised that those who entered there had purified their souls before speaking their honest minds.

Iason was the last to arrive, his fellow hærtveìnar having already taken their seats, which he proceeded to do as well. Other than Raoul Am, Orphe Zavi, Aisha Rosen and Gideon Lagat, the council members consisted of light elves between twice and thrice Iason's age; the one and only dark elf ever to become a hærtveìn had belonged to the fifth generation.

The session commenced at the fashionable hour of nine with the traditional greeting in the Archaic Shralean tongue, 'Stůnd mæd mót-vàrr delskani metnaðr stjarnā.' [May the glory of stars illuminate the hours of our meeting.]

As they were wont to, the rest responded as one with the stock phrase, 'Øfär syn åv allr yðvarr sælu þænzleikr műnstrǫnd.' [My heart dances with glee at the sight of you all.]

Once the formalities were attended to, the discourse was spoken in the contemporary Shralean common tongue, as opposed to the Tyzackean Language, since the annual council took a different venue each time, depending on the native country of the host.

The current host, Raoul Am, led the council with the suavity befitting the title of hærtveìn. His eloquent flow of speech was accompanied by an unaffected naturalness and an inborn confidence in himself and his responsibilities, which secured him the respect of even the most audacious elf breathing.

The ten hærtveìnar discussed various subjects, ranging from the upcoming election of the next Shralean ambassadors for extra-terrestrial missions to the location for the next international sports competition. As each councillor entertained a different view as to the meaning of what was there outlined, arguments were frequent, and debates ensued.

Post-luncheon, their discussion was resuming with the talk of the Archaic Languages as additional modules for secondary education when a voice from the intercom interrupted, 'Hærtveìn Mink, may I have your attention please?'

Silence swallowed the din of the meeting room.

The intercom announcement resumed, 'A herald is here to see you, sir.'

Some visceral presentiment that might be a legacy of magic in his veins told Iason precisely who this 'herald' must be. 'Excuse me, esteemed hærtveìnar,' he announced afore exiting the room.

Emerging from the council chamber, he confronted Riki leaning against a ruthenium pillar in the vestibule, arms folded across his chest. Upon noticing his employee's grim expression, any thought of berating the dark elf vanished. Instead Iason approached and spoke in a low voice, 'We should talk in a more private place. Follow me.'

Iason led Riki toward a room further back. When they passed two guards, who visibly stiffened at the sight of a dark elf, the aristocrat adjured in a tone of perfect conviction, precluding matters from hastening to a crisis, 'He is my servant.'

They did not question him further, nor did they ask for proof; guards never went against an aristocrat's behest. Furthermore, Riki's dapper apparel had the look of a hærtveìn's household member, and so they admitted him without argument even though the building's access was normally limited to aristocrats, celebrities, politicians and employers only.

'What is it?' demanded Iason as soon as Riki and he were alone behind the closed door.

'I thought you should know that two elves ransacked our hotel suite when I was in the billiard room. I caught one of them, but then he ground a suicide pill inside his tooth and died with foam in his mouth. The other got away with the mobile phone you gave me and I couldn't remember your number, so I had to tell you in person.'

'They tried to investigate my contacts,' surmised Iason. 'What else did they take?'

'Nothing. They messed up the drawers and everything, but didn't nick your clothes or accessories. Luckily, you got the computer with you. But when I entered, I heard one of them saying something about a bullet.'

Iason removed the handkerchief and its contents from his coat pocket. 'They were searching for this to dispose of the proof of yesterday's assassination attempt,' he concluded without the slightest surprise in his tone. The news only served to strengthen his confidence in what must come. After telling Riki to stand by in case he needed to testify later, he then returned to the meeting room with an expressionless bearing. Already his inveterate brain had devised a new stratagem, one that would be far more convincing that what he had previously intended to do.

'Is something the matter, Hærtveìn Mink?' asked the hærtveìn on Iason's right when he was once again seated.

'Nothing worthy of attention.' As he spoke, Iason glanced at the opposite seat. Gairovard Belxar's bloodless countenance grew even paler.

They resumed discussing political, economical and cultural matters for a while. It was not until after the meeting was adjourned did Iason casually remark, 'Raoul, as a Drugœrlysian, could you recommend some local theatres? I should wish to reward the elf who saved my life during the assassination attempts yesterday.'

Since it was nothing unusual for hærtveìnar to be targeted, Raoul made no sympathetic comment anent Iason's safety. 'The Ouxĕlwyr Theatre is the best choice for opera.'

'Thank you, but vibrato does not bode well with his taste. Svartálfar are not exactly renowned for their refinement, after all.'

'Well, well, well, you are going to pamper a svartálfr? How generous!' It was Gideon Lagat, instead of Raoul, who commented.

'Under no circumstances would I ever seek the companionship of a mongrel unless his trustworthiness is indubitable. Contradictory to the prejudice that we have of the dark elves, this one in particular substantiates otherwise. The elf proved himself worthy of the gesture when he stalwartly put his own life in peril coming to my aid against the fiends who endeavoured to take mine.'

Raoul listened to Iason's words intently whilst trying to decipher whether a hidden meaning was entrenched in the exposition—Iason would not entertain the disclosure of that much information without a motive.

Iason continued in so ambiguous a tone that it left his listeners uncertain whether his words represented a heartfelt wish or a subtle threat, 'On that note, I would like to make an amicable suggestion for Hærtveìn Belxar.'

All eyes turned to Gairovard Belxar.

Iason produced a bundle from his inner pocket and, after unwrapping his handkerchief, placed the handgun and the rifle bullet at the centre of the table for all to inspect. 'Association with the wrong company may make one appear less trustworthy to other eyes.'

The other hærtveìnar cast Gairovard an accusatory look. It was a public knowledge that he had left the last of his fortune on a roulette table at Qwergân—the most famed gambling parlour in Mulþïtho Country. Were he to attempt to restore his wealth by acquiring the fortune of another titled noble through scurrilous means, they would no doubt catch wind of his efforts through their networks of informants. Furthermore, the other hærtveìnar were surrounded by allies or military support. That left only the troglodyte-like Iason Mink, who would make a far easier target—or so one might think.

Gairovard went livid; nonetheless, the slant-eyed elf managed to put a convincing edge of anger in his voice. 'You are inclined to believe the words and actions of a svartálfr more than the reputation of a fellow hærtveìn? Has it not occurred to you that he might have set up this attack to acquire your trust and strike you down in your darkest hour, Hærtveìn Mink? I might as well point out that there was a robbery in my personal armoury last week; can't that svartálfr be part of their conspiracy?'

'As luck would have it, such possibility was the sole reason I never entrusted him with my spare gun,' rejoined Iason.

Aisha Rosen queried, 'Absent a gun, how did the svartálfr protect you?'

'With his magical prowess.'

As predicted, Iason's declaration struck everyone present not less with scepticism than with astonishment.

The councillor two seats away from Gairovard spoke, 'O magnanimous Hærtveìn Mink, you have been endowed with a brain of the first order. While it was a great enough accomplishment for an elf to make a name for himself by dint of a single deed, you have done so not through two, but three world-renowned attainments. By Odin, are these not enough? Why is it so hard for you to let nature resume its wonted sway? Must your unrivalled intelligence seek to transcend metallurgy and aim for a career switch as an extraterrologist?'

In a tone announcing that he was not to be placated, Iason responded, 'Call me what you will. What I speak of could change the future of this planet.'

'This is absurd!' The senior elf's voice had been reaching a higher and higher pitch under the influence of reminiscence and indignation.

'If I might begin by directing your attention to the other end of the room…' Iason pointed at the crystal partition, through which the pedestalled larimar statue of Flaga at the centre of the circular vestibule was clearly visible.

'What of it?' enquired one of the councillors.

Iason began his reply with a rhetorical question, 'My distinguished brethren, through ancient documents, we have discerned that the object mounted by Flaga is called an "eagle", yet have we laid eyes upon such a creature ourselves?' Then he continued, 'As far as memory serves us, apples and chickens are equally mythical to us as mandrakes and cockatrices are.'

'Must we limit our posterity to learn the shape of acanthus from sculptural works such as that…' Iason pointed at the decorative boulle work of a lapis lazuli chiffonier at the far end of the room, '…when they have the chance to witness the real plant?'

'Are you suggesting that the svartálfr is capable of creating the flora and fauna that were the prerogative of our Earthian ancestors?' asked a wizened hærtveìn after puffing at his nëyrhig powder pipe in a meditative aspect.

'Magic does not create something out of nothing. It can, however, conjure what had previously been prepared as well as exchange one thing for another. It can affect the forces of nature, such as gravity and wind. It can also heal illness,' explained Iason.

'What a delightful tiding! Peradventure this elf you mention shall even be able to cure my sleep apnoea,' responded the hærtveìn sitting opposite Raoul.

Another aged greybeard quipped, 'And my arthritis.'

Three other hærtveìnar chuckled at his joke. Then, one of them, who was always eager to calumniate Iason, derided, 'Do you not suppose that because the svartálfr happens to be your especial favourite, his wildest imaginations would always be pardonable in your eyes?'

In Iason's defence, Raoul interposed, 'Hærtveìn Mink would not claim the words beyond what he could corroborate. If he believes that the long-lost magic, which has been as dead as a ne'er-repeated echo, is once again found, I have full confidence that he will demonstrate it thus.'

'Do shew us; we are half-mad with curiosity,' the councillor replied with an affectation of holding up his pale hands imploringly, even though Iason did not miss his sarcasm.

'As you wish.'

Iason approached the door and pressed the button for receptionist call on the intercom next to it. 'I should like you to make sure that Room 17 remains locked. Next, play the recording of a fire alarm there and project the camera view of that room herein.'

He dimmed the lights as a rectangular projection appeared on the opposite wall. 'My fellow hærtveìnar, what the video will display is what the test subject will do in a state of life-threatening emergency.'

Initially, the ten hærtveìnar beheld Riki's surprised expression the instant he heard of the resonant fire alarm from the intercom. Leaving his chair, the dark elf sprinted towards the exit. After several futile attempts of tugging, heaving and banging at the door, he resolved to break the nearest window with hauled his chair. The bulletproof glass did not budge, not even producing the slightest chink. Uttering an expletive, Riki looked around for a more useful instrument.

Nevertheless, nothing availed against the formidability of the room's barrier. In the end, he placed a hand hovering above the security code panel. Nothing happened during the first few seconds, but gradually, the ovate glass slab of the panel began to glow. With a soft plink, one button sank, then the next one … eventually, seven digits presented themselves holographically, as though the buttons had been pressed by an invisible hand. The round door irised open to grant Riki access and did not close again until he was fully outside.

Bewilderment immersed the nine hærtveìnar's physiognomies at the end of the video projection. One of them gasped, 'Surely there has to be a trick!'

'If it pleases you, you may ascertain with your own faculties.'

'After millennia, how could this be…?'

Iason pressed the intercom button again and bade the receptionist, 'When you see a svartálfr rushing towards the exit, explain to him about the false alarm. Send him here afterwards.'

'Preposterous! You are going to admit such a creature here, in this sacred room that holds our proceedings?' A particularly hoary councillor stomped his walking stick.

'It would not do to continue treating one who has done what ten hærtveìnar combined could not as if he were a lesser species,' replied Iason.

Aisha Rosen queried, 'You don't mean to replace Hærtveìn Belxar with him, do you, now that our dear friend is most likely to be under military surveillance?'

'Would it not be prudent to grant Riki a title no living Shralean has ever before possessed? I propose he be termed a 'Mage', in which he is to supersede hærtveìnar in both privilege and responsibility. I will, however, respect the decisions of the council; should this issue be rendered moot upon voting, I shall pursue the matter no further,' Iason asserted.

All nine hærtveìnar stared at Iason, long and hard. Some appeared to have difficulty even considering a notion that they, having had a privileged position that had remained unchallenged for millennia, might soon be required to submit to one of a newly-created titulary function.

One of the councillors spoke in a grave voice, 'To allow such vast responsibility to fall upon the shoulders of a singular mongrel—isn't that risky enough, Hærtveìn Mink?'

'Such vast responsibility to fall upon the shoulders of a singular mongrel whose capacity deserves equal merit,' corrected Iason. His gaze then drifted down in the vicinity of the evidence he had presented earlier. 'Of course, should that be the case, I will have to divert my persistent attention to other matters which should not be left unaddressed.'

He did not look at Gairovard as he spoke, but he could sense the slanted-eyed elf flinching in his seat.

Raoul asseverated, 'I officially put forth the issue regarding elevation of this dark elf Riki to Mage status up for vote.'

'Those in favour of this notion?' questioned Gideon Lagat.

Five councillors raised their hands in response, including Iason.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, Gairovard Belxar's hand too lifted into the air.

Several of the abstaining voters glanced at him in surprise. For his part, Iason did not allow any trace of inward satisfaction to reach his face. He had surmised correctly that Gairovard would take an implied threat regarding the assassination attempt to heart. Such people were always supremely attuned to their own survival. It was for this reason alone he had chosen not to proceed with efforts to assault Gairovard's already crumbling status. Not when he could use the failed assassination as leverage to win what would otherwise have assuredly been a tied vote at best.

'Good, it is decided, then.' Raoul logged the vote and its results in the official records.

Iason replied, 'No, the relevant individual has not voiced his consent yet.'

Seven of the hærtveìnar exchanged vexed looks; the prospect of asking any outsider for their consent, mage or not, was not one they were accustomed to.

'As for the mage's stone attribute,' Iason pressed on upon perceiving the councillor's continued silence, 'I propose ammolite—provided that he does not object.'

'Ingenious! You choose ammolite on the grounds that unlike most other gems, of which colours come from light absorption, its opalescence originates from the way light rebounds off the various layers that compose the aragonite-rich gemstone, do you not?' Raoul commended him. Owing to the absence of animals and plants on Planet Shrala, organic gemstones—amber, coral, pearl, etc.—were formed from rocks and minerals; hence, they had somewhat different textures from, and higher monetary value than, their Earthian counterparts.

More looks of discomfort hung over the majority of the councillors' visages. There was no need to spell it out loud: the gem of Iason's selection symbolised the mage's brilliance as well as independence from external factors. They were, however, forthwith divested of this concern by Gairovard's bitter dissent. 'A moment, Hærtveìn Rosen. What of the slight against my house to which alluded earlier?'

Orphe Zavi mediated, 'As the Minister of Defence for the Federation of Rougenald, I shall secure this gun and bullet. That way, Hærtveìn Belxar should not burden his mind with the prospect of future robbery attributed to him and, in Forseti's name, these proofs shall be presented to our jurisprudence should anyone insist upon further exploration of the matter.'

The hærtveìnar were saved the necessity of further arguments by the entry request sounding from the intercom.

Riki entered with a puzzled look on his face when Iason admitted him. 'Any problems?'

His expression immediately turned into one of confoundedness as Orphe strode over and clasped his right hand, saying, 'You are the one called Riki? Congratulations! You have now been approved to hold the official title of Mage.'

Disgust was apparent on three hærtveìnar's expressions; howbeit, they promptly masked their disapproval with courteous smiles and congratulatory words.

'Now, all that's left is to set the date of your inauguration,' remarked Gideon. 'What about next Tyr's Day? It coincides with the Equinox—there is no greater luck than having the rituals on that day.'

'Whoa, whoa, inauguration? Last time I saw one on the telly, the bloke got to wear a funny hat and carry a useless-looking stick. Then he knelt and some senile elf rubbed his forehead with oil while droning "may he live, be prosperous and healthy, so and so". Bah, I'm not kissing anybody's ring or arse or whatever you've got in mind for me!' argued Riki.

The eldest councillor stomped his foot. 'Obstreperous whelp! You dare to slight our society's most sacred and honoured traditions? Funny hat? Useless stick? Such impertinence you show against the ceremonial crown and sceptre! They are the most precious treasures that have survived through the millennia since they were first crafted during the first generation. Only nobles have the right to access them during their inauguration; at any other times, they are stored in the Royal Collection Centre, which has the highest security in this planet!'

'Now, now, he gets the gist of it,' the councillor to the scandalised elf's left consoled him.

'Still doesn't mean I want it,' Riki responded, his face and stance challenging anyone in the room to oppose him.

The aristocrats exchanged looks between them, all save Iason, who continued to regard his rumbustious associate with thinly veiled amusement.

The one who sat to his right inveigled Riki, 'You only need to put up with the ritual for a day. Think of what money and power can give you for the rest of your life.'

'Yeah? What about the fame?'

'Why, of course, you will be more famous than any Shralean alive, dear chap, since your inauguration ceremony will be broadcasted worldwide.'

'Exactly. I wasn't born yesterday, so I don't believe that fame and fortune will come without a price. Look, I live in the slums and I know how ordinary folks think. You snooty lot may connect the dots of logic and reasons. But those who don't sleep in comfy beds like you won't see things that way. When some poor bloke gets in a mining accident in land far, far away or when someone's family heirloom gets stolen, chances are people will believe I jinxed them. People need someone or something to pin their blame to; if there's flood or landslide, guess who'll get the blame? And when I walk on the streets, bounty hunters will compete for my head. Hey, no use pretending; I've seen it happen. If that's the kind of life that lies ahead, many thanks to your belly button. I'd rather have my old life back—at least it got me freedom!'

Raoul asked, 'Are you sure of it? There are not many who would reject the offer of the hliðskjálf in favour of a plummet back into the gutter.'

Riki cast him a defiant look, and Iason could guess that Raoul's lineaments reminded the younger elf of the day Mimea had chosen to part from him. Coming to his ally's aid, Iason arbitrated, 'The importunate call of misspent youth has directed Riki's point of view to regard that throne to hold more troubles than it is worth. Nor can I deny that robbing an elf of his freedom would be a poor way of repaying his kindness in saving my life.'

Some of the members present were disappointed by Riki's rejection of the post as well as Iason's full support of him, while others looked relieved. Despite this, all were in one voice believing the matter to be settled. A call to adjourn was made and seconded.

After the councillors dispersed and Riki waited outside, Iason halted Raoul. 'Are you free to oblige me in a non-business matter?'

He waited for Raoul's nod afore continuing, 'I have a favour to ask you.'

###

'Sirs…' Daryl's furrowed brow appeared in the rear-view mirror. '…we're being followed.'

Riki noticed that, albeit Iason still donned his mask of disinterest and his gaze never left the tablet computer on his lap, his ears perked up. Hence, the younger elf deemed it safe to disturb his benefactor by asking, 'Is it the same curmudgeon who tried to wipe you out?'

'No. Given Hærtveìn Belxar's latest status, any further assassination attempt would only sink him from disrepute into infamy. That green car is likely to belong to a paparazzo,' the hærtveìn answered tonelessly, but his fingers tapped the monitor faster.

'Have you got some fuel that'll boost this car's speed or something?' Riki took out his pocket knife in preparation for battle.

'Put that away,' retorted Iason instead of explicating that even if such material existed, it would only make the car uncontrollable and susceptible to collisions. 'We are not about to engage in any unnecessary expenditure of speed or energy when there are far less grandiose avenues available.'

'At times like this, I wish cars would just stay on the ground!' Riki gritted his teeth, his gaze darting from the Rothránerrir Bank to the Düntsor Hospital. 'That way, Daryl could use the buildings to hide or manoeuvre something to shake them off. At this situation, how are we going to—'

Iason stopped Riki mid-sentence by a sharp turn of his head. Riki knew that it was his cue not only to stop ranting, but also to remove his knife from Iason's sight. Even so, before he could stop himself, a question had burst from his mouth, 'You've come up with a plan?'

When Iason did not answer, Riki showed no desire to obey him about slipping the knife back into his pocket. He rolled his eyes and muttered, 'Why don't I just shut up and let Professor Mink create another wonder of the world?'

Whilst Iason continued working with his computer, Riki kept rolling his folded knife between his knuckles. The activity served to calm his nerves slightly.

Less than five minutes later, the aristocrat ordained, 'Daryl, Riki and I shall alight at the traffic light down on Diaefsna Street. Thence, you will return to the car company for the rest of the day and fetch me at the hotel at nine tomorrow morning.'

'Yes, sir.' Daryl's professionalism obliged him not to enquire more than was necessary.

Riki, however, blurted out, 'You don't seriously believe that fucking paparazzo will give up on you just because you're on foot, right?'

Finding Riki's attentiveness vexing and amusing in equal measure, Iason answered curtly, 'He will not pursue what he does not know. I shall explain later. Be quiet for now.'

Riki grunted uneasily and glanced at the screen of Iason's mobile computer. It displayed the photo of their rental car, more precisely, the rear door on Iason's right. Below the image, there was a panel of numbers and options, which Iason was customising. Trusting the scientist's capability, Riki eased his knife back into his pocket.

Soon, the holographic traffic light at Diaefsna Street, floating seventyfeðmr high, came into view. It was pole-like and displayed the red, yellow and green lights in a vertical row every faðmr interval to enable all drivers to see it regardless of the altitude of their vehicles. On Planet Shrala, cars, motorcycles and buses were made so that they could not operate above seventy feðmr altitude, as anything higher than that would be the jurisdiction of airplanes.

'Reduce your speed, Daryl, and wait for the red light.'

Iason gave his computer a final tap afore inserting it into its briefcase. 'Riki, when I open the door, we shall jump together using the gravitation control in my watch.'

As he wrapped his arms around Iason's shoulders, Riki looked down at the traffic. It was one thing to dive into the empty air, but it was a different story to do so with countless vehicles, ranged at irregular distances one below the other, hindering his course. 'How do you know we can avoid hitting them?'

Iason's answer came not in the form of words, but demonstration. They jumped out of the stopped car, and every time their bodies came close to a vehicle, he tweaked the gravitation around them so that they nearly stopped statically in mid-air, giving him enough time to paddle away. It was not until three-and-a-half minutes later that they completed the slowest descent in Riki's life.

Iason inwardly thanked those vehicles. Had it not been for their distraction against the minimal distance of Riki's body, he was certain that a bulge would make its shameful appearance in the middle of his trousers.

'Why doesn't that paparazzo chase us?' Riki looked up and asked as soon as they landed.

Iason explained, 'Because Þåschyudt—that is, the programme of my creation, the function of which is to produce a highly realistic hologram—blocked the view of the opening car door and presented his eyes with the vision of an unchanged vehicle instead. He is, thus, under the impression that the car remains occupied until it reaches its destination.'

'So, he'll get confused to find the missing passengers once he arrives at the car company? Cool!'

Iason pulled for his tablet computer from its briefcase. This time, the uneducated elf did not need to ask to find out that the scientist was tapping its screen to deactivate the programme.

Once Iason had switched the computer off and slid it back into place, Riki questioned, 'What do we do now?'

'Exercise our limbs,' replied Iason, activating his GPS, 'We are less than fifteen-minutes walking distance from the hotel.'

With the sinking of the sun, evenfall filled the realm with slate-grey shadows. A descent of serenity heralded the twilight, in which the iridescence of the seven moons spangled the deeply-shadowed darkness. The cerise glow of Xöstirln, the ochre of Grimmlæthys, the cerulean of Frudérat, the viridian of Mnaereron, the gamboge of Kawgàne, the mauve of Cyoularc and the indigo of Adybêxis made those moons spark like crown jewels in the firmament.

The two elves left the street thrumming with the music from an adjacent pub for quieter route towards the Rëgvaldyr Hotel; at that hour, three million hearts were beating in the metropolis. As was the case with the other thirty-eight countries on Planet Shrala, Tyzack thrived from mining and commerce. Yielding the highest production of rhodium and tanzanite on the planet, the country became a leading member of the International Trade Association, whilst its capital, Drugœrlys, prospered into one of the most lavish cities ever known.

Together, Iason and Riki promenaded through deep, shady lanes bordered by luxurious wrought-iron fences, pervaded by a mishmash of scents, from the chlorine of the swimming pool in the garden of a mansion to the smoky fragrance of barbecued food from a neighbouring yard. The wind-swept thoroughfare led down to a building under construction. It was going to be a shopping arcade, but at its incomplete state, the construction looked like a crescent-shaped colonnaded atrium.

It was not Iason's habit to trespass others' properties; howbeit, something told him that he would regret it if he did not do so now. Squeezing through the gap betwixt two metal barriers, he remarked, 'There will be a dance at the ball tomorrow. Assist me in its practice.'

'Why should I? That's not even the job of an interpreter. You expect me to go arse over tip or what?' quetched Riki, even though he followed Iason inside.

'Society will mock the guest of honour who cannot dance, but the notice concerning the dance came at the last minute and I did not have the luxury of time to find a practice partner. Besides, you will receive an extra payment just for swaying with me.'

'It's not like I can help; I don't even know how to dance.'

Slinging the strap of his briefcase over his shoulder, Iason replied, 'Just remove your shoes and I shall do the same with mine so that neither of us will be pained from accidental "standing-on-the-partner's-foot". You will be fine if you move your limbs according to my instructions. It will also become imperative that I hold your hand and waist.'

'Tsk! Fine. Get on with it.' The moment Riki positioned himself opposite Iason at the centre of the structure, the stiffness of his posture nigh-rivalled that of a mannequin.

'Relax your shoulders.' There was no special tone or diction in Iason's voice, but, like magic, it made the usually rebellious youth obey it.

'Follow my lead. One, two three. One, two three.' They paced the starlit ground in swirls, during which, their eyes magnetised each other's. Gradually, Riki's grip on Iason's shoulder began to relax and his steps became more coordinated.

They stood in a tight embrace, Iason's arms wrapped around his partner's waist and Riki's fingers pressing into the small of the taller elf's back. They did their steps slowly, their physiognomies a breath away, each unwilling to tear his own body from the other's. Gazes interlocked, they found in each other's eyes the abode of blissful dreams, the land of wonders unattained.

Iason observed the enticing elf before him while his mind was left free to enjoy the dangerous luxury of its own unravelled. Riki stared back at him, and Iason's feelings for a moment were in too great a turmoil to allow him to speak. While that moment lasted, he became a five-year-old elf again; and yet, it was the childishness that made him realise that the closeness between them was not at all displeasing. He was once more given up to his desire for Riki. It was despair now—irrational, implacable, inexplicable. Lush and reachable, the nefarious lips in front of him were simply too tempting to ignore.

He did not survive the temptation.

The kiss was brief, with him having pulled back even ere Riki could respond properly, but it produced such a jolt of arousal through Iason's body. Erotic images swirled through his head and whereupon translated themselves to his loins.

Iason breathed the night air deeply, slowing his pulse. His lips were still tingling from the kiss even as he verbalised, 'I am sorry; I should have asked for your permission first.'

'I didn't give a fuck whenever a client kissed me, but when you're the one who did it—' As though plugged by an invisible stopper, Riki halted himself mid-sentence.

Iason made no verbal demand, yet Riki turned away from the message delivered by his eyes.

'It's…' the dark elf attempted to finish his declaration, but ended up flinching from Iason's penetrative gaze.

'It's…' again he tried and again he failed.

'What?' Iason exhorted at last; not even his practised composure succeeded in hiding his newfound impatience.

'Electrifying.'

Having grown accustomed to Riki's saucy propensity, Iason had not expected to hear such a statement, and his breath hitched at that.

'Hey, Iason.' Riki's voice pulled him back to reality. 'Why did you try to make me a celebrity anyway?'

'I postulated it would give you confidence and advantages that could help facilitate the improvements of your abilities.'

For several nerve-wracking seconds, Riki stared at him wordlessly. Then, the ground grew in smoothness until it became permafrost-like. To the right and left, knolls of fantastic shape sprouted, each crowned with a profusion of clear to light blue jeremejevites that bedecked the pillars. White speckles akin to snowflakes tumbled softly from the sky and espaliered in the likeness of ice lattices.

'Riki, are you feeling threatened, by any chance?'

'Dwarf's beard, no! It's been years since anyone bothered to try to make me happy. What makes you think I'd freak out?'

Iason pointed at their surroundings.

'It looks like snow,' murmured Riki.

Iason appended, 'Minus the cold.'

'So, this is the stuff that comes out when I feel good, huh?' he commented afore the crystal and frost-like substances vanished. His expression indicated that he had just learnt, with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a larger potential had awakened within him.

'It is late. Dinner awaits us.' Iason walked in front of Riki; otherwise, they would risk a more dramatic outcome than either of them was ever prepared to undertake.

---

V

The following morning, Iason took Riki to the National Library, wherein his grandidierite ádieł' ring, naturally, granted them access to the restricted section. To preserve the longevity of frail manuscripts from elder times, records dating back to the previous generations were archived digitally and proved convenient via a device called a 'hjørneustyr' as an alternative for manual browsing.

Several minutes lapsed as Iason sat, engaged in a session of earnest reading, from the hjørneustyr chair. Around him, the flow of data swirled spherically, akin to a holographic barrier. Fingers shifting the data displayed in the air, the professor perused the earliest records created by the first Shraleans afore they lost their magical power. Although Iason's normal reading speed was 760 words per minute, those records were composed with a language so obsolete that it took longer to decipher.

Stirred by boredom, Riki took a self-tour. The restricted section was by no means a commodious place, but what it lacked in width it made up in loftiness. Bespeckled nepheline syenite constituted its floor. At the far end of the room, the sunrays sifted through large blinds of silvery colour that covered the windows. The light thus produced was soft, subdued and mysterious; it intensified the deep silence and the air of profound seclusion that possessed the archives. Extra lighting was made available by means of energy-saving lamps attached to the meticulously-carved ceiling.

Riki grabbed a random scroll, muttering under his breath how troublesome it was to unroll the parchment while his fingers were gloved—a requisite given by the librarian. After only a few lines, its scholarly diction could no longer sustain his interest. He tried a different shelf, and then another, eventually giving up in favour of the games stored in his mobile phone.

At the end of his reading session, Iason jotted down fifty lines on a piece of paper and then took a photo of it with the mobile phone he had given to Riki as a digital copy. A minute later he had located Riki absorbed in a game of 'Brísingamen'. 'I have selected fifty of the most useful spells for now and will provide more once you have memorised them.' He then handed over the written incantations.

'What!' whined Riki. 'These gibberish lines make no sense whatsoever and you're telling me there are more? You're joking, right? Not even a genius like you can repeat them without looking at the note.'

To Riki's great annoyance, Iason did just that without a single error, syllabising word by word of the entire fifty lines with unaccented pronunciation.

'Fine; you can memorise things after just looking at them once! But aren't you forgetting something, prof? I haven't got your brain.'

'Practise one line each day. Remember to concentrate hard. You have to mean the incantation to conjure every spell. Let us start with a simple colour changing spell.' Iason's index finger pointed at one of the words in the list: 'fórglæggst'. He wrote the particular word on another piece of paper and handed the sheet to Riki, 'Now read the word carefully, while imagining you can change the colour of this ink into red.'

Riki did as instructed with a cocked eyebrow. When he finished the incantation, the word on the paper remained a plain, ordinary black.

'See, nothing happens. Too-da-loo, sucker! Try your luck with the next candidate.'

Iason said nothing in return, but the cold, piercing look in his blue eyes must have reminded Riki of the fork incident at the Rëgvaldyr Restaurant, since the younger elf hastily removed his hands from the library desk whilst consciously glancing at the pen between Iason's fingers.

'What? I can't do what I can't do, all right?' the neophyte magus said defensively.

Despite Riki's caution, Iason replied in a light tone, 'What if I offer you something in return? Name your prize and see it fulfilled.'

Riki narrowed his eyes. 'Hmph, you're confident your money can buy everything I want, aren't you?' With a cheeky grin, he added, 'Then my prize will be something you yourself create—a song, a dish, a craft—anything as long as you can prove you're the one who makes it.'

Rising from his seat, Iason affirmed, 'So be it. Keep practising while I gather the materials.'

Iason's cape billowed as he strode away, leaving a disbelieving Riki alone behind rows upon rows of scrolls and manuscripts. 'How can you trust my ability that much, dammit!'

Thankfully, there was no one else in the restricted section, or the librarian would reprimand him for all the noise he made. When no response came, his pride flared, and with newfound zeal Riki fell to muttering the unfamiliar cantrips purposefully and determinedly. He was not about to lose this challenge!

When Iason returned, a little over two hours later, carrying a shopping bag with a stationery store brand stamped on it, Riki looked like nothing more than an exhausted all-nighter.

'I'm so worn out,' he mumbled, voice weak, as he handed Iason the paper bearing the single word 'fórglæggst' in red ink.

After a few seconds of inspection to make sure that it was his own handwriting and not Riki forging it with a different-coloured pen, Iason set the paper aside and started emptying his shopping bag. He lined all items on the desk: a pair of scissors, a stack of square paper sheets and a bottle of liquid glue. Working in silence, he folded the paper into various shapes and assembled them into some sort of construction.

'Is this what people call "abstract art"?' Riki questioned when Iason presented the finished product.

'It is the concept for the mansion that I meant to give you as an inauguration present, had you accepted the Mage post.'

'That's pretty thoughtful of you,' Riki remarked, albeit his eyes suggested, 'This is why you aren't an architecture graduate, huh?'

'Now turn its colour into purple.'

Riki snatched the paper construction from Iason, a seething fury in his eyes, but his mouth only grumbled, 'I saw this coming.'

'Riki,' Iason appended, and the boy looked up at him, 'Good work.'

Iason caught a glimmer of glee in the smaller elf's eyes ere the construction seized all of his attention again. The white surface turned lavender in less than five minutes.

###

In the cloudy phosphorescence of the evening, Riki came to understand why Breiðablik was voted the most popular venue for weddings and balls in Tyzack the moment he set foot there. Decorated by leading designers and embellished with iridium and osmium, the interior was crafted so as not to be dwarfed by the royal palace; some even went so far as to assert that it rivalled its namesake—the most magnificent abode in Asgardr—in elegance.

A portion of the edifice was designated for an artificial waterfall with colourful lights and an aquatic show, whence chiselled embankments of crystalline schist glistened at the base of cliffs eighteen-faðmr high. The top nine storeys served as multi-tiered viewing platforms for the foamy, churning water below. Three bottommost floors were equipped with tempered glass barriers to enable guests to enjoy the view of luminous underwater sculptures of Earthian aquatic creatures, such as fossegrimen, nøkken, bäckahäst, as well as common fishes, all arrayed to form a vista that was beyond fabulous.

Since the purpose of the celebration was to commemorate the fifth anniversary of the Rock and Metal Revolution—courtesy of the resource reduplication phenomenon, of which amplitude lowered their monetary value and destabilised the world's economy awhile—the party commenced with a short video presentation about Iason's invention: the Rhysdav. Constructed from ordinary chromium-osmium alloy, the apparatus was unique and radical in its portability and capacity to combine principles of the basic copying with enhanced flexibility to adapt promptly with strata of varying hardness. Metallic electrodes were drawn from the original object by means of electrostatic stimulation from a solar-powered dynamo, and were subsequently transferred into a new entity.

Initially, the machine bore no more than a single clone of the demonstrated iron ore, but with Iason's persistent modifications, it yielded up to a hundred copies, then the number grew into a billion. The reduplication of rocks and minerals was made possible three months later by the ᚢ variation of the Rhysdav apparatus. The video then showed the Tulläwien and Ældine Corporations—Iason's leading business partners—massively cloning garnets and diamonds.

Several colourful light beams and dry ice vapours later, Iason found himself surrounded by a growing number of audience. Although a plethora of the partygoers vied for the chance to converse with the celebrated scientist, the guest of honour himself was keen to elude them. Rapidly pacing the floor with unwonted agony on his brow, Iason passed through the chattering crowd and brusquely dismissing any who approached him with conversation in mind. He gazed wretchedly at the bas-relief carvings that covered many of the walls, his mind reverting to its habitual self-isolation and the forlornness.

'This place is shit-hot!' Riki commented through a mouthful of the food, the name of which he could not identify. Then, seeing Iason's dejection, he hastily gulped it down and walked past the circle of guests, who came from various backgrounds—some were entrepreneurs conversing anent their profit from the mortgage and investment business, while others were politicians comparing the various government's policies to solve the inflation during the early stages of the Rock and Metal Revolution. The dark elf reminded his employer of the more important issue, 'I don't see any point of you hiring an interpreter if you don't plan to talk to anyone. Why are you so downhearted today anyway?'

Rather than addressing Riki's concern, Iason proceeded to the other side of the hall, where he asked Raoul for a dance. Given the Shralean population ratio of male to female, it was neither uncommon nor considered indecorous for two males to dance together at such a public affair.

'Bah! It's far comfier to chat with someone of your own rank for sure,' muttered Riki, sticking both hands into his pockets as he watched Iason and Raoul deep in conversation while they swayed.

No one in that ball tried to confabulate with Riki, though this did not come as a surprise given his questionable status—in the vicinity, no presence of other dark elves met his eyes.

Iason returned as soon as the song ended, to Riki's uttermost surprise. He ushered his employee away from the crowd to a more secluded part at the back of the building.

Having passed a perpendicular corridor, Iason made a left turn then halted in front of a splendidly-carved ogive door, whereupon he announced, 'I arranged this chamber for your use.'

'Ho, what's this? Don't tell me you had the urge to shag in the middle of a party?' japed Riki as Iason inserted his fingers into the five slots of the panel next to the door.

His attempt at humour curdled instantly the instant the portal opened, post-identification of Iason's fingerprints.

The person Riki was disinclined to see most—the very one who had scarred the name of love in his heart—was perched on a divan. Bedecked in a gown that could dazzle even Frigg herself, Mimea looked simply sublime with gleaming tsavorite upon her neck and ears. He could hardly correlate this radiant elf with the one from his memory, so changed was she in appearance from the individual who had once been his former lover and a fellow indweller of the slums. More disturbing than this was the servile expression she now wore.

'I am honoured to be at your service.' The she-elf smiled at her two visitors and rose to pour them some crimson-coloured liqueur from a pitcher carved out of a single chrysoberyl.

Upon seeing her preparing three goblets, Iason declared, 'I shall not be lingering here.'

Turning to Riki, he stated, 'Raoul has been so kind as to allow you and Mimea two hours of privacy.' Then, he continued in a whisper, 'Mimea's pet ring is equipped with a location detector and a fingerprint sensor accessible only by her owner. Do not take her outside this room.'

In response, Riki gave a thin, mirthless smile that quickly gave way to a wild laughter. It was a high-pitched, chilling, sinister and deranged cackle. Bouncing off the bare walls, it sounded as though there were myriads of him laughing in the imperturbable room and causing the listeners to suppress a shudder.

'Abso-fucking-lutely not!' rasped Riki, 'I heard that stuck-up and uppity and snooty aristocrats were as good as statues when it comes to letting out emotions; you'd do well to practice that rather than sticking your nose in my business, prat! This is what your fucking experiment all about, huh? Torturing your test subject?!'

Riki ran.

'Riki!' called Mimea in a voice that rippled with the enchanting music of paradisiac streams. A trained bird, singing in its cage. Withal, her melodious voice only made Riki hasten his steps.

Iason tried to run after Riki, but a partygoer accosted him near the exit, 'Hærtveìn Mink.'

'It has been a fantabulous ball, but you must excuse me for departing early,' Iason curtly replied to the middle-aged elf.

Still wearing a jovial smile on his physiognomy, the portly elf extended his arm in a gesture of a handshake, but with the true intention of flashing his blue barium titanium silicate benitoite ádieł ring—the nobility rank of a ñersa. 'Not a wrinkle on your dance robe, yet here you speak of leaving.'

Iason strode past the ñersa, regardless.

Another guest consoled the appalled elf sotto voce, 'Dear, dear, he who had feasted too long on solitude finds it unwieldy to recall the sweeter taste of geniality, no doubt.'

Outside the gate, Iason found Riki seducing another guest beneath a leaden sky. The red-haired mixed breed was a little shorter in stature than Riki. He shamelessly groped Riki's buttock, yet Riki seemed to be glad to avail himself of the daring treatment.

'He is with me.' Iason pulled Riki aside, earning him a remonstration from the redhead. The guest's fierceness, however, shrivelled into a self-excuse once he noticed the grandidierite ádieł' ring on Iason's right hand.

Sheets of rain now pelted down like bullets, and the partygoers ran for shelter, desperate to get out from the cloudburst, hiding under awnings or rushing indoors. In spite of this, Riki stepped away, shoes splashing against little puddles on the pavement. Two seconds later, he found Iason holding his wrist in a grip of iron. 'What? Do you always get to choose bedmates for all the interpreters you hire?!'

Waterlogged fabric clung to his skin in the rain. In the same fashion, Iason's grasp refused to release him.

'If you've got no other business with me, I'm leaving. My bum and prick could use some pampering.'

As soon as the words left Riki's mouth, the speaker winced; Iason's fingers closed around his wrist so firmly that they surely left marks.

Peering straight at Riki with unforgiving steel blue eyes, Iason chided, 'Is anyone fine as long as they can warm your body?'

In lieu of waiting for Riki's answer, Iason dragged him towards the parking lot.

'Let me go, you motherfucker!' Riki struggled and even went as far as aiming a punch at Iason's chin. Yet, afore thoughts could crystallize into action, Iason caught the blow easily.

'Sod! Sleazebag! Stinker!' Riki's volume was rising prominently enough for the onlookers' eyes to turn to them. He did not give Iason enough of a fight, but fight he did.

Not wanting to stir further commotion, Iason silenced Riki with the swiftest method in his knowledge. His punch hit Riki mid-chest seeming to merely knock the breath right out of the shorter elf and sending him backwards in a flailing stagger. At the same time, a needle protruding from his ring injected soporific into the victim's bloodstream. Riki's trailing feet stepped out into nothingness and their owner tipped. Catching the falling body, Iason slung the unconscious youth over his shoulder and carried him all the way towards the parking lot.

'The Lårcurė.' Iason made his destination known as soon as the car door was closed.

If it grated on Daryl's nerves to have passengers' drenched clothes soiling the car seat, he did not let it show.

While Rëgvaldyr was the number one hotel for business, Lårcurė was the best resort for pleasure. No lodging on the planet kept abreast of its immensity. Located in the lee of porphyry slopes, the resort presided over an artificial lagoon, upon which 'floating' bungalows were built on prodigious blocks of onyx and accessible through a zigzagging footpath. Albeit adorned with large, rhomboid windows on its walls, the bungalow possessed only a single entrance. Guests could also enjoy the panorama of the clear blue water from a pleasure boat moored to each bungalow.

Riki awoke to the familiar pain of a blunt pressure prodding inside him. Before him stood a nude Iason, rainwater sluicing from his body, half of the light elf's length already inside Riki's equally nude body. Their wet attire lay pooling on the floor. Around them were freestanding glass lanterns, a small table laden with exotic refreshments, a round bed, a couch and, Riki groaned, bondage apparatus. It was onto one of the rungs of a wall-mounted decorative ladder upon which he found his wrists tied.

Riki shifted, pulling slightly against the restraints. The movement instigated a harsher strain around his wrists. It was not until several futile attempts later did he still, shoulders and back slumping as he acknowledged the strength of the rope. He glared at Iason with lurid contempt. 'What are you doing? Let me go!'

'If you have no knowledge of what I am doing, why did you ask me to let you go?' Iason's voice sounded cold, cruel, unforgiving.

Riki shot him a glare of rage and disgust, as though it suffocated him to share the same breathing space as Iason, afore he spat. 'Fuck you!'

'Ironically, I am fucking you,' replied Iason as he wiped Riki's saliva off his cheek. He forced his way even deeper into the cleft of Riki's body—that pucker gloriously exposed beneath luscious twin spheres. He pressed firmly against his recipient's anal opening until it surrendered, relenting to his trespassing presence. In this fashion, he exerted himself inside the captive, pushing in with strength in his hips and desire coiling in his loins.

Riki jolted at the encroachment. His legs jabbed upwards, trying to kick Iason away, only to be caught by a pair of strong hands with a frigid touch not dissimilar to that of gravestones.

Riki's rebellion incited Iason to bear down on Riki even more, letting his weight pin the other, preventing the shorter elf from charging forward. Iason lifted Riki's hips, drawing the youthful body closer to his heated flesh. Then, holding the bound elf's waist tightly, he thrust more vehemently, making sure that each penetration hurt more than the previous one.

Although Riki exhibited furrowed brows and emanated laborious breath, he refused to voice his pain. Iason shifted closer, parting Riki's thighs wider, holding them open for more touches and probes. The captive gritted his teeth as the hardening, stubborn column of flesh kept pummelling into the cleavage of his shapely buttocks. Wracking his frame. Shaking his jutting virility. Jiggling his twin spheres.

It was easy to see the way the captive's chest heaved as he struggled to stay still; every movement was laid bare in the absence of attire to disguise his body's reactions. There was a desperation in Riki's voice that the profanity could not quite hide even as he spouted, 'Bugger off, you depraved álfr!'

'Says the one who attempted to seduce me two days ago.' The reply came in a whisper, respired onto the shell of the ear of the unwilling listener. 'Come now, adamancy at this point will only hurt you.'

Another spew of saliva gushed forth, but this time it harmlessly hit an empty space, as Iason's dodge was quicker.

'Shall we see that lascivious body of yours writhing against mine?' remarked Iason as he stared into the eyes of the beautiful elf that captivated him. He pulled out, only to secure Riki's ankles to the cuffs attached to the vertical poles of the ladder. Then, retreating to the refreshment table, Iason procured a remote control with which he mobilised Riki's ladder.

'You sick fucktwat!' Riki yipped as the ladder rotated and blood rushed towards his brain. He was upside-down; the ladder spun clockwise and did not stop until his crotch was positioned at the same level as Iason's throat.

Iason caressed Riki's buttocks in circular motions, indulging himself in the richness of the dark elf's skin. 'Scorn me to your heart's content; words are all you have now.'

Iason approached the gilded cabinet at the other end of the room and, having opened its top drawer, he stared at it pensively for a moment afore returning to Riki's side with two packets. He tore the sterilising wrapper of the first one and revealed the most peculiar object that Riki had ever seen. It seemed elastic and split bifurcately with a globular protuberance at each end.

He inserted the instrument into the cleft between his captive's rear, tilting his head to the side slightly when he heard Riki's remonstration, 'Get that weird thing away from me, you psycho!'

'Has no one ever pleasured you with an aneros prostate stimulator before?' enquired Iason with mild curiosity in his voice.

As soon as the head and stem of the device nuzzled against Riki's prostate, the dark elf jolted. The curves of the stem stimulated his most intimate passage, whilst the head massaged his prostate with just the right amount of pressure. The perineal tab pressed from the outside, acting as a pivot point to drive the internal massaging action. On and on, the dual prostate massages assailed Riki simultaneously and his own muscles contracted to assist the work of the device further. He thrashed about with an off-paced bucking that made Iason's groin twitch with greater interest.

Droplets of early desire leaking from the tip of his shaft, Riki bit his lip in frustration. So hard did he try to hold back his moan that blood began to streak down his lip.

'It would be easier if you simply surrender to your baser nature, Riki.'

Unwrapping of the second packet, Iason brought into view the silicon replica of a phallus, which he used in place of the aneros inside Riki. He pressed the switch at its hilt and the length began to vibrate.

'What's the matter? Afraid your meat alone can't get me high 'coz it got no buzz?' taunted Riki with a suppressed wince as the dildo pulsated and stirred his insides.

Iason pressed the switch of the dildo again, and it whirred more aggressively against the walls of Riki's channel, forcing the bound elf to grit his teeth and turning the insinuations falling from the captive's fuming tongue into something totally different. 'This is how it feels to have the maximum vibration setting inside you. Remember it well, for you will testify its inferiority to my flesh.'

With a push of the remote control button, Iason restored the ladder to its normal position. Upon catching a glimpse of Riki's relief at the surcease of intracranial pressure, he prolonged Riki's false moment of reprieve by unstrapping the ankle cuffs, only to end it within the next few seconds. He shoved his own erect member with such rigour into Riki's body the moment he pulled out the dildo.

The captive still had the dignity not to shriek. Instead, he watched with clenched jaw as the merciless shaft re-emerged from his body as his ravisher extracted himself almost entirely. Then, Iason's length sank into the depths of his backside, slamming him down again. Those were nothing more than the first few thrusts in a long sequence of depth-charges, each retreat heralding a powerful surge back inside him. His inner thighs cushioned his captor's hipbones on each descent, and the impacts jarred his body. Iason's virility had all his attention.

Against its owner's pride, Riki's unruly, treacherous body responded to Iason's invasion. Even if modesty were to enshroud the bulge between his thighs, his heavy breathing would still confirm otherwise.

Digging his blunt nails into the bound elf's thighs, Iason thrust as deep as he could go, grinding his hips against Riki's rear. He lifted Riki's freed legs and rested them on his shoulders, shifting him into a more penetrable position. As Iason tried to jostle deeper with every pump, he found it harder to keep himself from groaning.

Riki could only strive his best not to gasp at that. The humiliation was vast, but vaster still was the rapture. His fingers clawed the empty air in frustration, aware though he was that the rope bit more harshly into his wrists.

'When you make so promiscuous an expression, how am I supposed to hold back?' Iason's touches were all over Riki's limbs, smoothly stroking and secretly inflaming him.

With Iason's voice so soft against the side of his neck, the hair on Riki's nape stood up. 'You basta—ah!'

In spite of his efforts in forbidding himself to surrender to Iason's relentless caresses, Riki arched hard whilst emitting a cry of desire and disgrace.

The scientist tilted the bound elf's chin to the side, purring, 'I shall shame you until your mind is filled with nothing but me.'

Pain, it seemed, became the most expedient way to ingrain the captor's existence into the captive's unwilling mind. Iason's vigour throbbed inside of Riki, sending another wave of pain through him with every forward thrust. Amidst Iason's harsh low grunts, the higher shriller gasps broke out from Riki; the bound elf started to scream for real, the rigidity shoved up his rear increasing his pitch by an octave.

The flaxen-haired elf stifled the younger elf's mouth with a slew of kisses and soothed the agony with the proximity of his own body, but Riki jerked his head sideways. If Iason kept that up, there would be nothing he could do to prevent himself from yielding the entirety of him to the one embracing him, to the thick length pulsing inside him. 'Stop kissing me, dammit! If you're just going to dump me once we're done, there's no need to coddle me!'

'Dump you?' Iason paused thrusting.

Riki cast his assaulter a deviant look. 'You … you cared when I got hurt … you tried to make me happy … you gave me the feeling you were prepared to stand by my side even if the world shattered around us, but then you tossed me away just like that!'

Even though his lower part was still erect and demanding, Iason withdrew from Riki's body. One more of such words, he felt like he could shatter. Carefully, he began to untie Riki's wrists from the ladder afore handing Riki one of the resort's bathrobes for modesty, which the latter accepted with quivering hands.

'Explain,' Iason told Riki after they had settled on the couch.

'I was stupid—no, delusional—to think you had the tiniest shred of love for me. You didn't even acknowledge my feelings and shoved me to Mimea. Was it entertaining for you to watch me suffer seeing her again?'

Iason's eyes widened, not expecting the damage his fallacious judgement had caused upon Riki. His shoulders slumped, a remorseful look falling upon his features. 'I erroneously presumed that you would wish for a reunion with her after all those years of separation. I wanted to do everything within my capacity to bring you felicity, even if it meant disregarding my own feelings.'

'That sounds an awful lot like you're head over heels for me,' uttered Riki, his hand reaching for Iason's jaw line in a gentle caress. Then he bracketed that jaw with his hand and brought their lips together. Lips were upon lips and tongues were probing inside each other's mouth with unbridled passion.

'Your existence is akin to that of a quicksand; the more I am in it, the deeper I am drawn into it.'

'Then sink,' retorted Riki with an inviting smile, 'Sink in me.'

Taking Iason's hands, Riki pulled the scientist to a standing position. Thereafter, he ran his fingers along the length of Iason's back, following the trail of the taller elf's spine. When he reached the bottom, he applied a gentle pressure on the dimples of the older elf's fleshy mounds. In that manner, he brought Iason with him in an embrace when he tumbled onto the round bed.

Undoing Riki's drapery with his mouth and caressing the dark elf's re-exposed skin, Iason demonstrated to his partner that there was such a thing as a sensual way to peel fabric from one's body.

Iason gazed at the smooth roundness of Riki's hips, the beckoning curvature of his sex, the perfection of his abs and the endless complexity of indentations, shadow playing along the curves of his body. No longer could he restrain his desire. His slick tongue travelled down the other elf's hairless chest, pausing to nip with exquisite precision on the pebbled nubs. His fingers explored downwards, past Riki's slender waist and down to the delta between Riki's legs, each touch soft as snow but blistered like fire. As his hands traversed across the chiselled lines of Riki's body, Iason relished in how Riki's muscles rippled.

Iason peppered Riki's skin with little kisses, down the supple body until he reached the toes. One by one, he sucked them whilst paying attention at Riki's ragged breathing. With the last of the toes out of the way, he then flipped Riki's body until the shorter elf lay flat on his stomach, exposing the full view of rear. Thereupon, Iason's lips journeyed upwards, ghosting along the imaginary lines of Riki's calf and thigh.

Kneading the flesh of Riki's buttocks, Iason savoured every moment of anticipation. His adept fingers added more pressure, willing the imminent entry of his shaft into the younger elf's puckered sheath.

Inflamed with desire, Riki wiggled his rear. 'Enough teasing, Iason. I need you inside me. Now!'

Iason planted a quick peck on the slope of Riki's shoulder ere complying. Slowly, he descended, treasuring the youthful body underneath him. Even as flesh seared to flesh, it still felt half-real that Riki harboured some degree of affection for him.

Riki tensed as Iason's erection slowly breached him; hence, the older elf distracted him with tender kisses along his nape and shoulders. His hind trembled against Iason's pelvis. The pain hurt him just a little, nothing like Iason's rough penetration earlier and certainly not nearly as much as the rougher customers in the slum had made him accustomed to them. Mixed with the tiny pain was a riling pleasure. It blazed within him, burning through his nervous system. This time, Iason pumped carefully into him, lingering when his rear tightened around the conquering girth, and pressing forward only when Riki's body had relaxed.

Shifting slightly, Iason changed his angle enough to ram against the bundle of nerves within Riki's backside. He pulled Riki against him as he ventured deeper again, and Riki squirmed against his grasp, desperate to counterthrust. The squishing sounds when his flesh hit Riki's insides … the way Riki's head tipped back when he thrust … he could never get enough of them. Riki became an extension of Iason's body, a formerly unknown part of him.

Iason had tasted a wide range of prostitutes, but none was quite like Riki. For once, the scientist could feel, and the feeling was intoxicating. This was the piece of the sexual puzzle he had always missed—the part where he accorded his partner true pleasure and the sentiment was reciprocal. Logic had told him that there should be pleasure in sex, but experience never visited him.

Riki, too, seemed to take an eager delight in the new approach and did not hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He bucked against Iason, trying to speed up the rhythm, but Iason grabbed Riki's hips to keep the pace in his control. He moaned and his body shuddered, his toes curling against the sheets.

Iason pulled back to thrust into the inviting heat again, and Riki could not help but shiver. He surged forward, pressing himself against Riki's back, his virility fitting easily into the space between Riki's thighs. Repeating the process over and over, he varied his pace to tease his partner. No longer was he thrusting, but gliding in and out of the younger elf. His strokes had a smooth flow, but the elf underneath him teetered on the brink of climax, his entire body stretching to the breaking point. It seemed as if every nerve ending had coalesced into a massive erogenous zone which singed with an insatiate need.

Iason held Riki by his slender hips, his speed growing more and more urgent as passion had overcome all inhibitions. Decorum, propriety, self-restraint—they all sounded like concepts too ethereal to be registered; none mattered now but the figure quivering on the other end of his rigid member. It was noxious; his control was slipping and he feared lest he hurt his partner. So zealous were his thrusts that he lifted Riki's hips off the mattress and the elf beneath him had to support his weight with his knees.

From this vantage point, Iason relished the view of Riki's curvaceous rear as it flattened with his every advance and then bounced back as the light elf withdrew to shove his masculinity deep into the recipient's backside again. The moans from the dark-haired elf became inarticulate sounds, as though each propulsion were to elicit a vow of love everlasting. Their bodies moulded together, two elves united in flesh.

The rise of their tempo was meteoric. It crested with each roll of Iason's hips, each stroke reaching a special place deep inside Riki. He had numerous sexual dalliances with both genders and had known the act inside and out; he had been familiar with its manifold names—sodomy, fucking, intercourse, to name a few. Yet, when he was with Iason, it was…

…different.

The climax came so abruptly, the crescendo of the erotic duet washing over Riki with a deluge of pleasure. He could not focus on anything else. Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned and continued trying to press back against the elf atop him as he started to spill onto the sheets. He arched his back towards Iason, admitting the xanthochroid elf even deeper into his body.

Iason maintained his quick pace even as Riki fisted the bed sheets, his body shuddering with orgasm. He kept pumping into Riki, releasing the younger elf's hips and leaning over to embrace him. He kissed Riki's shoulder between gasps and his thrusts grew slower. His breath crawled across Riki's body as he held his partner there, a part of him trembling with the discharge of its entire batch of fluid deep inside the elf he loved. His thighs were aligned with the younger elf's, pressing against them closer than ever, pursuing relentlessly until strength was gone from their lower halves. Then falling forward bonelessly, Iason's torso collapsed onto Riki's back.

Even then, Iason held Riki's hands, weaving their fingers together. Gradually, he went soft; even so, his partner's channel walls sheathed him tightly still, refusing to let go. Thus, Iason remained there, between the younger elf's legs, letting their sweat intermingle. His long hair fell over Riki akin to a curtain and he lay in the midst of comfortable silence. Together, they learnt how to breathe again.

Iason had not known that being loved could make one feel divine. Galaxies and nebulae hurtled past him. Flushed and sated, he nuzzled against Riki, planting an absent-minded kiss to his forswat temple as they stayed connected still. Then, as he regained his breath, he slowly pulled out. He held Riki against him for a moment ere releasing him and dropping on the bed beside him. It took a while for Iason to get his bearings right from the torrent of sanguine euphoria that swept over his being.

Turning over, Riki placed himself on top of Iason, their torsos aligned and their limbs tangled between the sheets. 'Are you going to complain if I don't let you go tonight?'

'Try me.' Iason answered him with a rarefied smile.

As the two elves explored each other's bodies, they learnt that love was fundamentally unattainable by mere lust. A satiated body and quenched hormonal desires gave them pleasure, but bliss could only come when they held hands and curled up together after the sex. Rather than with the whisper in his voice, Iason conveyed to his beloved with the rush of blood in his veins, Only you, and no other, make my heart feel what my mind cannot.

---

VI

Iason had expected—longed—to wake with another person's body lying next to him, possibly curled up, arms still loosely wrapped around him and messy dark hair framing that comely visage. Riki would then stir and lift his head, mumbling a 'good morning' and 'last night was wonderful' against Iason's throat, whilst sliding one thigh between the taller elf's legs, tangling their limbs once more in the blankets. That was why he nearly went ballistic when he found Riki's side of the bed empty.

Pinpricks of pain in his back, shoulders and neck told Iason where the tips of Riki's fingers had gripped him. All the thick heavy warmth of last night's intimacy flooded through Iason's mind again. When he had intended to produce a digital copy of his notes on the fifty spells, Riki had hauled him in for a breath-stealing kiss, then a more fervent kiss, and another, and the work would just have to wait…

Was he the only one who thought there might be something transpiring between them? Did he mean nothing more to Riki than another one-night stand? Or was it he who was the one at fault? What if he did not convey enough appreciation for the felicity Riki had afforded him? What if Riki had misinterpreted his lack of ebullience for dismissal?

The bile of unease pooled in Iason's mouth. Perhaps the proverb that said, 'love is responsible for life's sweetest pleasures and bitterest sorrows' was true, after all. Otherwise, what explanation could answer how the room was a home with Riki in it yesterday, but it became barren as a desert in Riki's absence now.

No, calm down. Riki showed no symptom of dissatisfaction before drowsiness closed our eyes last night. Furthermore, his salary is yet to be paid. He is probably having breakfast or taking a stroll.

Even so, if this were how mere minutes felt without Riki, how was Iason going to survive during weeks of separation? Each second felt like a nail driven into his flesh; he was crucified upon the cross of his own sentiment by the hand of time. It was he who craved Riki, not the other way round. Even if their relationship could work for a while, how could he be sure not to meet the end of their bond in the odious grasp of calamity?

Iason reached for the ashtray on the bedside table and hurled it across the room. The crystal hit the wall and shattered into pieces.

Still, the turmoil inside his heart refused to abate.

One of Iason's feet found its way into a bedroom slipper. Rising from the bed, the light elf vested himself with the resort bathrobe and began making business appointments for the next couple of weeks in attempt to distract his mind from Riki. He was browsing a prospective client's website when the room's door opened with a soft click. Riki stepped inside, clad in a bathrobe and a pair of slippers. Droplets of water bejewelled his hair and skin.

Glancing at the ashtray pieces at the corner of the room, he commented, 'This is quite a distance from the table for a slip of the hand, don't you think?'

Iason's reply came in the form of a toneless statement. 'You went for a swim.'

'And you were upset because I wasn't there beside you when you woke up?' Riki's tentative timbre verified how cautious he was whilst stepping into the minefield of Iason's mood.

The words 'Do not overestimate yourself! Do you presume I would care that much for a conceited brat?' were at the tip of his tongue, bludgeoning his clenched jaw. Yet, something caught in his throat, disabling the power of speech within him.

'I was hoping to try breakfast in bed with you, but now that neither of us is in bed, we should make do with a different type of meal.' Riki strode towards Iason. He had no intention of giving the older elf any personal space when he halted immediately in front of him, face just a breath away and coming closer still.

Even as Iason responded to Riki's initiative kiss, his thoughts were reeling about how such simple words could dissipate all vexation from him? No. It was not those words. It was those eyes, magnetising eyes that were capable of making his entire being evaporate if he stared at them too much. Or perhaps it was those arms, arms that clung to him as if there would be no tomorrow.

There would be no tomorrow for us—is that what Riki thought? Then Iason recalled that he had not informed Riki that he was to return to Tyzack for business every few weeks or so.

Still stunned, Iason used his own tongue to trap Riki's and forced it back into the shorter elf's own mouth. But then, dazzled at why he did so, he followed it in, and was suddenly kissing the youth back with some force. He reached for Riki's jawline, holding it in place with both hands while his tongue began to explore his partner's mouth.

Then, he stopped abruptly. He pulled his head back, and would surely withdraw the rest of his body too had Riki not grabbed him.

Yanking Iason's shoulders quite hard, Riki querulously demanded an explanation, 'What was that all about? If you didn't want me, you shouldn't return my kiss in the first place.'

'Of course I want you so dearly. Still, I owe you—'

'For fuck's sake, Iason, can't you talk about anything other than money?!'

'…an apology,' Iason continued without the slightest perturbation of Riki's accusation.

'In regard to Mimea—'

Riki leaned forwards and latched his mouth to Iason's, precluding him from articulating even more embarrassing lines. 'You owe me lots of apologies, but we haven't got time to go through them. Now follow me; there's something I need to show you.'

He led Iason to the bathroom, wherein he discarded their bathrobes with minimal effort in front of a floor-to-ceiling looking glass.

Drinking in the sight of the perfect musculature from which he could never quench his thirst, Iason extended his arm to caress Riki. The younger elf, however, left him.

'Lend me your watch,' Riki enounced and, without waiting for Iason's approval, took it from the amenity tray by the scallop-shaped washbasin.

'Set this to reduce a third of the gravitation effect on me, will you?'

Nobody talked to a hærtveìn in such an unrestraint manner; Iason did as he was commanded nevertheless. During the process, he felt something cool and moist swiping his privates. He looked down and discerned that Riki was wiping him with an øntsmed.

Riki accepted the watch from Iason with a grin. 'I wish we had time for another bout of slow sex like last night, but time's flying even as we speak.'

Riki turned around and marvelled at his partner's immaculate beauty from the reflection in the looking glass. Behind him stood Iason, the elf with Baldr's charm, the protrusion between his legs holding a promise of pleasuring him until he was almost out of his mind with delight, just as the previous night.

A part of Iason insisted to inform Riki that their relationship would not be over, but another part of him knew that he had no need for any exposition by the tongue, not when that tongue carried a special mission. He moved slowly, uncertainly, first settling his lips on the jut of Riki's hip bone and then tentatively slipping down to palm the younger elf through his swimming trunk. One of his hands moved in circular motion at the bulge at the centre of the water-resistant garment as the other lowered it from Riki's thighs.

Riki rewarded him with a high, keening sound, slopping wet, grateful kisses back as he moaned his pleasure. 'You have no underpants to shuck. How is this fair?'

'If you dislike what I do to you, I am not against retaliation,' the taller elf replied with a smirk.

Two seconds had not elapsed when Riki's hand slipped between them, pressing against Iason's erection.

Sabotaging control, Iason grabbed Riki by both wrists.

'Hey, you said—'

'Did I say "now"?'

Iason pressed his body against his partner's, brushing his stomach against the younger elf's rear. He moved his head down again to bite at Riki's already marked neck, sending pangs of pleasure through the recipient.

The shorter elf's breath hitched and his hips twisted down and his fingers tangled in Iason's long hair.

From behind, Iason pressed his body onto Riki's, grinding his aching hardness against the firm muscle of the receiving elf's bareness. Thanks to the reduced gravitation, the light elf did not find it toilsome to support his partner's full weight, lifting the shorter elf by his thighs, only to impale his lover onto his proud erection. When Iason slipped in, Riki was still pliable from the previous night's enthusiastic rounds of lovemaking. The dark elf simply took in a breath and arched his back, pushing back onto the familiar intrusion within him. Then he showed his encouragement by lifting himself and then dropping himself again to accommodate more of Iason's length.

Nonetheless, a gasp slipped from Riki's mouth as Iason pulled out almost entirely, only to slam into him again. The deeper Iason filled him, the more he shuddered. The light elf's rigidity tormented him in the sweetest way possible, sheathing itself completely inside him ere sliding out again, sending torrents of pleasure through him. It made him rock his hips back against the seducer's rhythm, urging the taller elf to stay deep inside of him.

'Look in the mirror.' Riki pointed at their reflection. His legs were spread as far as they could go, accentuating every muscle of his buttocks, whilst a part of Iason was imbedded within him and the rest of the taller elf was aligned to his body.

'We're connected. I want you to remember this moment when we're apart.'

The erotic view gave Iason's groin a tugging sensation, urging it to gush forth. There was nothing Iason could do but thrust and keep thrusting into his lover's welcoming depth. The sac at the base of Iason's privates bounced each time it hit Riki's entrance and Riki's breath grew more laborious with each jostle.

Riki lost his strength, his cheeks feeling hot and his toes curling in mid-air. Something knotted inside his stomach. He panted and moaned unrestrainedly, parting his legs wider while incessantly took him from below. He moved his hips back against the rhythm, eager to relish the thickness slide inside of him, wishing it would never end. The reduced gravitation demanded more efforts from him, but it was a small compensation for the levitation that facilitated those heavenly thrusts.

Iason panted. The pressure built, coiling below his abdomen. He had never loved anyone more than he loved Riki at that moment. His heart was throbbing so hard that he began to suspect his heart was down there instead of in his chest. He gyrated his hips, moving playfully in circles while keeping their two bodies connected. Ardently, he drew long and hard strokes, pulling all the way out and pushing all the way in again, his sac bouncing against his partner's opening with each thrust.

Riki shuddered and squirmed, groaning as Iason's column of flesh tantalised him. His own loins throbbed and ached, desperate to climax. He bucked back against Iason, whilst the taller elf's grasp tightened on his thighs.

Iason was numbly unaware of his surroundings; he rammed all that he was—his devotion, his flesh, his lust, his longing, his seed, his love—into Riki. Nipping the slope of the shorter elf's shoulder again, Iason slowed his pace to maintain his depth inside his partner. With hard, angled thrusts, Iason came, discharging his seed into the body of his beloved. Afterwards, the flaxen-haired elf began to thrust again, slow and deep, afore his virility lost all power of erection. It was this persistence that sent Riki over the edge, and he, too, followed.

'Iason, I … aahhh!'

Riki trembled as Iason's length jerked and throbbed in wild ejaculation, his lover's pubes pressed tight against his rump. His body stiffened, his rectal muscles flexing and bulging. Pleasure filled his core, spreading out through every part of him. Through hooded eyelids, he perceived the taller elf kissing the slope of his neck. It was not long ere he came with a tight, soundless cry. His seed gushed in spurting successions on the looking glass as he went rigid, then slack.

Riki shut his eyes tightly until he felt small kisses of adoration at the side of his neck. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and in the looking glass, Iason's handsome countenance swam into focus.

'Are you all right?'

Riki responded with a small nod, unable to bring himself to speak. Dolour washed over him. A sinful elf who often resorted to theft, robbery and murder, he had never experienced such kindness in all his life on the streets. Now that the older elf's tender caresses instilled him with the belief that even he deserved the admittance to Valhalla, Iason would soon be no more.

Switching off the gravity control function, Riki came down to the floor. He turned around and hooked his legs over Iason's hips, brushing his lover's body along his own even though their physical intimacy had been completed. No word would part their embrace and no coldness would interrupt the exchange of heat between two bodies—it was as though they could stop the unstoppable flow of time and cherish the moment of bliss forever and ever. And yet…

'The airplane is leaving in less than four hours; on the other hand, we still need to collect our belongings at the Rëgvaldyr. Shall we take a shower?' exhorted Iason.

The younger elf looked away, disallowing his expression to reveal his emotion; the elf whose body was still connected to his own—the very one who had taken him to the summit of Asgardr, only to drop him into the depths of Niflheimr next—would be reachable to his grasp no longer.

'Would you like to come with me?'

'What?' Riki asked back, his eyes filled with both hope and fear lest his ears had heard those words incorrectly.

Iason took the younger elf's wrist between his hands, wordlessly studying the forms of his companion's fingers afore bringing their tips onto his lips. Then, locking his gaze with the gorgeous figure destined to love him back, he rasped, 'Would you live with me … for the rest of our lives?'

The instant Iason finished his sentence, he felt the weight of a hand over his nape, strong with demand and heavy with need. Riki did not let him see what was actually happening, for he snatched Iason's lips faster than lightning.

'For someone who was prepared to send me off until seconds ago, you sure are eager,' exhaled Iason with a relieved smile at the end of their kiss.

Riki grinned, his breath mingling with Iason's. 'That certainly saves me the trouble of stowing away as luggage,' he responded, claiming the mouth of his hærtveìn once more.

Iason clasped his lover tighter. As a scientist who valued process, precision and perfection in his discoveries, he disliked nothing more than to face an incalculable factor that might pose a threat to his success. Despite this, Riki had arrived in his life owing to an unfortunate happenstance. A misstep that led to joy. His fourth wonder in the waking world.

THE END