8. Mourning
Spoilers: 1-6
A/N: Slashing. Pardon my unparalleled love of Kurda and Gavner as a couple – even if my love translates into making them suffer all the more callously. If you ignore the implications, you don't have to read this as slash. Really, you don't.
But it's a mountain. Full of males. Without (or, rather, with few) women.
Men aren't as picky as they seem. Consider the ramifications of this drastically masculine population. Then get back to me with an opinion.
Ciao! 3
A sudden deadness squeezes tightly at Smalht's silent heart, and for a moment he forgets to breathe, a previously warm, glowing hue reduced to nothing more than the bleak pallor of early snow. He watches as the shadows – pursuing the angry frightened boy – disappear from the walls, and the echoes of footsteps leave him in loneliness. Kurda can only hope they will have mercy, even now as the damnable slowness of his thoughts eats away at the sensations he knows he should be feeling – regret and remorse and anguish. The strongest of words – the most fluent of history's greatest poets - could never describe the absolute desolation building at the back of the mind of the traitor.
His eyes cannot seem to focus on the wrecked marionette of a man lying broken on the ground, and they can only barely follow the contours of the limp arms, and the edges of the sluggishly flowing stain seeping out and across the sandstone floor. (In the back of his mind, something cold and emotionless makes a mental note about cleaning this up before the vampires have a chance to send out a search party.) There is a certain grace about him in death that Smalht has never seen before. The pose into which the body has fallen is almost too tragic, the arch of his broad back and commanding arms against the rough wall too perfect to be true. The arms are spread wide and welcoming, and Kurda almost – almost, but not quite – smiles, knowing quite well that either way he will join his fallen friend in the thereafter very soon indeed.
A ragged breath snags on his teeth as he catches the ghost of a vacant, lifeless profile in his gaze. His eyes snap closed, strengthening his resolve; he owes Gavner this much, at least. Still sightless, he reaches out a hand, guiding himself over to the empty shell – the thing that was once both his closest friend and his lover. He ignores the blood that seeps into the rough canvas of his trousers when he kneels next to it, and the universal wrongness of the cooling flesh he touches, fingers carefully avoiding the seeping laceration that had ended Gavner only moments ago.
The dagger lies discarded on the other side of the cavern, the blade still dark with spilled blood. Words that hold a double meaning, for both the murderer and the victim, grace the air via a delicate tongue: Et tu, brute?
It is both an apology and an accusation.
A warm, soothing breath [in – hold - and out] steadies his nerves and his hand wanders up a quiet arm towards the face. He feels the rough, strong features and the marred, scarred flesh, twisting locks of soft hair between his delicate fingers. It feels so safe and familiar; he almost forgets that he will never observe the warmth and life so inherent to the life of the man lying before him. A shudder rakes through him and his stubborn resolve triples. A hand grips the heavy chin and the other guides the still face, bringing them cheek-to-cheek, and bringing life to cavort with death at a less than comfortable distance. Tired cobalt eyes open, registering the dreadful stillness of the deep chocolate ones he was once so familiar with. It breaks something inside of him and he feels his own eyes begin to burn – so he closes them, and buries his face in the crook between the neck and shoulder, smelling blood and stone and the familiar smell that had always defined Gavner when he was alive (something like sweat and cigar smoke, but so much sweeter). His arms wrap around the breathless chest and hug him tight, almost expecting a heavier, stronger pair to follow suit. Deep inside, he knows very well that they will not.
Time seems to loose meaning, and before long he cannot recall exactly how long he has been clinging to the corpse. The rising prince is determined - albeit reluctant - to leave the dead man alone in the darkness of the cave (Gavner never was too partial towards the dark, and all the obscurity that came with it.) but knows very well that it must be done. Plans must be revised, supplies gathered, units of vampaneze organized, and – most important of all – Darren had to be located and addressed sensibly. There is hope for the boy, even if there hadn't been for Gavner.
Kurda pulls away from the dark corner and rubs at an eye, his legs resistant after spending so long crouching in the dark and the cold. Strands of golden hair cascade over his eyes like little rivers of molten wheaten-gold, and – for a moment - he contemplates shaving his head in mourning for his lost love, as did the Egyptians such a very long time ago. In the end, he reaches the conclusion that it would be meaningless; after all, retribution will reach him, and the sacrifice of his honor and his heart will be so much more fitting in the end.
A final glance at the still form and he turns to go,
but not before raises a hand to Gavner's chin and places a chaste kiss on the dead general's forehead.