Trigger Warnings: (mostly applicable for the whole story) Magical influence/intoxication, brief descriptions of fantasy violence, edging ever-so-slightly towards the dub con button, Erik being very... ahem... *focused* on what's his. But also ridiculously besotted. ^_^
Love Like Winter 2/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory (garnettrees)
"My god, Erik!"
The name is like a talisman, banishing any discomfort or concern. Charles' own arms come up around the familiar stranger's neck, resting there like the heavy strands of a medallion chain. Later, he will tell himself this was for balance, and know in his heart that is a lie. It is joy he feels now, complete and unvarnished. Outside the moment, the battle, his fear and uncertainty- outside of time.
(Stories are always vague about time; intricate watch faces without any hands. 'Some years passed', they say, or 'not long after'. Time is fluid, the best amber-grain spirit flowing freely, letting decades and centuries slip through your fingers. It doesn't take into account the day to day living, the hours and moments. The dark watches of the night, when you wake gasping, as if you have outrun the past. Shivering in your bedclothes, you are without context, memory mingling with dream. Then it does catch up with you, knocking you windless again- what you've lost, what you know, and what you'll never know.
The unclaimed bodies and unmarked graves, the line of a life cut by a harpy's sheers.)
The embrace is crushing from both ends, as if they are trying to bridge that chasm. Erik always hugged hard anyway- he claimed Charles' faey blood made the prince flighty and difficult to pin down. Now the young noble feels his own hands lacing behind that strong neck, the curve of skull. The hair is matted and tangled beneath his fingers, but oddly soft all the same.
"Little maus," Erik's voice is a baritone rumble, felt as much as heard. Charles blushes, and is glad the other man cannot see. He presses his burning cheek into the hollow of the warrior's shoulder. In doing so, he catches a whiff of something so utterly loved and essential that he hasn't known until just now how much he's missed it. Cedar, vetiver- the sweet yet utterly masculine scent of his friend. It has mulled, deepened with maturity, gaining a heavy note of copper and the smell of mountain stone.
Reluctantly, Erik sets Charles back on his feet. After a fashion, rather, for he keeps the scholar so close that Charles' bare toes rest on the big armored boots, rather than the actual floor.
"Not so little anymore," Charles argues, but it comes out rather sheepish. Standing at full height, his own gaze is only just level with Lehnsherr's roughly shaven chin. Laughter comes out of his own red mouth- it sounds half-hysterical instead of self-conscious, and it puts the Elf harshly in mind of why. He looks around, as much as he is able to, craning his head to search for circumspect shadows. The identity of his sudden new companion is not in question. This is Erik; he could be no other. His magic is like a snatch of cradlesong, intimately remembered. At the same time, something is not adding up. Why did Charles not sense his old friend earlier, when he was scanning for the teleporter? Sympathetic magics call to one another, especially when bound by affection. Even now, he has a faint sense of Ororo, high in the tower eyrie; Hank, guarding the little ones in the library; Emma flaring bright and fearless on the wall parapets.
Moreover, the demon is still loose in these halls, above the already vulnerable catacombs. He could be waiting to trap them both now, and Charles cannot afford to let the tunnels- so crucial for the final, last-ditch plan he and Hank crafted- be compromised.
"There's a demon in this part of the keep," Charles whispers, well aware of the acoustics, particularly in this tall, abandoned gallery. The receiving chamber of some minor princess, from what he remembers; the histories distinguish her only for being even more blood-thirsty than she was beautiful. "A space shifter," he clarifies.
"Red?" the quirk of Erik's lips is a variation on a well-known theme. Knowing, victorious, and more than a little cock-sure. "I sent him hence."
Charles shakes his head, but he doesn't doubt the older man's prowess. Now that he knows where to 'look', he can feel the immense scope and strength of Erik's manna. It's almost as if it is wrapped in a thin veil of Charles' own power- which doesn't make any sense. It's a kind of communion he's read about only in dusty, faded tomes. Weaving magic together to such a degree is an intimate act, something many mages never experience for themselves. It involves too much vulnerability for the sorcerer, and so the whole matter has gained a connotation of barbarism and impropriety. Even when Charles combines spells with Emma, they are careful to ensure their powers do not mingle and bleed. How did he miss this before?
Erik's hand comes up to cup the prince's cheek. "Charles."
"Yes?" Looking up into those churning-sea eyes, the scholar feels himself relax, body moulding to the hand on the small of his back. The embrace isn't stifling, though it feels very much all-encompassing. Liquid, voluptuous; more than capable of swallowing him whole. A thread of warmth steals up his spine, spreading, as a war-roughened thumb strokes his pulse and jaw. He's suddenly aware of how little sleep he's had these past few days. Of the sound of his own heartbeat, and Erik's calm breathing.
"I came to find you," Lehnsherr murmurs. "You must know I'll protect you."
There's a curious sensation of time doubling. Like a still water-glass, or a gnome's endless puzzle box. Erik's gaze is as it was that day on the road outside the capital- alive with some fire the prince can't quite name.
"I'm perfectly-" the scholar begins, looking around for his quarterstaff. At that moment, Erik pulls him in for another close embrace. Like the glow of a hearth, this strong form- Charles hadn't realized how chilled he was getting. Erik's hands- always long-fingered, as elegant as the blades he crafted- are so big now. Clearly powerful, they are oddly gentle in rubbing soothing, ever diminishing circles on the prince's back.
(As he did, long ago, when the great summer simoons would sweep out of Nod, full of poison sand and raging winds. They were storms without rain, without thunder- only great clouds of dust that descended without warning. In the night, they lashed against the fine stone buildings of Chryse Planitia, which were fashioned from heavy granite so as to endure their timeless attacks. The boys might be playing in Edie's garden in the dim twilight, or sleeping out on the portico in the still, hot night. She would rush in and herd them to the sand-cellar. Charles- so small then, so infinitely glad to be with the Lehnsherrs rather than at home- would listen to the wind shriek, trembling like the limestone doors they pulled shut for protection.
"The wind howls because it will not have victory," Erik would say, just a voice and a smudge of a smile in the dim light of the oil lamp. He would put his arms around the younger boy, let Charles have all the blankets. Often, they'd fall asleep tangled together; the adults would carry them back upstairs when the danger had passed. In his unquiet sleep, the scholar remembers Edie's soft laugh, her playful scolding of Jakob as they emerged from the dark.)
Erik's ministrations have the same effect now, making Charles feel safe and drowsy. The touch is even pleasant on the scarred skin of his shoulder blades, an area that is usually very sensitive and quick to complain. So much of this seems like a dream, like the painful hopes he bore so readily in his youth. He used to imagine Erik would return, brought safely back to the Elvish stronghold by luck or chance. They would overcome adversity and be stronger for it. Like those two little boys in their mirrored story-world, they would live as brothers.
How long has it been since he's truly possessed such belief? Brimming over with it, utterly credulous, singing epic ballads without a hint of irony? No wonder the court preferred Emma's wry, sardonic arias.
From his lips, a word drops, though Charles himself is only half aware of it; "How…?"
"How what?" Distracted, indulgent.
"How did you get here?" the Elf pulls back to examine his friend's expression, but even that slight movement is accompanied by a wave of powerful vertigo. He holds on more tightly, as if afraid of falling. It's hard to keep from burrowing into the safety of dragon-hide and Erik's heartbeat. "I looked for you…" he confides distantly. "Every time refugees came from the conquered lands, any time human armies quartered here." There's something important about that, but he can't quite remember what it is. "Emma mocked me for it, but I never stopped hoping."
"I know, Charles," Erik presses a finger to the scholar's lips. "Well I know it, dear one. You kept me in your thoughts, your wards, your secret wishes for justice instead of revenge." A wry smile, and the younger man can see his own question and confusion reflecting back from those dark pupils. Blacker than the word can express, a deep void in which Lehnsherr seems to have hidden some great secret. He would have to get closer to puzzle it out. "I felt it," his friend continues, "always ever-so faint. Many times there were gaps, absences in which I feared you had forgotten me."
Charles realizes one of his own hands has come up to caress the pendant- the twist of silver a much younger prince gave as a remembrance. It was one of the first true incarnations of his own magic; weaving in the protective spells, the jewel he'd magicked from whole cloth. An imperfect attempt at a star sapphire, he remembers- he's not surprised to see it has since fallen out. The talisman itself is tarnished from years of wear, warm as the skin where it rests against his friend's strong chest.
"It kept me alive," the soldier confides. "Never mind wounds or hunger, but when I would have died from sheer misery alone."
"But I never..." All those years, and Charles felt *nothing*.
"Shaw never knew it." It is clear Erik is speaking more to his own memories. "He thought he'd killed the only person I ever cared about. I had to wait, never reach for you or weave your memory into a spell. I never spoke your name- I guarded it. Sometimes I feared he would read it in my dreams; he was that insidious, that sly. I hid it so deep it burned into my bones." A rueful, almost embarrassed smile plays at his lips. "I had no idea."
Less than a whisper, "Of what?"
"How beautiful you had become."
There probably isn't a being in all the spheres that would understand Charles' surprise at what happens next. In a way, it's hard to credit the bewilderment himself, against the weight of logic. In the moment, however, his shock is genuine. Now he understands what Emma means when she calls him 'painfully naive'. It is painful, like a thousand tiny cuts.
Erik draws Charles close, and kisses him full on the mouth.
It is a soft kiss, for all its fervor- and it is not the kiss of a brother or a friend. The soldier holds his young captive with all the care given to the finest crystal chalice, but with a coiled passion that forces the Elf prince to simply hold on. Charles' own lips remain closed, muffling his faint sound of surprise. The taller mage laps at them, but not to force entry. Rather, it is as if he is sipping, tasting the lithe form he has so tenderly imprisoned. Whatever flavor he finds must please him. A deep rumble echoes in the warrior's chest, the growl of a giant rock cat in the Forbidden Mountains. The pleasure of it sings through Charles, makes his own bones quaver.
"Charles." The name is murmured, almost a nonsense chant. The scholar is not sure how Erik manages to speak; there's barely a breath between their lips. He doesn't push away, though. How could he? This is Erik! The boy who once minded a wee, curious Elf with unsteady legs and tiny, almost useless wings. The same Erik who tenderly bandaged scrapes, and then- as they grew older and more prone to scuffles- was the source of quite a few of them himself. Erik, who at eight skinned a rabbit utterly without flinching, but cried when he saw the tears on Charles' cheeks.
(When they fight, it's Edie who patches Charles up. Erik, she sends into the other room, with the supplies he'll need and a stern glance. She checks his work afterwards, tender of touch and strident of voice. She has words with him about his temper.
"Do not spend the Prince's affections so lightly," she says with a firm shake of the finger. "You might wear them out."
But she must know this isn't possible- she sees how watery and deep Charles' eyes are, after the angry words childish blows are over. She reminds the young prince that even trees feel pain as they grow, branches poking out at odd angles. Erik is all new, green wood and thorny brambles- he's bound to scratch anyone who gets too close.
"And I remember, when you were only a babe," she'd whisper, a conspirator's smile playing about her lips. "I feared you'd never learn to walk, he carried you about so. I'd swear your little feet never touched the ground.")
'The bitter makes it sweet', is actually one of his own mother's phrases. Charles has never been much for Lady Sharon's little pearls of advice, but he sees the sense of this one now. Knowing he was important enough to fight with, to seek later for forgiveness, meant almost as much as each grudgingly tender caress.
Erik is all sweet touches now, bright and torpid, the way it must feel for the fly trapped in amber. No longer a million jostling ripples- come closer, no you must go, please stay- contradicting each other, but a single smooth wave that effortlessly lifts Charles away. Endlessly soothing, and the prince is so very weary. Weary of worrying, of scrambling, of being afraid. It feels good to be held so, to once more be Erik's 'little maus'.
What saves him next has nothing to do with wisdom or skill, feeling or instinct- it is merely the caprice of fate. A lucky break, as it were; fortuitous, but also painful. Like the snapping of bone. The floor rocks beneath the prince's feet (rather, the armored boots he's perched upon). Erik pulls him flush, leaving both of them against the wall. He shields Charles between the tall column and his own hard, warrior's body, never breaking the kiss.
Xavier can hear debris falling, a cacophony of echoes in the endless halls. Those horrible rage-magic cannons aren't just hitting against the shields any more, but the actual brick and mortar and sheer cliff-face of Acidalium itself. For the first time in a dozen centuries, the wards have fallen.
The moment snaps back into focus then, with all its peril and immediacy. He tears out of the kiss, clearing startling Erik. The taller man barely relaxes his grip, but it's enough for Charles- ever adept at lock-picking spells and sleights of hand- to deftly duck under his arm. Never the less, a strong and deadly hand quickly fastens itself about his wrist, like a bowman's gauntlet.
Or a manacle.
"Erik!" Charles scolds impatiently. He tugs the other man, not so much to escape as to tow the other along with him back towards the main of the keep. "There's no time! Ororo is in the eyrie, and the other children-"
"Children?" the soldier asks flatly, stopping firm.
"My students." An absent clarification- he is already mentally reviewing the plans he and Hank made, hoping against hope, for that final unimaginable scenario of defeat.
"Students," Erik murmurs. "Yes, of course." But he does not move, nor does he seem willing to let Charles loose.
"If the wards are down, it's all but finished," the Elf prince mourns. "But I can get the children out before they take the inner keep entire." Getting out, of course, is nothing compared to finding a place to _go_. When Acidalium is lost, the Elvish Kingdom will be, too. This is the last of the ancient holdings, from a house long out of favor. It possessed as recommendation only its defensibility, and it's extreme location to the south. It's at least a week's march from the now-lost castle at Phlegra. No one had ever dreamed that any sorcerer- even one as powerful as the Dark Lord- would dare the wrath of the Elder gods and take the direct route _through_ the Plateau of Leng. There is no one to seek shelter from, for- thanks to Kurt's high-handed politicking- there are none willing to offer it.
He's leaning into Erik, into the strength of marrow and bone. Distantly, as if speaking for someone else, he frets, "If only the humans..."
The realization is like a dart of poison in his heart, and it sets his blood to pound. Horror and disbelief, the implacable logic of it all, all sweep through him like another wave of dizziness. There are no humans here- not for the sake of the Elves, that's for certain. The Dark Lord's army has many halflings, bred with humans and otherwise; nereids with webbed toes instead of tails, dragon-lets whose scales have a fleshier tone. That he has not thought of this sooner alarms and shames him, even as he presses himself into his old friend's warmth. _That_ little element finally registers with his cognitive processes, as well. He can feel just how much damage the incantation has done by how quickly he wants to dismiss the very idea. What Charles feels, first and foremost, is the lack of expression on his own face. Lady Sharon's training coming to the fore in times of stress, just as she intended it, though she doubtless imagined more subtle court intrigues. She told him to think of it as a mask, molten silver- the poise of an idolator's sculpture, reflecting back what the watcher wanted to see. By now, it's habit, and it is probably what gives him away.
Erik sees the change, and he is one of the few who could not be fooled. "'Had been' what, my dear?" he asks, eyes narrowing to the color of arctic ice.
The prince breathes out slowly, through his nose. His quarterstaff lies on the smooth tile past Erik's shoulder. The moment Charles' gaze flickers towards it, the other mage sets out his own hand. Lehnsherr's elemental affinity for metal easily overwhelms Charles' enchantment-call on his own possession. The adamantium grip fits neatly in the solider's fist, for his other hand is still fastened about Charles' wrist.
"If they had been willing to stand with us," the scholar finishes. He keeps his voice light, academic. As if he has not just drawn the lines of battle into clear demarkation. No human- king or, or prophet, or minister- had been willing to pledge troops. Kurt had alienated them all long ago. Everyone had heard the rumors; the Dark Lord's burning desire for the treasure in Acidalium. Doubtless the humans had not felt they had much to gain in sticking their necks out for the prideful Elves. Especially since their defeat might actually sate the Dark Lord's thirst for victory.
"Indeed, they are as much slaves to 'purity' and propriety as the Elves are," Erik rumbles smoothly. Slowly, rhythmically, his thumb caresses the articulation of his prisoner's wrist. Knowing a thrall is being attempted only helps Charles so much. There is still a firm and powerful desire to adhere to the other man's inertia, melt into that warm embrace.
"Is Shaw not a slave to purity, in starting all of this?" he returns hotly. It's no use pretending, now. How his old friend had loathed that false face, and all the delicate courtesan's manners Charles had acquired with it.
"Shaw was a megalomaniacal fool," the soldier says dismissively. "He thought he could breed a god-body, a perfect vessel to tempt the Elder gods. As if anything in this sphere is pure enough for the task."
Once again, Acidalium's foundations shudder, as if she is at sea. Charles maintains his footing, angling his body away from his old friend's. He sees, briefly, a shark's smile flicker on Erik's face. Well he knows that expression, pleased and calculating. He saw a variation of it often enough when they were adolescents- particularly that day at the fountain, when Erik pushed him in.
"Here," Erik says gently, holding out the quarterstaff. "If the walls have been breached, would you not have your weapon?"
Charles makes no move to take it, though a part of him longs to. He _must_ be wrong, there must be some sort of explanation. Faith and logic war in a way he is no longer accustomed to. Suspecting other's motives is a way of life in the Court; the only person he trusts completely is Hank, whose love of obscure lore has banished the desire for power. Emma is his friend, yes, but she is quick to jab at any exposed weakness. He's never figured out if she thinks she's making him stronger, or if she genuinely enjoys tormenting him. He certainly wouldn't want to put that theory to the test. His searches Erik's face frantically, waiting for some minor variable to change- turn a conquerer back into a savior, instead.
"You _know_ there's no treasure here!" Charles tries instead. That there's no confusion on the other's face sets his heart to breaking again. It's like having bits of glass rubbed into flesh. "Why would you let Shaw come this far, take this many lives, if you could stop it with a word?"
"Shaw is dead." The words are cool, almost clinical in their detachment- but oh, that smile! Like a wolf remembering a particularly juicy kill. "I stabbed him, and pushed him into a pit of ravenous fiends. He was still screaming when they began feasting on his heart."
Charles looks down, as if he can't quite absorb the revelation. In a way, that's true- but it will have to wait for later. Right now, he is looking at the endless tile floor, the moon-and-sun mosaic of the forgotten princess' court. There aren't any vases, any wall scones with decorative weapons or statuary- nothing he can use in lieu of his staff. Face lowered, he glances up in quick, frantic bursts. A long handful of heartbeats, and he has almost given up, when he notices the elaborate sun embossed on the wall opposite. To it's left are the three sister-stars that once heralded a time of living sacrifice, for even the Elves were barbarians long ago.
"Charles, look at me." It's almost a croon, and the prince cannot even make a pretense of resistance. Those ever-changeable eyes have the nerve to look earnest, pleading, as they circle one another. Both of them cagey, waiting for the other to make a false move, and entirely too familiar to fall for a bluff. Erik holds out the staff again. "Take it," he encourages, "we'll find your students. Defend them, if we must."
"To what end?" the scholar asks faintly. Now their positions are almost reversed- his own back is to the wall the with sun mural. Carefully, he steps backwards with bare feet; Erik cannot quite hide the quirk of his smile, a perception of victory. "Am I to trust them with someone who'd cast a geis on an old friend? A _thrall_, of all the tainted things!?"
"To make it easier on you," that deep voice soothes. The warrior moves one hand in what would be a caress, if he were close enough to Charles. Soon, he will be- a the prince's skin already feels sensitized, waiting for the touch. "I knew you would defend your people to the last, no matter how they've treated you."
"It's not _me_ I'm worried about!" And there it is, baseboard against the back of his ankles, a few artfully swirled 'rays' of light digging into his back. In a burst of anger so fresh and raw it takes the scholar himself by surprise. "You were my _friend_!"
"Am," Erik purrs, closing in. One hand goes to Charles' shoulder, warm and alive like a brand of holy fire, even through the silk of his robes. Lehnsherr tosses the quarterstaff away with the other, reaching instead to cup the prince's cheek. "Aye, and after all these years I could scarce have imagined a better reunion- you, rushing into my arms." His smile is tender, longing. "I am your friend, Charles."
"_Indeed_." Normally he dislikes sarcasm- the sound of it in his own voice is too much like Sharon's hauteur. What else is there, in this case? Short and banal, back to school-yard taunts. "I'm sure you'll have nothing but my welfare in mind when your Dark Lord attempts to press me into his service. Mages often die, when unwillingly bound."
Erik _laughs_; honest, boyishly pleased. It's like a teardrop in an already full glass of lunacy- the final pebble whose weight begins the avalanche. Everything Charles knows is burning; it will be soot and ash, unrecognizably and irreversibly changed. He's almost ready to set on the warrior with his well-kept nails alone, he's so hopelessly angry. It's clear Lehnsherr sees this, for he calms himself quickly.
"I'm not laughing at you, dear." The solider shakes his head, another chuckle escaping. Charles shrinks back against the wall, perhaps a bit theatrically, and manages to get one hand behind his back.
'Oh, nameless princess,' he prays, watching the firm line of Erik's mouth with fascination. 'Have the proclivities of your ancestors. Be as blood-thirsty as they all say you were.' There it is, under his hand- the center star can be pressed inward, unlocking the mechanism beneath.
"It's just," Lehnsherr continues, darting forward just a bit, incongruously kissing the tip of his friend's nose. The scent of cedar is hypnotic, deeply soothing. That coppery baritone is the only thing Charles can hear, even over his own heartbeat. It seems to weave itself in his mind, pulsing with warmth; a depth of feeling that is not entirely new. Unconsciously, Charles' own face tilts up, lips parting as if aching receive. Erik's words are almost a little warm puff of air; "I've missed your confidence, your faith."
"You see, Charles... I _am_ the Dark Lord."
Notes/Glossary:
Phlegra- the plain where Zeus struck down the giants for final victory.
Acidalium- from Greek mythology. The fountain where Venus and the Graces bathed.
Leng- from Lovecraft. A terrible continent lost in the Flood.
Chryse Planitia- Greek, 'golden plain'. Also an area on Mars, to the north, where one of the Viking landers took photos.