A dog might slink back to the hand it has bitten
And be forgiven, but a slave never.
If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight.
- Canticle of Shartan 9:7
Vyrantium, Tevinter Imperium, 9:36 Dragon
Only days after the turn of the year Idhren arrived back in Vyrantium at Canidius' side. The trip to Minrathous had been a mixed blessing. While the political side of things hadn't been nearly as interesting as Idhren had hoped, he had a sheaf of research notes stashed in the bottom of his luggage away from Canidius' prying eyes and a few fond memories to look back on. His fledgling friendship with Dorian was chief among those memories. He had seen the man only a handful of times, but each time they traded gossip and sarcastic barbs. And each time Idhren watched the man leave with a longing in his gut that he didn't want to acknowledge.
On Satinalia, while Canidius entertained guests at his mansion, Idhren ran free through the city, exploring side streets and admiring decorations as he enjoyed the festivities. The common folk were out in force, mingling with the upper classes as though such a thing were normal. He was pulled briefly into the celebrations of the local elven Liberati community on the edges of the slums, and for perhaps the first time in his life, Idhren did not feel out of place. They shared their food and drink as though he was family, and in return he performed magic tricks for the children. Real magic tricks; colored fire and flowers made of ice that made their eyes light up with wonder.
But nothing good lasts for long. Inevitably he had to return to Canidius' home, and from there to Vyrantium. And now that he had returned to his childhood home it was back to the usual routine.
At least he could see his family again. For months he'd been away, the longest since his time in the Circle. Two days after their return saw Idhren running down from the mansion like an excitable child, only to find his mother waiting at the gates of the compound. At first, the sight set Idhren running faster, but as he grew nearer something began to feel terribly wrong. Ashara was seated on an old stump just inside the gate, hunched and weary, her face drawn with concern. When she spotted her son the woman stood, slowly, hands on her knees as she pushed herself upright. Idhren came to a stop at the gate, hand on the latch but suddenly nervous to open it.
"It's your brother," she said without preamble. "It's not good."
She said nothing more as Idhren passed through the gate and took her arm to help her walk. The short trip to the hovel he had been born in seemed to take an age. Idhren's heart thundered in his chest; he could barely think except to imagine every possible worse case scenario.
The inside of the hovel was dim, and it reeked of blood. Sahren was laid out on one of the small cots, very nearly too tall for it, and for one horrible moment Idhren thought he was already dead. But his chest slowly rose and fell in shallow breaths, and when Idhren broke away from his mother's arm to approach the bedside Sahren's eyes flickered open. A threadbare blanket was pulled up over him, but all it did was cover any obvious sign of injury. Sahren was pale, even despite his sun tanned skin, with dark circles around his eyes and sunken cheeks. When his eyes finally focused on Idhren a faint smile tugged at his cracked lips. "You're back," he said, and his voice was as weak as he looked. Very briefly, Sahren made an effort to sit up, but hissed in pain and gave up after moving barely an inch. "Sorry I can't give you a hug. How was the capitol?"
At first Idhren could not form words to answer him. He sat down timidly on the edge of the cot, trying not to jostle his brother in any way. "Sahren…" It was the first word he could make his lips form. "What happened?"
"Ah, you know… The usual," his brother replied with what was probably meant to be a shrug, but instead was only the barest shifting of one shoulder.
It was not unusual for Sahren to shrug off his injuries, and this was not the first time Idhren had seen him injured. He frequently came back from the colosseum with cuts and bruises or, on a few rare occasions, a broken bone. His skin was littered with scars that told of the long, hard years he'd spent there. Sahren had always cheerfully downplayed any injury, but this was clearly not a typical wound. "Sahren," Idhren said again, pleading, although he didn't know what for.
Sahren sighed, but that weak smile stayed plastered across his face. "Don't make that sad face, Idhren," he beseeched.
"What happened?" Idhren asked once more.
"Had a bad match," Sahren said, as though it were that simple. "I won, though." As though that was all that mattered.
"That was a week ago," their mother cut in. She was sitting now on the cot beside Sahren's, but Idhren hadn't even noticed her come in. "They brought him back here day before yesterday."
The same day that Idhren had returned. Yet no one had bothered to tell him that his brother lay here dying. "Has there been a healer?" Idhren asked, already rolling up his sleeves. He still struggled with healing magic, but this was his brother. He had to try.
"They patched me up at the colosseum," Sahren answered with another attempted shrug.
That meant bandages and elfroot, just enough to stop the bleeding. Obviously this injury was beyond such simple remedies. Without asking, Idhren pulled back the blanket. He regretted it immediately. Sahren's entire torso was wrapped in bandages so caked in blood it was clear they hadn't been changed in days. Since he had been brought here. And of course not, his mother didn't have anything to replace them with; no one here did. They had brought Sahren here to die.
"Idhren," Sahren's voice made him realize he was staring, hands trembling as they hovered over his brother's broken body. "Don't worry about me."
Idhren shook his head, "You're… I can…" He pulled at the Fade instinctively and let the magic pool in his hands as his scattered mind struggled to remember everything that Galene had struggled to teach him. Something. Anything.
"Idhren," his brother interrupted again. He reached up and took one of Idhren's trembling hands in his own, weak though it was. Idhren lost hold of the fragile thread of healing magic and it dissipated immediately. "It's alright." Idhren shook his head again and swallowed past the lump in his throat. It wasn't alright. It was far from alright. "Hey…" he paused to take a deep laborious breath, "Tell me about the capitol."
Idhren let out a single sob before he managed to restrain himself again. Quickly wiping away the wetness on his cheeks, he began talking.
Eventually Ashara fell asleep on the other cot, but Idhren remained. Even when he'd run out of stories to tell about Minrathous, he remained. "Is mother asleep?" Sahren asked quietly. His breathing had been getting more ragged, and though Idhren kept conjuring ice to help his fever it wasn't getting any better.
"Yes," Idhren confirmed.
"Good… Now you can tell me about that boy you like."
"What?" Idhren asked in surprise, too loud. For a moment he was afraid he would wake their mother, but she did not stir.
"She thinks you're sweet on that maid… What's her name?" Sahren murmured.
"Valora?"
"That's the one," Sahren let out a weak chuckle. "I know you better than that."
Idhren bit his lip and stared down at his hands, still clasped around one of Sahren's. For a moment he considered denying it, but what would be the point? "He's Altus," he said quietly. "We met in the Circle. He was kind to me. Is kind to me. He's smart and he treats me like an equal, but he doesn't… He doesn't like me back."
"I'm sorry," Sahren breathed. "You're too good for him. You're too good for this fucking place. Idhren-" he was cut off by a wet cough and Idhren hurried to press a cup of water to his lips and help him drink. When the fit passed Sahren spoke again, voice thick with emotion, "I'm so proud that you're my brother. I want you to be happy." Idhren wanted to assure him that he was happy, but he knew it would be a lie. He hadn't been happy in years. "You should… leave this place. Find somewhere… they'll appreciate you."
"Like where?" Idhren asked, although he couldn't even entertain the idea right now.
"I don't know… You're the smart one," Sahren teased weakly. "You'll think of something."
Idhren returned his weak smile with a watery one of his own. "I'm proud that you're my brother, too," he whispered, not trusting his voice with more.
Sahren's weak smile turned a bit brighter. "Hey, Idhren… I think… I'm gonna take a nap," he murmured, gaze turned toward the ceiling and eyes unfocused. "Thanks for staying with me."
"Of course," Idhren replied. He watched his brother's eyes drift closed, clung to his hand so hard it had to be painful, but Sahren didn't even flinch. Gradually his breathing grew slower, shallower, until it stopped entirely. And Idhren stopped holding back his tears.
In the morning, while his mother was forced to continue her work as though nothing had happened, Idhren saw to it that Sahren's body was properly tended. He was shrouded and burned while Idhren mumbled verses of the Chant that felt hollow on his lips. He buried the ashes beneath a tree in Canidius' garden. Somewhere peaceful and beautiful. Somewhere unlike the life that his brother had been forced to live. Then he returned to his own room and slept through the rest of the day.
Two weeks later his mother died. It was as though after Sahren passed she simply gave up. He got the news from Valora one morning in the library. "I'm so sorry," she breathed, and hugged him tightly even though it was highly improper. Idhren didn't care. He hugged her back and cried quietly onto her shoulder.
When night fell Idhren slipped out of the estate. He found himself at the door of Magister's Mercy with no memory of the long walk to get there. Already he could smell the lyrium and herbs, the promise of an escape like metal on his tongue as he stepped through the door. He lost himself in a haze of smoke and alcohol until he could barely remember his own name. Then let Varius fuck him because it was the only thing that felt real.
In the pre-dawn hours Idhren staggered back through the city, back into the estate. The vast, cold mansion felt more like a prison now than it ever had before. Still numb, he collapsed face down in his bed, curled up beneath the blankets without getting undressed, and pulled the sheets up over his head to shut out the rest of the world.
His life was spiraling out of control as he slowly lost hold of everything that had ever given it meaning. First his research, now his family. There was nothing left for him.
There was also nothing left that could hurt him.
Vyrantium was hottest just before autumn. Not at the height of summer, but just before it ended, like one final hurrah before the rains came and the wind began to blow from the south. Not the ideal time to be visiting, but not the worst, either.
The city hadn't changed much over the years, but Dorian's familiarity with it had. It was strange to think that he had once lived here. For two full years, even. Streets that he had once navigated while blind drunk were now unfamiliar, landmarks long forgotten. But parts of it were still familiar. The Circle, obviously, still loomed unchanged in the heart of the city; no doubt filled to the brim with a new batch of prideful teenage mages.
He recognized a handful of other places; the establishments that Dorian had frequented during his brief life here. Most of them had been the sort of seedy taverns that did not care who you were so long as you could pay. Most of them Dorian no longer knew how to find, and besides, his tastes had become rather more discerning in the intervening years.
He had a room at an inn – one of the nicer establishments in the city, suitable for someone of his status – but Dorian had little intention of staying there tonight. He was rather in the mood for some company or, at the very least, a drink. But not somewhere respectable, not somewhere he might be recognized. So he left the gilded avenues that were familiar in style even if they were no longer as intimately familiar as they had once been and found himself a friendly pair of blue and red lanterns hung outside a respectably nondescript establishment.
Magister's Mercy, the sign above the door read in simple but clean script. The name was such a cliché there was probably a lyrium den or brothel in every major city with the same moniker.
It was perfect.
Dorian stepped up to the door and then crossed the threshold into the dim, smoky interior. He paused a moment while his eyes adjusted from the late afternoon sun and surveyed the décor. It was fairly standard, from Dorian's experience. Nothing to set it apart from a hundred other lyrium dens. The shuttered windows cut out most of the sunlight and the heat of the day, and the room was lit instead by magefire sconces on the walls and dimly glowing lanterns. Scattered incense burners filled the air with a thin haze of smoke and a musky scent that, for now, masked the smell of lyrium.
There were two elves lounging on a sofa not far from where Dorian stood. He noticed first the one seated upright, head tipped back onto the cushions, baring the sooth dark skin of his neck while ebony locks cascaded down the back of the seat. The other lay with his head in the first's lap, feet propped up on the armrest. As Dorian watched, the one lying down took a long drag from a pipe and then passed it off to his companion as he breathed out a slow stream of smoke.
Dorian thought at first that they were both whores, until he noticed that the second elf's clothing was both far too fine and far too modest for a prostitute. And then as if on cue both elves opened their eyes and looked his way. In the dim light of the brothel those eyes glinted in a way that some people found unnerving, but as the one lying down lifted his head to get a better look Dorian recognized those eyes. Large and violet, surrounded by a waterfall of hair the color of rich mahogany.
"Dorian Pavus," a smirk spread across familiar lips and slowly Idhren pushed himself upright. So much for not being recognized. At least Idhren was unlikely to go tattling to his father. "Fancy meeting you here. I suppose this means the rumors are true."
"What rumors are those?" Dorian asked without truly registering the words. He knew full well which rumors, but he was still trying to process the scene in front of him. Idhren was the last person he had ever expected to find in a lyrium den or a brothel.
"That Dorian Pavus has an elf fetish," Idhren leered, all half lidded eyes and knowing smirk. Behind him, the whore giggled. "Working his way through every seedy whorehouse in Minrathous." He had finally figured out what Dorian had been hinting at nearly a year ago. From the mouth of the whores themselves: Dorian liked elves. Male elves, in particular. "What are you doing in Vyrantium, though?"
"Merely passing through," Dorian replied. "I unfortunately am required to visit my family for Satinalia."
"Then what a happy coincidence that our paths should cross," Idhren murmured with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Eyes that, now that his own had adjusted to the dark, Dorian could see were rimmed red and pupils blown wide. Idhren was high as a kite.
"Are you going to introduce me to your friend?" the whore chimed in, a slight whine in his voice like a neglected and jealous lover. When he sat up he was obviously taller than Idhren – though most people were taller than Idhren – but draped his arms over the elven mage's shoulders all the same and leaned against him like a living blanket.
"Oh, how rude of me," Idhren spoke as though they were at some Magister's soiree instead of the common room of a whorehouse, the air thick with lyrium smoke. "Dorian, this is my dear friend Varius," he began, inclining his head slightly to indicate the elf currently plastered to his back. "And Varius, may I present Dorian of House Pavus, an old classmate from the Circle."
The whore – Varius – let out an appreciative hum as his eyes ran up and down Dorian's form. "He's very pretty," the elf commented as Dorian stood there, uncertain how to respond. He had found himself around plenty of whores in his lifetime, but this was the first time one had eyed him like a piece of meat.
"Yes, he is, isn't he?" Idhren picked up the pipe again and took another long drag. "Shall I invite him to join us?"
"Oh, definitely," Varius purred. "Do come join us, handsome. There's enough to share."
It was probably a bad idea, but Dorian did join them. He sank down onto the sofa beside Idhren as Varius peeled himself off of the smaller elf's back and busied himself for a moment with the lyrium pipe. "This isn't the sort of place I would have expected to find you," Dorian commented, purposefully watching Varius fill and prime the lyrium pipe instead of looking at Idhren.
"Is it?" Idhren leaned back against the arm of the sofa and watched Dorian's profile while Dorian watched Varius. "Why? You think I'm still that shy, scared little boy from the Circle?"
Dorian's eyes flicked back over to him, ran over Idhren's figure. That shy, scared boy with fire in his heart was certainly the Idhren that Dorian knew best and remembered most vividly. Obviously the years had changed him, and Dorian hadn't been around very often to see those changes. "You're still little," he commented.
Idhren let out a bark of laughter. "A joke about my height," he laughed, "How clever. The pride of the Imperium, you are."
Dorian rolled his eyes, "Such sarcasm," he complained. "But why are you here?"
"Why is anyone here?" Idhren asked in return, with a tone of voice as though he was asking for the meaning of life.
"We're celebrating!" Varius supplied. He had finished with the pipe, it seemed, and pressed one of the mouthpieces into Idhren's hand, then another into Dorian's. "And now that we have enough people for a party I'll find us some drinks. What'll it be, handsome?" he winked at Dorian as he stood, silken robe open to his stomach and barely clinging to his shoulders. It was a rather distracting view.
"Whatever goes best with this, I suppose," Dorian replied, looking down at the pipe in his hand.
Idhren already had the pipe in his mouth, breathing in deeply and then out through his teeth. "It'll have to be the cheap wine," he spoke through the smoke, "Unless Dorian's buying."
They both looked at Dorian expectantly until he sighed and relented, "Very well, if we're going to do this we might as well do it properly. Bring the good stuff."
Varius smiled like the cat that got the cream, then turned quickly and strode away in a swirl of crimson silk and ebony hair. On any other night Dorian would have bought him in a heartbeat, but tonight there were extenuating circumstances. Getting drunk and high with a prostitute and the subject of his teenage infatuation was very likely a bad decision, but Dorian wasn't known for making good decisions. He raised the pipe to his lips and breathed in. It had been a long time since he had done this, but the smoke hit his tongue, settled in his lungs, and it felt familiar. "So," Dorian murmured as he exhaled. "What exactly are we meant to be celebrating?
Idhren took another long draw from the pipe in his hand, then relaxed back into the plush sofa cushions, sighing out through his nose. "I'm leaving Tevinter," he said flatly.
The news came as a shock to Dorian, and to his surprise the feeling was also accompanied by disappointment. "What?" he asked stupidly.
"I've been saving up what little wages Canidius pays me and I've finally secured passage with a caravan headed south," Idhren elaborated. "I'll be leaving in a month's time."
Dorian stared. "You're really leaving?" he breathed. It seemed so out of the blue. Less than a year ago Idhren had been adamant that he would not leave Canidius. Something must have happened. "But where are you going to go? You know how the south treats their mages. They'll throw you in one of their prison Circles, or worse!" Dorian had heard stories, everyone had, of how the southern Chantry oppressed mages for no reason other than their Maker-given talents. A mage as powerful and clever as Idhren, especially Tevinter trained, would terrify the people of the south. If he wasn't killed for suspicion of blood magic, would they make him tranquil?
"That's a possibility, yes," Idhren confirmed, "And it's a risk I'm willing to take." He paused and took a drag from the lyrium pipe, blowing out the smoke slowly before he continued speaking. Dorian was still too stunned to argue. "This is the one situation where my ears will be useful, though."
It took a moment for Dorian to realize what Idhren meant. "You're planning to find one of those wandering tribes? And what, live in the forest like a savage?"
Idhren shrugged one shoulder. "At this point it's preferable to staying here," he commented. "My family is gone; everything I've ever worked for has been stolen from me. Even if I leave Canidius' estate and try to find employ somewhere else, do you think anyone in this blighted country will ever respect me?"
"Perhaps not," Dorian was forced to agree. "You think it's more likely that a random group of homeless elves will accept you with open arms?"
"Perhaps not with open arms," Idhren said, "But I have to try. If I don't, I'll only be miserable here for the rest of my life. If there's even a chance that I could find a better life in the south I'm willing to take it."
He was really serious about this. Absolutely serious. "Why now?" Dorian asked.
Idhren looked down at the pipe in his hand, rolled it between his fingers and frowned. He was silent for a long moment, wondering how much he should tell Dorian, and not wanting to ruin the carefree mood. He had come here to celebrate, to have one last fun night, one last good memory before he left the country for good. He didn't want to talk about what had driven him to this point, all the things he had lost. But this was Dorian. Ironically, coincidentally, here in Vyrantium, in this establishment, on the eve of his departure. And after tonight it was almost certain that Idhren would never see him again. So he might as well bare all; perhaps it would help him find some closure.
"My family is dead," Idhren told him. "There's nothing tying me to Canidius anymore."
Dorian had known about the elf's father, but now his mother, and he'd had a sibling as well, hadn't he? "I'm sorry," he said. Idhren had clearly cared about his family, to have stayed under Canidius' thumb for their sake.
"It's not your fault," Idhren murmured, and fell silent. It had effectively killed the celebratory mood, and Idhren set down his pipe before he could lose himself completely in the smoke.
Thankfully, Varius returned moments later, three small glasses held precariously in one hand, and in the other an open bottle of something amber colored. He quickly took in the scene, and the newly somber mood. "What happened while I was gone?" he asked with forced cheer, "Did you have a fight?" He seated himself beside Dorian, effectively penning the man between the pair of elves, and carefully set the glasses he carried on the table. "That won't do at all. We're supposed to be celebrating. Here, is this up to your standards, handsome?" With a flourish he presented the bottle to Dorian for inspection.
The gesture forced Dorian to tear his attention away from Idhren, though he cast barely a glance at the bottle before he nodded. "Yes, I suppose that will do." Not that he needed to look at it; the stuff was strong enough that he could smell it already.
"Perfect," Varius smiled as he filled each of the small cups with a more than generous serving. "And we must have a toast. It's that sort of occasion."
"What to?" Idhren asked, reaching across Dorian to take a glass.
"To you, of course," Varius purred, "For taking control of your own life. And to the grand adventure that I'm sure awaits you; I pray your journey is easy and that you find what you seek."
"A fine sentiment," Dorian agreed, and raised his glass in acknowledgement before taking a sip of the drink. Brandy, he identified immediately, and very good. It probably cost more than he had intended to spend tonight. Well, it was the occasion for it, he supposed.
"Fine, indeed," Idhren agreed, "Thank you." He smiled as he raised his own glass to his lips, the softest expression that Dorian had ever seen on his face. Then he threw his head back and downed the entire glass of brandy in two swallows, a display that Dorian found wildly attractive.
"What is the point of buying such quality spirits if you're going to drink it so fast you can't even taste it?" Dorian complained.
Laughing softly, Idhren reached across Dorian again, holding his glass out to Varius for a refill. "That's less fun," he commented, "But I'll savor this glass, if it'll make you feel better."
Were they doing this on purpose? Penning him in, sitting too close, leaning in close enough that Dorian could feel the warmth of Idhren's body through his clothes, would probably be able to smell him if not for the smoke. From an actual whore – from Varius – the signals were obvious and expected; meant to entice him into purchasing something more than just a drink. From Idhren it was completely bewildering. It couldn't possibly be intentional; not with his history.
"Considering how much I'm likely paying for this, I'd appreciate if that money didn't go to waste," Dorian commented blithely, but his next drink was decidedly more than a sip. "And before I'm too drunk to remember: how much, exactly, is this costing me?"
"Well that would depend entirely on where the night leads us," Varius purred.
If it were just Varius then the night would almost definitely lead in that direction, but it wasn't just Varius. Dorian glanced over at Idhren, but the elf had momentarily distracted himself with the lyrium pipe once more. There were so many reasons that would be a bad idea, too many for even Dorian to ignore. Idhren was damn attractive, and not just physically, but that was also part of the problem. He couldn't go letting himself get too attached again. Especially not with Idhren leaving.
"Let's just stay with the drinks for now," Dorian replied, fishing a few gold coins out of his purse and handing them over to Varius. The whore arched a curious eyebrow at him, but took the coins with a shrug, tucking them into the folds of his robes. Dorian found himself in need of another drink.
"When did you become such a stick in the mud?" Idhren rejoined the conversation. He listed to the side slightly, propping himself up with an elbow on the sofa's armrest and holding his glass of brandy in the other. "What happened to the Dorian Pavus who came stumbling back into the Circle dormitories at all hours of the night? Or the one who's apparently bedded half the men in Minrathous?"
"That is a gross exaggeration," Dorian complained, but he knew full well that wasn't the point Idhren was trying to make. "And I thought you didn't care about that sort of thing."
Idhren shrugged, "I suppose that depends entirely on the people involved," he replied.
Dorian regretted ever putting the idea of rumor mongering into Idhren's mind. It had been a bad idea in the first place, brought on by a bit too much wine and Idhren's too-pretty eyes. It was how he'd found most of the bed partners he didn't pay, but Idhren didn't play those games the way an Altus did. Now the elf was being less than subtle, but he was also less than sober. "Should I be flattered to be worthy of your interest?" Dorian asked, halfway between flirting and uncertainty.
"Not many people are," Varius answered for him.
"I am unfortunately surrounded by some absolutely shit examples of humanity most of the time," Idhren replied. "You're decidedly less so, when you want to be."
"You certainly know how to compliment someone," Dorian replied dryly. Did Idhren always swear this much? Dorian supposed he'd never actually seen him outside of a social function before (excluding the Circle, of course, but they were both practically children back then). Maybe that's what was making him feel so off-center about this. Was it the alcohol and lyrium making him act like this? Or just being away from easily offended nobles and having the freedom to speak his mind?
"I can, when the occasion calls for it," Idhren replied. He pushed himself off the armrest, sat upright as he finished his drink, but began listing towards Dorian as he reached over to put the empty glass on the table in front of them. He was so wasted he couldn't even sit up straight. It was a miracle he could hold a conversation.
Somehow Dorian was on his third glass of brandy. And he was quickly losing what small threads of self control he possessed.
Then Idhren listed far enough to the side that he was leaning against Dorian's shoulder.
"I should go." Dorian was breathless, face flushed as he pulled away from Idhren. The movement only sent him backwards into Varius' chest, but Dorian barely noticed. He was too distracted by the look in Idhren's eyes. In the space of a breath his expression had gone from sultry to absolute dejection.
Dorian Pavus was not a brave man. He was quite good at pretending to be, but deep down he was a coward. He rose to his feet quickly, too quickly to appear casual, too quickly for the amount he'd had to drink and smoke. "I…" he stammered, at an uncharacteristic loss for words. "Good luck. In the south," he said, and meant every word of it. Idhren deserved better than what this country had done to him; deserved better than what Dorian could give him. He hoped the elf would find it.
Idhren had not taken his eyes off the man, but his expression made it impossible for Dorian to look at his face. "Thank you," the elf whispered. He sounded just as crestfallen as he looked.
Without another word Dorian turned on his heel and left.
As soon as the Altus was gone Idhren fell back against the plush cushions of the sofa and swallowed back the lump in his throat. Beside him Varius' manner changed drastically. The dark-skinned elf moved closer, stroked Idhren's hair and murmured sympathetic noises as he pulled the smaller elf into his arms.
"Why doesn't he want me?" Idhren asked miserably. "Why am I not good enough?" And why did it hurt so much?
"Shh," Varius sighed and kissed the crown of Idhren's head. "He's the one who's not good enough for you."
Idhren sighed and turned his face toward Varius, laying his head on the other elf's shoulder. "Why do I care?" he breathed, voice choked. "He's such an ass. I should hate him. Why can't I hate him?"
"The heart wants what it wants," Varius murmured understandingly. "Though life would be much easier if we could control it." Idhren could only nod morosely in agreement. For another long moment they sat there in silence, Varius stroking his hair and rubbing his back gently. Then, in a slow, smooth motion, the whore pulled away from Idhren and stood up, "Come on," he murmured, holding his hands out to the mage, "Let me show you a good time before you leave. A good memory to take with you into the south."
Idhren barely hesitated before reaching out to take Varius' hands and letting the whore pull him to his feet. And then toward the back rooms. He wasn't what Idhren wanted – who Idhren wanted – but it was time for Idhren to accept the facts. Time to get over this childish crush and move on with his life.
Varius' skin was too dark, his hair too long, his body too slim. But if Idhren closed his eyes he could still pretend.
And in the morning, he could forget.
