Two parts of this chapter are rated "Unpleasant M" If you wish to skip them, they are the one in which Xan gives the name of his fellow Graycloak, and the section immediately after it (both are towards the end). If you wish, you may skip them and go on to the very last section, which begins with: "I know none of these answers."

...

Seeking Absolution

...

Jaheira was struggling to control her feelings as she struggled into the tavern and took a seat at the bar. Her body and mind each felt heavy. Heavy and shaken.

"Something ye need?" the tender asked.

"A... A Mermaid." When was the last time she'd ordered a shot of anything? A long time.

"Mixed?"

She shook her head.

The bar tender could see she was in quite a spot of trouble. Her drink arrived shortly, and she brought it trembling to her mouth.

"Jaheira!" the voice sliced across the tavern.

The druid nearly leaped out of her chair, and she certainly spilled a small measure of her shot. She turned about with rapidly blinking surprise, and then recoiled when Gorion, of all people, was suddenly at her side. He grabbed the drink from her.

"Detect poison!"the wizard hissed.

"What!?" she sputtered, half laughing, half crying.

"Jaheira. Detect poison. Now."

Her brows furrowed. She looked from him to the drink and then, with a trust and synergy born from years of companionship, she quickly called on her powers. In her enhanced vision, the drink began to glow with an unearthly, whirling black.

Her lips parted. She looked quickly towards the bar tender. Gorion recognized the change in her expression, and he groaned. "That's impossible," she whispered. "The drink came straight to me and I know-"

The tender was nowhere to be seen.

Her eyes widened and she looked to Gorion, whose face was a mask of pain. "How the devil did you-?"

"Lucky guess," he muttered, standing upright as he contemplated the glass. "Well then. Come. Let us see if our friends can't identify where this came from, or whom."

"Gorion," Jaheira exclaimed, her voice thick as she grabbed his arm. This man had just chased her sobbing from a city garden, and she needed some sort of explanation. "What just happened?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "But if a wretched little nightingale is to be believed, you contracted an assassin in Calimport. Sound familiar?"

Jaheira hesitated. Then she cursed loudly and stood. "The traveler in Tethyr!" she hissed. "I knew it when he tried to join our camp!"

Gorion grimaced. Not one but two separate assassins had followed Jaheira up from Calimport. In a contest between the one who was trying to poison Jaheira and the one who had herded her safely for hundreds of miles, Gorion knew exactly which killer he ought to fear more.

Tallix Snapdragon, Chosen of Bhaal and Zhent assassin, was in Waterdeep.

...

Hardly more than fourteen hours ago, Xzar and eight other people had been eating the flesh from Aegis' bones.

And yet there Aegis was, settling him down on the sheets in her own bed for the evening as he twitched and winced. He was in pain and curled up with his back facing her. His skin was chilled yet sweaty, and he was clearly physically ill. Kelddath would have the easiest time countering this at dawn, when his own deity was the strongest.

And it was going to be expensive, despite Viconia and Xan's preliminary work.

Aegis stepped away to get some warm water. She returned and sat herself down beside the necromancer to dab his forehead and face. She cleaned up the old greasepaint while she was at it.

"Ae," he whispered feebly at her attentions.

"Don't talk, Xzar," she told him. "You've spit up enough blood for the day. Yours and mine, come to think of it."

He winced.

Aegis sighed heavily. She had so many questions, and so many angry things to shout, and all of them were going to have to wait. The word 'obliged,' innocent as it might have been, had put the necromancer in a terrible amount of trouble with whatever spellwork had been levied on him. He'd been fine before saying it; except that everyone in the entire party had been eager to execute him.

"Do I disgust you?" he asked her.

"I said not to talk," she muttered, turning away from him in an effort to discourage him.

"You know now... that some of the bleaker things I've said to you... were not... eccentric ramblings..." he whispered. "That I have previously-"

"I don't want to listen to this," she replied sharply. "And I'm concerned you're going to walk into hurting yourself worse."

He swallowed. "You know, by what they asked of me, that I must have done it before."

"Xzar." This topic was off-limits.

The necromancer frowned, and did not roll over to look at her. "Ae... do you remember the vision you painted of an approved-sources-only necromancer lab?" he asked.

Aegis grimaced and looked down at the floor, resting her forearms on her knees.

"I'd never heard anyone do that: Spin an idea like that, or mean it." He wet his lips. "I couldn't have. But when you did... I wanted it."

She looked at her hands and particularly at her fingertips. They were whole now, but they'd been gnawed down to ebony-colored bones just that morning. Black. Black as the gods of death. Black as Myrkul, Black as Bhaal, Black as Jergal. Black as Cyric.

"Do... do you believe me...?"

She lifted her head. "Do I believe what? That you want to compromise? That you want my approval? That you don't want to be a flesh eating monster anymore- at least not while I'm looking?"

The necromancer was quiet.

Aegis considered. "Wanting to be a better person doesn't make you one." She ran her fingers against one another, and then leaned over and picked up a mewing Pretzels. "Admittedly, it's a start." She turned and deposited the kitten beside the wizard. "You should sleep."

...

Branwen slowly eased her legs out of the bed. "I'm listening, wee man," she reassured Xan, gently and slightly amused by his anxiety. "What'ere you need?"

"I want you to push me," he replied, his voice sounding strangely hollow and deep. "I want you to do something that will seem strange. Grotesque, even. And horribly, horribly morbid. Because I desperately need to tell you about something, and there are some memories which cannot be visited while sane..."

Branwen's eyes widened. You are letting me in?

All of a sudden, Branwen wasn't sure she ought to let him. She hesitated for a moment, disturbed by the topic transition. That Xzar's condition should make Xan open up to her was unnerving in what it must have signified. Her brows furrowed.

Mullahey, I curse your remains to a thousand agonies in the frozen depths of the coldest planes of the Abyss. What else have you done to 'im?

Then she took in a deep breath and steeled herself. When Xan picked to lower walls, he typically showed up with metaphorical siege engines and did not back down until the job was done. If his mind was made up on this, the only thing Branwen could really do was encourage him.

"Branwen?" her elf asked weakly, and she realized she'd been quiet for a moment. The Norheimer shook her head and laughed before scooting up beside him. It wasn't usually her dish to think too much!

"You've a strange relationship request?" she asked him incredulously as she joined his side. She leaned down to catch his eyes with her hers, and his expression put her heart through a wringer. Xan looked positively haunted, he did. She lifted a hand to grasp his chin and also thumbed across his pointed nose once in playful affection. "You? No, I don't believe it; ain't possible, 'tisn't." she announced.

The elf blinked and then a weak, almost-smile twitched across his thin lips. She brushed her knuckles gently over his cheek and chuckled.

"There you go, there's the Xan I know. I knew he was in there. Well, I'm here, too," she reassured him adoringly. "For whate'er you need."

"Oh..." he murmured and then sighed heavily. When she eased an arm around him, he straightened up and scooted closer to her. "You... you may not be saying that in a moment, Nildoen'nin." She kissed his hairline and nuzzled gently at his temple and cheek.

"You're my wizard," she whispered to him. "My dainty, saucy, elegant little wizard. Where you go, I follow. What'ere you need, I give."

He tilted his head back and looked up at her as if his heart ached. Then he turned his body and leaned heavily into her shoulder in pursuit of comfort. Branwen snuck a hand under his leg and pulled him sideways into her lap. She straightened upright that she might sit comfortably and hug him at the same time. "Bran..." He closed his eyes and for a moment, rubbing his face into her chest and focusing on her.

"You alright?" she asked, petting over his shoulder and back. "I'm listening for that 'strange relationship request' you mentioned."

He sucked in a hard breath. "I-I... Forgive me. I want you to... to pretend... to take me from behind."

That got her attention. She leaned back and looked at him incredulously. "Eh, but- How? I don't have... " Her brows furrowed as it sunk in exactly what he had just said to her. "Are you mad, elf?" she sputtered. He didn't immediately respond. "You know, I lived with men who dove into ice water for sport in the dead of winter, and I am still pretty sure the thing you just said there? Yeah, that was the craziest thing I've ever heard in all me life. Honest to goodness."

"I know!" he exclaimed angrily, opening his eyes and curling his fingers through the air. Branwen frowned and the elf grimaced, his voice softening: "I-I know... But there is a method to my madness! Bare with my admittedly gloomy mind as I attempt to breathe out the reason of this. You are much... bigger than me; you are... relatively the same size as a half orc. But you are... you are my friend. And... And I trust you so..."

"You honestly want me to mimic raping you?" she disbelieved loudly. Sometimes, Xan was stupid.

"No! No not mimic-! But... but... th-the..." his considerable vocabulary momentarily failed him. "I-I... the goal w-would be to evoke a sense of complete v-vulnerability and then to not exploit it-" he muttered hastily. "The goal would be to overwrite dismal, t-traumatized muscle memory with something b-brighter. To provoke the lowest of the memories, to let me speak of them, to let them out-!"

Branwen pulled him into a tight hug, smothering his words and thoughts momentarily to protect him from everything, including his own anxiety. Her fingers smoothed up and down his shoulder and the side of his neck and head as she brushed against his ears. He shuddered.

"Gods. Branwen. I trust you," he croaked. "Seldarine, so fleetingly I have known you, but I trust you utterly."

"Then don't go shoot yourself in the foot with your own fool crossbow!" she chastised him. "No more of this sort of talk, lad!"

"Please, Nildoen-nin. Do this for me," he groaned. "I may never have the strength to ask again-"

"You're too hard on yourself, trying too hard to be strong sometimes wee man," Branwen told him, and she hugged him tighter and smothered her face into his hair. "Sometimes it's okay just to be hurtin' for a bit while you catch your breath; or to learn to swim the slow way. Not everything needs to be immediate, efficient, and perfect. Look at me; I'm still not recovered! Jealous as hell of Aegis, but, eh..."

"I want to be whole," he begged her to understand. "And this is a poisoned wound that will not otherwise heal!"

"Aye, who doesn't want to be well and whole? But you don't have to be, certainly not right off the bat. I... you know I'll be tender for you regardless; You can go slow as you please."

"Three hundred years?" the elf asked.

"Well... three years?"

He shivered. "I can do this. I can endure this. I-I must. Please."

The Norheimer shook her head into his hair as she cuddled him. When she spoke next, his world momentarily burst apart into starbursts. She must have been saving such words for an important occasion:

"Ni melanye tyén," she told him.

"Melinye," he corrected immediately, and then looked horrified and startled. His mouth continued almost of its own volition: "'Melan' would be aorist, not present tense, and who taught you to say something like that in elvish?"

"Kivan did," she answered and this surprised Xan as he would have expected Imoen or Aegis. Kivan and 'language' were not frequently associated with one another. When had she even spoken to him? Before the kidnapping? After, some time? While Xan had been unconscious? The blonde continued her explanation: "And he specifically wrote 'melanye.' M-e-l-a-n-y-e. With an 'a.' He even had me practice, he did, since I don't speak Elvish. Or, eh, read anything very well, if I'm fully honest about the matter."

The elf lifted his head, though he could not hope glimpse her with her face tucked into his hair. To stress the 'a' in melan implied a form of timelessness. The aortist tense was used to make statements about the natural existence of the universe, like 'horses love to eat grass,' and not singular proclamations. In this context, Melanye was nearly grammatically incorrect; at best, it meant, 'I have loved you, I love you, and I will always love you.'

"He told me I had to be very specific in how I wanted to say it," Branwen continue to tell his hair matter-of-factly. "And that there were a good hundred ways of saying 'love' otherwise."

Xan shook his head, overwhelmed. The weight of his fears were coming back in on top of him. In a very tight voice, he managed: "I suppose Kivan is a bit of a romantic from one angle. With a lens. And perhaps some tinting..."

Branwen laughed. "You're a bit daft a'times, my wizard, for a man with as many brains as you have."

He couldn't take this. He writhed for a moment and she frowned, pulling back a little.

"Xan?" She realized he looked desperate. The frown tugged lower at her face.

He tried to stop himself, but now that he had crossed this threshold it did not seem he could step back. "I... I... B-Branwen!" he almost cried. No, he did cry. Tears were working up on his face. Her eyes widened. "Branwen, Branwen, please help me; I need this thing I have asked you for...!"

"Just talk to me!" she implored him, stroking helplessly over his temple and jawline.

"I-I can't-!" he sputtered miserably, clawing at his hair. He wanted to dissolve. This was misery; this was hell.

"Course ye can!" she protested. "I'm right here holding you! Nothing's going to be happening to you here-!"

"No! What happened to me... What I-... No... I.." He raked his own hair into a right mess."I-I need you to push me. I need you to frighten me! Branwen, I am an enchanter- all I have is my mind and, on reflection, this wound is deeper even than I've been willing to admit. There is a hole; an illness; a weak scale; a dead muscle; a-"

"Wee man, I am not playing the part of your rapist; that's a foolish notion from top to bottom," she growled protectively.

"I need you to!" he begged with all himself. "Branwen, I am going mad. Slowly, day by day, piece by piece-!"

She grimaced. "Have you even thought this through? What do you want Xan, for me to tie your arms up, and stuff you against the headboard and make to fuck you?"

His eyes widened in horror. She was still covered in bandages; but she was so much stronger than he. He clutched his wine bottle tightly.

"And then what? Your skin already crawls without your say-so! That's not something you ever, ever need to go through again. I won't do it!"

He stared at her, haunted. His mouth was dry. After a long moment, he swallowed and shook his head. In a very broken voice, he told her: "There are memories one cannot revisit while sane. And these... these I must air or they will slowly drive me off a cliff. Please. Help me do this. Somehow?"

She bit her lip and tried to think. "Not while sane...? How... how about while drunk?" she suggested.

He swallowed. A moment passed in silence as he contemplating the weight of the wine bottle in his hands and stared frightened up at his Norheimer. Then he took in a slow, deep breath and nodded. "I'll try," he whispered. "I... I will cast a spell to curb emotions first. And then... then, perhaps, with lowered inhibitions..."

...

Xan was under the effect of Calm Emotions.

She let him drink a significant percentage of the whole bottle. Slowly, with some food from their packs. She held him bridal style in her lap and arms the whole while. He seemed calm, with his legs draped over her one arm and his temple pillowed against her collar. The neck of the bottle dangled from his fingertips

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Tired," he responded, and his voice still sounded quite sober.

"Do you remember what you wanted to say to me, then?" she asked.

The elf smiled sadly. "Yes," he decided. "It is a long and multi-chaptered story. And the ending becomes steadily more and more disturbing. To the point where I would surmise anyone with ears to hear it would nightmare afterwards. Are... are you sure you want to know?"

"I'm sure I do," she told him.

"Very well then. Let me think. It starts innocently enough. It is about elves.

"You see, young elves love... freely. Curiously. They spend... a longer time between childhood and adulthood than humans. Many years. They do not have the same taboos. They share innocent love more expressively."

She tilted her head to the side.

"As they experiment they learn things. They learn their own sense of taste; or how to make love sweet and long; or how to love platonically but with fierce intimacy. Some may learn their preferences are slightly nebulous."

She was surprised at how this story had started. He had to be talking about himself though, she reasoned; which meant he was bringing up his own sexuality. "What sort of preferences?"

"Well, on occasion... an elf might learn that he does not experience romantic interests very often. That he... rarely even looks at women or notices their feminine attributes... It takes him a... a lot longer... a lot more time... before he begins to notice when any given member of the opposite gender is... well, is attractive..."

Branwen tried to follow what he meant. Was he describing a low libido? That didn't seem to match. It sounded more like he was describing aloofness, or obliviousness.

"Now," Xan continued with a sigh, "this elf may find he does indeed have an underlying preference for the female gender on the rare occasions he entertains the notion of a partner... But as a very discouraged person with a great deal of pressure on his shoulders, he might start to realize that he finds... that he finds himself drawn to those rare individuals who make him feel... encouraged.

"And... and here and there, he may realize he is almost more attracted to spirits than specifically to the opposite sex." As her brow furrowed, it occurred to Xan to wonder how good her grasp of euphemisms was. "So... the elf with the aforementioned preferences may occasionally find a charismatic male elf... attractive." He shuddered with uncertainty. "O-or at least the elf might brighten at the thought of furthering their platonic friendship, at least."

Branwen's furrowed brows unkit in sudden understanding. "And you mean you, right?"

He studied the mouth of the bottle with his gaze and his fingertips. "An elf might find himself serving in the Greycloaks alongside a kindred spirit of many years," he suggested. "And something might develop between them. Something small and thus far platonic and largely unexpressed; but warm and gentle in its measure."

Branwen hesitated. She'd never prodded Xan much about his dead shieldmate before. Suddenly the subject seemed incredibly important. "You were particularly close to your dead friend, then, weren't you?"

"That is accurate," the wizard responded quietly.

She mused. "... You know, the first thing it occurred to me to say was: Aha, this finally explains why your so girlish." He tensed slightly. "But then I thought about it a moment longer, and you tend to be at your most masculine when you're feelin' amorous, so... I reckoned I'd better just chalk it up to being a quirky wizard-elf-Xan thing instead."

Of all things, a contented smile spread over Xan's face. He closed his eyes for a moment as if awash in pleasure. He looked up at her for a moment as if in awe and then he closed his eyes again and nuzzled into her collar. "You have a way with words, Branwen," he murmured. "Thank you."

She was surprised. "What do you mean?"

"It is nice not to have one's unique personal characteristics and idiosyncrasies explained away with a hand-wave and the assertion that I am somehow secretly a woman with the wrong equipment."

"You are not a woman!" Branwen laughed. "I've seen you confused or conflicted about a lot of things since I've met you, my saucy wizard; but this was very clearly something you had a handle on. Why, you got irritated right proper with anyone who called you a girl for too long! You weren't indifferent, but you weren't overblown in your reprisal to suggest any real underlying uncertainty, either, so..."

"I'm surprised... " he confessed. "But then, you always were very egalitarian when it came to gender."

"What's that word mean?"

"You were more interested in comparing me as a wizard to soldiers than as a man to women," he mused.

"Well, see, this is actually something I've a sense for," she explained. "Did I ever tell you I'm banished from my homeland?"

Xan straightened a little, with a start. "What?"

"Women can't be clergy on the isles," she explained. "They can fight tooth and nail alongside their menfolk, but they can't be clerics. Of Tempus, or of anyone else. So I know a thing or two about being a misfit myself; being 'wrong' for me gender. When I refused to recant, I was put into exile. Was a confusing mess for the whole family, right was."

"I need to hear more of this story later," he murmured.

"And well you shall! Er. Though, this does leave me to wonder... Are you attracted to...?"

He tilted his head to the side.

"Me, Xan. Are you attracted to me?"

His brows lifted. "Yes," he answered, swift and unhesitatingly.

She gave a big and happy sigh. "Well that's a relief! Then I don't suppose I've anything further to say; that about right settles any confusion on the whole matter for me. The lad I'm sweet on does actually like me. Other information: irrelevant." Xan was almost laughing; Branwen made the word simple.

But the story was far from over, and knowledge of what came next made him cold again. "It's... Branwen, my preferences... they were only the prelude to the story."

"Right. Right, that. The Graycloak? The one you went into Nashkel with? You... you had a sort of crush on him, is that what I understand?"

He nodded. Then suddenly he shuddered and lifted the wine bottle to take another sip.

"I'm still listening," she reassured him with a gentle squeeze. "I'm guessing we're getting to the 'morbid' parts?"

"Yes. I'm... I am going to- Branwen, I am going to just talk. I am going to tell it start to finish. Quietly. Coldly. Indelicately. The only warning I have left to give you is... is that I am an enchanter. My mind is supposed to be the most robust tool I have and, as a result of this story, mine is a disaster. Can... can you wait until the end to say anything? I will lose my nerve if I must answer questions. "

"Aye." She nodded, and she leaned her chin on top of his head. He did not look up at her; He kept his gaze on his wine bottle.

...

"To... to begin with... My friend... My fellow Graycloak... His name was Unteriael.

"We made it quite far into the Nashkel mines. My enchantments were uniquely suited for dealing with the kobolds. Unteriael was skilled with the longsword, shield, and spear. But when we reached Mullahey, I was too slow to act.

"I failed him. I failed us both. The half-orc dominated Unteriael's body and fought me with it. I had... I had numerous opportunities to end the fight. Unteriael fought him for control, and fought hard; and I might have used those openings to... to kill or, if I was lucky, wound my partner. But I kept... I kept hoping my enchantments would prove enough.

"I was a fool.

"Unteriael and I lost to Mullahey's Mental Domination. His spell was like being consumed by a book of writhing, flickering shadows; there was no sense to it, and I had never fought a Cyrite before! By the time I was willing to accept my failure to rescue Unteriael's mind, I could no-longer outfight him physically. His body pinned me to the ground with ease, as he was a much better swordsman.

"We were captured by the kobolds and I was brought into the makeshift dungeon in which Imoen originally found me.

"But Mullahey did not immediately release Unteriael from the Mental Domination; instead he took his time to delve through my friend's mind, probing for answers as to whence we had come, and for what purpose. He learned all he could of our strengths and weaknesses. Unteriael had no real defense; the mental plain ought to have been my field to fight in.

"Mullahey must have easily determined that we were close, although I doubt he needed such information to fuel his cruelties. In fact, when he began to interrogate us with more conventional torture, I surmise it was more for his pleasure than out of any expectation we could tell him something useful.

"The worst part of those early days was not the torture. The worst part was that he barely touched me. Instead, he positioned me to watch, and he focused his grotesque skills upon Unteriael instead. He tormented me, day in and day out, with my poor friend's agonizing screams.

"I confessed everything I knew; I had nothing to hide. But obviously it availed us nothing. By the end of the week, that phase of our torment was over. And before I go any farther than that, I feel it is necessary to describe what Cyrites are like.

"Cyrites glorify death, the dead, and power over the helpless; Cyric is Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul combined: Tyranny, Death, and Murder. But it goes much worse than that, because Cyric is not merely a patron of death. He is also cruel, and he is most unabashedly insane.

"Mullahey was not sane, for all that he spoke with remarkable eloquence. He was not sane- not even by the conditions we measure vile people like Montaron or Edwin. The only person you have ever met whose frayed mental condition resembles Mullahey's is Xzar. That knowledge you must keep in mind, or nothing which follows will make sense to you.

"The kobolds brought me into the mess hall, and tied me up to a post. I watched, gagged and helpless, as Mullahey had them string Unteriael up like a carcass in a butcher shop window." Xan took in a deep breath and continued:

"And... they slit him navel to throat and skinned him in front of me. He twitched while it happened; He watched me. But I think he died quickly after that. At least, I pray he did.

"There they butchered him; they butchered him like any pig or cow. Mullahey ordered them to cook the remains. I can still remember the smell. The meat. The... the organs... the gathered the blood for soup. They used almost everything.

"Easily the story could end here, yes?" he sighed. "But it does not. It does not, though obviously it seems like that should be bad enough. What must anyone imagine I could say which could somehow make this tale even worse?

"After he had let the kobolds gather their fill, Mullahey took only one part for himself. He took the fat. He flayed every piece of fat from the skin, from the bones, from the muscle structure; He gathered all of it, and he rendered it into a small quantity of oil over the fire.

"Afterwards he approached me, unbound me, and dragged away me by the hair. What our party has surmised about his abuse of me is true enough. Yes, Mullahey used me for his pleasure. That, you know. That was not what I needed so much wine to talk about.

"I needed this elaborate setup so that I could explain to you that I am much smaller than Mullahey, and so as not to tear me beyond repair when he entered me, he employed the oil he had rendered from my murdered and butchered sweetheart.

"The things he said to me, as he hurt me... 'Take comfort, he finally did get in you after all!' Not even a single slur or mangled syllable; Mullahey was a very well-spoken half-orc... I... I will describe no more. I'm sure you can imagine it.

"These are the sort of things that orcs, and ogres, and madmen, and particularly Cyrites are capable of. Often for no reason at all.

"And I killed Mullahey for it. I killed him with one, clean thrust of my sword. I didn't ask for anything special to be done with him. I didn't so much as maim him beforehand. I didn't demand the right to hurt him. I didn't slip my mind into his and leave my agony there. I didn't even ask to be the one who killed him- it was only Xzar's abrupt offer which gave me the opportunity.

"I chose not to speak my final oaths in a language Mullahey understood. I chose these things... as if doing so could somehow put me above what I had suffered. I drove Khalid's sword through the back of his armor, and I twisted, and just like that I had taken my vengeance and in many ways eternally denied it of myself... all in one motion."

...

"There is a reason I never openly criticized Kivan for being suicidal- or at least, I did not do so frequently. To have lost not only a friend, but a bondmate, to such cruelty and torture as a creature like Tazok could inflict... The punishment I suffered was one of intense spiritual violation, but I did not lose one complete half of my soul.

"More than I hated Mullahey, I thing I hate Tazok. I wish the ogre had died slowly. My heart aches in sympathy for Kivan; for a level of pain I can scarcely even imagine.

"So when Kivan, of all people, told me I needed to speak with you... To confess these... things to you... I realized that he was right. As an enchanter I feel broken. But as an elf... I...

"As an elf, I have been violated to the core of my being. True, there are many days I feel like myself: pessimistic, but committed and vaguely amused. There are other days where I realize I am rotting inside. That all the coddling in the world cannot erase the diseased thing that bastard put into my soul, or how it eats me.

"I ashamed each and every day I recall how I am not dead; each day I remember praying to the gods to let me live even just one more day. I am ashamed of every bite of food I willingly consumed in that hell. And now?

"I understand Kivan, and do not feel strange about him. I even understand Viconia, though she is Drow. Were I face-to-face with another pure-blooded elf, I do not know if I would even recognize myself. I feel so sick, so broken...

"What now? Even if I complete my mission- which is looking once more increasingly unlikely and doomed to failure- how can I ever go back home like this? How can I go back to my family? My superiors? My peers?

"How could I look my brother in the eyes? Embrace my sister? My mother? With this filth in the memory of my skin? How can I embrace an elvish woman, knowing that she is clean of this but that I bring in the violent shame of a half orc upon my flesh?

"And Unteriael died. I know his family. He died in front of my, like a rabbit. I can't tell them that. I can't even tell my own family; so how would they understand? What do I say when they want me to move on? They could never understand (and how could I explain?) that I will never forget- never!- his death.

"That memory is seered into my skull, along with scent of savory oil, and blood, and the feeling of dampness slicking up against my thighs.

"How could any of them comprehend my sickness, my pain; and the accentuation of every character trait they originally disliked to see in me? How can I explain to them that I need to be left alone, or that I am hurt, without subjecting them to these images? What do I say when they complain about my dour demeanor?

...

"I know none of these answers. They are driving me mad. But being alone with the questions was worse... And I needed to-...

"T-that... That was my unsettling story, Branwen, I thank you for hearing it out in full no matter how disturbing it was.

"I desperately wished to say it once. For someone to hear it, once. So it exists anywhere but my head. So that anyone can know why truly I am broken. I don't think I could have told it to an elf... I will never tell it to any other person... I'm not sure why I could tell it to you... I suppose, perhaps, I hoped you might be less weak-stomached...

"I don't know what else to say. I have nothing to say, I suppose; except that I am sorry for subjecting you to these images and thoughts. I am sorry. For being a burden. For having wounds with no obvious balms, and which will no doubt flare up over and over and over again. For giving you nightmares, I'm sure. But I- I needed someone to hear-

"If this causes you to think differently of me, I will understand..."

Xan's voice faltered. After a moment, he did no more than stare at his bottle quietly. He wasn't sure where to go from there. He wasn't sure if he'd just alienated his dearest friend and confident; the person whom he needed to stay with him most. The thought suddenly terrified him, and he wondered why he had not considered it more extensively before starting this doomed exercise.

If he could not trust his own family to look past these things; if he feared their disgust; or feared overburdening their minds with his wounds, then how could he hope a stranger might cope-? But this was Branwen. And when had Branwen ever failed to surprise him?

Silence stretched across the room.

It seemed an eternity later when Branwen began to move. She shifted her weight, and then she lifted a hand to the bottle and gently pulled it from her fingers. He looked up at her in surprise as she slowly placed it aside. Her expression was dark and stormy. When the remaining wine was safe, Branwen stood up, carried him around the side of the bed, sat down near the pillows, and then scooted over to about midway across the bed.

She settled him down against the pillow at her side.

Xan swallowed dryly, and did not move. He didn't even turn his head to follow her. Branwen leaned over and reached down to pull up the blankets. She wormed her way down under the covers, and pulled the hem up to their chins. Then she scooped one arm under the back of his neck, and wrapped the other protectively around his shoulder. She nestled up against his side and rested her head upon the pillows beside his brow.

Silence reigned between them once more.

Long, painful silence, as he watched the ceiling.

Branwen didn't make a sound.

"Are you going to say anything?" the elf whispered.

Branwen was quiet a moment. Then, in a low and fierce voice which promised death and violence, she told him, "Ni melanye tyén."

I have loved you. I love you. I will always love you.

He laid there, quiet and numb. The moments passed. Then his breath caught in his throat. A tremble worked through him as he turned towards her in alarm. As the first sobs wracked through him, she dragged him into a full embrace, and squeezed him tightly to her breast.

He cried for well over an hour, until alcohol made exhaustion too hard to fight. Then he slept coiled into his lover, with their limbs intertwined and his face crushed needingly up against her heart.

...

[Author's Note]

*Gets up on Pulpit* I have a dream... That one day the M rating should be used not for unnecessarily graphic depictions of angst and gore... But instead for the explicit and extremely d'aww-worthy sex scenes that this story so rightly deserves...

One day... one day, my brothers and sisters...

This chapter marks a turning point in dealing with the aftermath of the bandit camp. Next chapter should be brighter...