A.N.: Sorry this took so disgustingly long to get here - I'm currently subsisting in an in-and-out-of-cybercafes existence (it's like being blind) and I've been putting it off too long. So. Here goes. Contains angst, a little bit more swearing, angst, shounen-ai references of COURSE, angst, some damned weird sentence structures, and angst. Oh, and I added a very small detail to the canon, something I did entirely by accident because I always thought it was like this in the canon til I checked, and it's actually never specified. Purists, shoot me, but know that I am truly sorry. (If you're particularly sharp you'll have noticed it already...ah well...) Also evil rhythm breaks, partly due to the fact that I figured out how to write properly partway through the first draft (way back in May...sod it all...). Oh, and angst. Yep.
I threw in a second Les Mis quote too, because it always makes me think of Van - when he died it was so like this, I know it. Besides, seeing thirteen adjectives in one sentence has novelty value.

Thanks SO much for all these reviews!  I've never had so many for anything before, you've made my week!  Keruri, thanks for all the intelligent feedback, and credit goes to Victor Hugo for the analogy rather than little me.  Fantasy – please tell me, how is it OOC?  I did wonder if I was losing my handle on Stef at one point, but I'm not sure why…  And to all the other people who signed this and Des Chagrins, I love you all, and here is the Middle Bit of this here threeshot.  Thankyou again, it means a lot to me.

"The boldness that dies well always moves men. As soon as Enjolras had folded his arms, accepting the end, the uproar of the conflict ceased in the room, and that chaos hushed into a sort of sepulchral solemnity. It seemed as if the menacing majesty of Enjolras, disarmed and motionless, weighed upon that tumult, and as if, merely by the authority of his tranquil eye, this young man, who alone had no wound, superb, bloody, fascinating, indifferent as if he were invulnerable, compelled that sinister mob to kill him respectfully. His beauty, at that moment, augmented by his dignity, was a resplendence, and, as if he could be no more fatigued than wounded, after the terrible twenty-four hours which had just elapsed, he was fresh and rosy. It was of him perhaps that the witness spoke who said afterwards before the court-martial 'There was one insurgent whom I heard called Apollo.' A National Guard who was aiming at Enjolras, dropped his weapon, saying: 'It seems to me that I am shooting a flower.'…"
Orestes Fasting And Pylades Drunk, Les Miserables, Victor Hugo

Act Two

My pulse is still racing as I yank the door open, not bothering to knock, not wanting to grant him so much as a second in which to prepare some new evasion. "Stef?" I growl into the ill-lit room, moonlight and candle-glow casting huge shadows on the white walls.

He's sitting on the wide windowsill with a candle burning beside him, seemingly fascinated by the twinkling of the Wain beneath the high half-moon. He turns at the sound of my voice, and I see him freeze for a second before that lying little smile settles back over a face which now shows no sign of a sword-cut. "Medren? Are you alright? You're not hurt, are you?"

"Stef -" I bare my teeth at him, half-mad with fury, my shadow looming over his like a hungry dragon. "Will you stop bloody lying to me?"

He laughs nervously. "Medren? I'm sorry, I don't understand -"

He extends his left hand and I grab it, tugging at him furiously in the flood of realisation, ten years of secrets stinging at my mind. I twist his arm around, force his palm open, and I trace the marks on the flesh with fingers that shake in barely repressed rage. Two decades' worth of calluses and scratchmarks and worn-out flesh, warm and quivering in my grip. The one damned thing he can't lie to me about. "You're left-handed, for fuck's sake!"

Moonlight gathers silently on his eyelashes. I snarl in bitter satisfaction. But when he muffles a sob in his hands the anger drains out of me. I fall into a chair, suddenly feeling very, very tired.

I bite my lip, almost physically feeling the dark pangs of guilt in my heart. Why hadn't I seen it? The fixed smiles, the endless assurances, the unbreachable walls of feigned optimism - when had I last known what he was really feeling? When had I last seen anything but those damned masks?

Memories sweep out from the deeper recesses of my mind. I feel my way backward through the stream -

- weeks -

- grief and bitterness, standing over a too-familiar corpse, angry tears dried to dust by the cruel Karsite sun. Stefen beside me, holding me, supporting me -

- months -

- fear and apprehension, packing my bags for a journey not everyone could come home from. Stefen smiling, helping me, calming me -

- years -

- pain and heartache, weeping away another broken love affair, autumn leaves crinkling underfoot. Stefen walking with me, cheering me, healing me -

Oh Stef. When was the last time anyone healed you? When was the last time you let anyone know what you needed?

- relief and confusion, staring at a smile I thought I'd never see again, Stefen running up to me, greeting me, reassuring me -

- but before that -

Gods. I tried, really I did. But you were shattered, ruined, so deeply trapped inside your own sorrow I thought you might never come back. I thought you were dying, ripped apart from the soul outwards, and there was nothing I could do. I thought you were dead for two months and when I saw you, so warm and alive and full of purpose -

- I was so damned happy I forgot to ask if you were really alright.

I never did, did I?

"Stef," I whisper.

He looks at me, face blotched but eyes almost dry, some shade of his usual composure seeping back. Another shutter closing on me. I get up, reach out to him before he can voice whichever brush-off he was planning, and I wrap an arm around his shoulders. He takes a shuddering breath, and relaxes into my hug.

After a while he shrugs me off and slides to the floor. He moves to an armchair by the window, and I return to my seat, facing him. He looks more incredible than ever, with the moonlight reflecting off his dishevelled hair and his green eyes glittering. Otherworldly. Ethereal. For the thousandth time I regret my uncle's untimely demise; they would have looked wonderful together, two angels with shining wings, the gold halo touching the silver one, spirit brushing spirit with the freedom and openness neither had ever shown to anyone but the other.

"Stef." He raises his head. Keeping my tone soft, I ask "What happened back there?"

He leans back in the chair, half-sighing as if unsure whether to welcome my intrusions or to resent them. When he speaks, it's in a low, clear voice, directed at the air, not meeting my eyes but not avoiding them either.

"You know why I do - all this - don't you?" He waves at the floor in a little circular movement. I'm not sure if it's meant to be rhetorical or not, so I just murmur encouragingly. His eyes shift to the window, gazing out at the distant stars. "Him."

He opens his mouth as if to go on, then he pauses in thought. I'm not at all sure where this is heading. The clamour in the downstairs room has stilled to nothing. The rain has gone, leaving the silent moon outside. It's as if there is nothing in the world but this room with its silence and darkness and heavy air.

"You'll think I'm mad -"

I sense him pull back, evasive again. "No, Stef, please - I know what I saw."

Our gazes cross for a second and he sighs. "Well, that was - him."

The candle flickers. I can feel a cold mist of clarity settling in my brain. He stares off into the sky again.

"It wasn't quite like you think it was. He - charged me with it. With doing all the things I do, protecting Valdemar from doubts and false hopes. And when it gets really bad, well…sometimes I find I get - assisted a bit."

"Stef - " I force out. The air seems so thick it's almost cloying, like too much cream in coffee. He looks at me sideways as if he's only just noticed I'm here.

A long, almost sarcastic laugh issues from his lips. "You thought he was dead, didn't you? How could he be? He's the greatest mage who ever lived, how could he be dead while I still live?" My heart almost stops, and I fight the urge to run away. It's not only the revelation, either. I've seen Stef cry and cheer, seen him in happiness, frustration, tranquillity, misery, despair - but I have never known him be so bitter before, not in twenty years.

"You don't really know what I lost, do you?" It's completely chilling. I can feel myself starting to shiver. It's not just the words, or the tone, or the satanic splendour of the moonlit man with his twisted visage - He laughs humourlessly. "Ironic, isn't it? He would have known. No-one else even guessed…"

Ironic; what a hideously irreverent word, that Vanyel who lost love then found it again should leave behind exactly the same wound he bore so heavily for most of his life. Of all the people in the world, why did the gods punish these two?

"It's not just - losing what you have. Damnit, if I'd've just lost everything I had that would be nothing compared to this - " His left-handed sweep takes in everything, the stars, the room, the expression on his face that I could only really describe as utter disgust.

"I lost my future, Medren." I think he's crying again but I can't bear to look any more.

"It was everything I'd ever imagined, all - gone. I was so sure he'd always be there - always - I never once dreamed of life without him." There. The rustle in his throat, stifled, shaking, hissing, he's weeping and I don't want to watch.

"You were there; you know what it was like back then, what it did to all of us. Everyone was so stressed, so tired, always on the move - there was no such thing as 'off-duty'. And he and I had it worse than anyone. Especially him. I just felt like it was, you know, just a matter of time. Just a matter of sticking it out until everything was okay again. And that idea of what it might be like someday was - well, on bad weeks, when I was seeing him for about twenty minutes a day and we were both running on nothing more than desperation and coffee grounds, then the idea of him was almost as important to me as he was himself. More."

I force myself to look at him. He's sitting sideways, knees curled up almost to his chin, silver tears shining like stars on his cheeks. He makes me think of statues, or fine candlesticks, or delicate moths hovering under the moon. "I - always thought - that when it was all over, we'd settle down a bit, get to know each other better - " A broken smile flits across his face. "Find something slightly less like a broom cupboard to live in, maybe - maybe even have children…"

I cast my eyes down, feeling the cold lump in my throat dissipate, running down my nose and falling soundlessly onto the thin carpet. "You…would have been a wonderful father," I murmur. It's not enough, but it's all I can think of to say. I can't deal with this. I don't know how to do the right thing or say the right word to make it all better. You're the one who always does that, you're the one whose shoulder I cry on, who everyone cries on - no-one ever comforts you, you're so strong, so giving, so easy to lean on…gods…

"Well." He sounds suddenly horribly detached. "That left me with nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing to look forward to, no more dreams. Only the horrible emptiness and all the bloody pain -" He breaks off, shaking. I remember that part, only too well. All the endless mindhealing to seemingly no avail, and the times I'd find him just staring at nothing and turning that broken piece of amber over and over in his fingers - When he ceased to confide in me I thought that meant he was healing; I was probably too locked in my own grief to really notice.

"I could just about feel - necessary - until Randi died. After that…everything was hurting, and it seemed I'd outlived my usefulness, so I decided it was time to - balance the equation." Some dark corner of my heart whispers I knew it with sickening inevitability, like the last bolt sliding shut on a mausoleum. My eyes scrunch closed again. His homecoming erased all that despair in a moment, but I still dimly recall those weeks as being the worst I have ever had to live through, when I believed I had lost my two best friends within the space of a few months, damning myself for ever letting Stef out of my sight - and oh, afterwards when he came out with that spiel about 'taking a bit of time to be alone with my thoughts' I'd swallowed it hook, line, and sinker, so damned quick to absolve myself -

He lets out another of those bitter half-laugh half-sighs. "It didn't quite work out like that, obviously." And another. "I sometimes wonder if it wasn't just some rather underhand trick, sending me on an endless quest for my own good - it's his style. Only I really don't think he was lying to me."

The words slowly condense into meaning. "You - you mean you - "

He raises a hand sharply. For the first time since I confronted him he sounds like his usual, competent, in-control self. "I really don't think I'm supposed to discuss that part. He - implied - that it was somewhat off the record. Suffice to say, by the time I got back to Haven I actually had some idea of what I ought to do with my life." A happy memory, sticking out like a rainbow in my mind, Breda's expression after the first time he shouted down the entire Circle, when he was only nineteen and supposedly still suicidally depressed - not something I am ever likely to forget. Mix equal parts surprise, horror and a rather maternal sort of joy -

"It wasn't for quite a long time that I realised he was helping me." The morbidity of the situation brings me back to the present, and my hands start to flex and unflex nervously. Did I imagine the upward glance he just gave to the night sky? "I wondered, sometimes. But when - I don't know -" he shrugs, "when whatever diplomatic stuff I touched just worked out perfectly however bad it looked, or when everyone in the palace caught 'flu except for me, I just used to thank some kindly god for the blessing. Until it started getting too strange."

"The - your face - " I stutter, unsettled to the core by all this.

He smiles, but only with his mouth. "It's hardly the first time. There's not a single mark on my body that wasn't there the day I met him. And I haven't exactly kept myself out of trouble, either." I'm starting to wonder, to calculate, all the tight corners we've ever been in together, the ambushes and war-zones, the storms, the plagues and the crossfire - I put a firm clamp on that line of thought before I have to scream.

He looks straight at me again, eyes full of - something I've never seen before, like he's trying to communicate some fierce, bloody feeling without using words. I drop my gaze, because there is no way I can take that - He finds his voice, unsteady, unguarded, unsettling. "I - I can't tell you what it feels like, when he does…that. It's like - like he pushes me out and takes my place, never for long, but…you can't imagine…" He hisses, as if having trouble breathing. "It hurts. It's not - he'd never hurt me, never, not even now - it's just damned heartache, but - it really hurts, like I'm burning…" Burning. It's all come back to - "It - it's him, damnit! It's too much and it's not enough - he's so bright, it - it sets my soul on fire, and it's not enough…"

How does he catch my eye? I don't know. I never do know, do I? "I just want more. He's there, and he's touching me, running all the way through me, like -" He looks away, gazes intently at gods alone know what, voice dropping to a whisper. "- like he's taking me over…" He trails off. Everything's drained out of me, I can't even feel uncomfortable though I know I ought to - all I can feel is unplaceable, meaningless sadness.

"It's something I can't bear to dream about. His touch. There's nothing, there's never been anything like it - so deep - I can still feel him touching me, days afterward, still burning, all over me -" I find myself staring at a candle-flame, hypnotised. "I feel…possessed. I feel like he's close to me again…and he isn't, he'll never be near me ever again…I can't take it. I can't take it…"

The light flickers in my eyes, backwards and forwards, until all I can see is afterglow. Everything's gone; my earlier contentment seems hollow, my moment of fear pointless, his stream of words…over. It's just over. No questions; I have none, and I don't believe he has answers either. I try to move, to stand, to run away and leave him alone with his sorrow, but I can't. I'm still locked in the weight of the moment, still staring into the flame. Not thinking. There's nothing to…

It wasn't me, or him, that moved first in the end - it was the breeze, curling up to flatten the little light and send shadows curling to the ceiling. It mutes, then bounces back, alive and golden, but the spell has already released me. I try to look at him, as I turn to leave him, but I can't. There's nothing I can do; I'm helpless, useless to him in every way. I - I have to try something, for the sake of our friendship, for the sake of a friend I once knew - "Stef." I make myself look back, see him over the arm of his chair, see the dance of light on his downturned face, without meeting those twisted eyes. "I'm sorry." He doesn't move so much as a millimetre. "I never knew that - that you still hurt so much." Silence. "I didn't mean to get you upset -"

"That's fine." He draws back a little, until I can't make out his expression. "It's not your fault."

And that's…it. I'm locked out again. I swallow down a bitter knot in my throat, and walk towards the door.

His voice, thready, hoarse, barely audible, halts me. "I still love him. Gods help me, I still love him. I'll always love him…"

I turn again, and find him leaning forward, eyes locked around the window, fresh tears streaming down his face. I open the door slowly, spilling excess lamplight into the room, telling myself over and over that there's nothing I can possibly do.

I tread my way down the corridor, mind skimming over the available thoughts, too weak to probe any of them deeply. My own room opens in cold welcome, darker, stiller, emptier, but less cruel than the one I just left; the view from the window is the same starscape. It's not until I take a candle, numbly light it from the lamp just outside, and set it on a sideboard that it strikes me;

There was only one candle in that other room. We must have both been staring at it.

The stars outside catch my eye, and I almost expect to see one of them fall…

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