Keeper of Mine

by Sochineya

For a sin'dorei noble's free-spirited and mischievous son, being confined to the family estate and saddled with a nanny in the form of a troll warrior recently returned from Northrend is irking enough; a number of disappearances, strange occurrences, and a spate of violent deaths only exacerbate the situation. m/m

2. Chapter 2

I'm not super content with this, but the more I sit on it, the more problems I have with it, and it's already so fucking long…
Thank you for the reviews so far! I'm trying to be more detailed, but… I feel like I pick really pointless things to describe.

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It had been three weeks. Three weeks of unrelenting ennui. Three weeks of playing games of Death's Draw and Four Seasons and Rich Man, Poor Man until his father's deck of cards had worn edges and fading ink and two missing aces. Three weeks of musty library visits and viewing the garden. Three weeks of failed attempts to lure more of Kinzal's history out of him.

Three weeks of waiting for a chance to slip out of the grasp of his keeper and his family and this whole way of life.

He had always been less than fond of the family house. Or perhaps not always.

After his first visit to the home of a common elf, certainly. It was the butcher's son, if he remembered correctly. His first partner in crime, his first sparring partner, his first friend, as brief as their acquaintance was- he'd been killed years ago in the invasion, and his family with him, as so many did. But before all that, he and his family had welcomed the spur-of-the-moment visit from the noble's son, hastily clearing off tables and arranging the seating for him.

They'd been more gracious than any wellborn family he had ever been hosted by, the house lively with the sound of their three young children and imbued with a warmth that he had never noticed was missing in his own. Returning home after that evening had been a clarifying moment, one more step along the path to where he was now, an unwilling occupant of a home that forever seemed too large for the four of them to ever wind up in the same room.

The halls had always seemed larger, after that, the rooms colder, even when the hearths blazed. He knew it was not literal warmth they lacked, in the same way that a small part of him knew that it was not the house itself he had quarrel with.

But it was easier to direct his anger at these unforgiving walls, these dreary rooms- most of all against the library that always smelled of old tea and even older paper.

"How can you stand to sit there and read that?" He had to ask. It was eating at him. He scrutinized the blue-skinned troll that he had become so frustratingly familiar with as he read on, apparently continuing on to the bottom of the page before addressing the question.

"'S interesting," Kinzal replied with a shrug, one large finger keeping track of his place within the thick tome on Dwarven casting techniques. "How people figured out dis stuff. An' ya got all dis history, all dese words, righ' here at ya fingertips." His mouth quirked to the side, lip curling back from his right tusk. "Darkspear ain' got books, really. We got stories, yeah, lotta stories. Witch doctahs an' lore keepers who pass down da tings we know. But pretty much all da books got left behind on da isles, lost, and ain' no one had time ta write anyting new down."

Strell watched the troll run his fingertips down the spine of the musty old tome, the gesture almost fond. "I happen to prefer stories. Books… it's like conversing with the dead," he said with a disgusted wrinkle of his nose. "There's no interaction there, no feeling. Just some… remains of someone. A little shred of their knowledge, nothing more. And it's almost invariably insufferably dry."

"Some topics are gonna be borin' whether they on paper or an elder's tongue," Kinzal scoffed. "Get boxed on da ears one too many times for askin' da doctah ta repeat sometin', and you'll be comin' ta appreciate dese tings," he said with an assured cock of his head, the book cradled against his chest.

"Have some harpy of a governess push your nose into the grease stained pages penned by some balding old priest for four hours each day for the better part of your life and you might be soured on them," the elf replied tonelessly, recalling their extensive studies on the philosophies of the light as explained by Platinus Lightward. Torril had, of course, eaten it all right up. Strell had gotten thumped on the side of his head for fluidly inserting dirty words into his recitations of famous passages.

"Well," the warrior sighed, looking mildly sympathetic. "I ain' really one for da light an' all dat. But I ain' really one for dwarves, either," he said with a little sneer, "an' dis is still a good read. We could probably make some of dis stuff, actually," he commented.

"Make stuff? What stuff?" the elf asked as he sat up in his seat.

The troll cracked the book open and peered at it again. "Da bowls look easy. But technically, I tink ya could make just about anyting dat ya can carve into da mold. Statues. Plates? I dunno. Anyting."

"Could we do that? Could we make something? Do something? Like, with our hands?" he asked eagerly, holding his two hands out before him and looking down at them hopefully.

"I gotta make sure we got da stuff we'll be needin'," Kinzal explained, one thick finger tapping against the cover of the book as he thought. "But yeah, sure. I'll tell ya madda an' fadda it be for educational purposes."

"Then let's go," the elf said immediately, his book falling from his lap and thumping to the floor in his eagerness to flee the stuffy library.

It had taken longer than Strell had anticipated to prepare for their crafting session, and it was educational, to his surprise. He had mostly just watched as Kinzal read out measurements from the book and poured a number of different substances into the mixer filled with sand in order to make it stable for their use, but he took note of the minerals and the technique. By the end, the sandy mix was black and dense and held its form easily, as though it was damp.

The elf grinned as he grabbed a handful and squeezed; when he unfolded his hand, a tightly packed ball of blackened sand remained. "How remarkable," he commented as he casually tossed it up in the air.

Strell casually pelted the troll with balled up sand as he worked to make the molds for their bowls, his large blue hands turning a mottled midnight blue from the wrists down. Kinzal grumbled and snapped warnings about hurtling the packed sand at his little elf head, all of which the rogue ignored- until a mass of black sand the size of a hawkstrider's egg went whizzing past his ear.

He'd made a truce then, and he'd settled on the sand-flecked grass beside the troll to watch him finish carefully sculpting and smoothing the two halves of each of their molds.

"Now, what we wanna do is carve da designs for da outside of da bowl here, and for da inside on here," the troll explained, still fruitlessly trying to dig sand out of his ears with his oversized fingers. He paused for a moment to tip his head to the side and shake it. "Den we'll stick 'em togetha and pour in da iron- or bronze or whateva- and we be done."

Strell twisted up his long, dark locks and shrugged. "Sounds easy enough. So, what are you going to draw on yours?" he asked as he pulled his mold onto his lap.

"Oh." The warrior sat dumbly for a moment. He set down his mold of pressed sand and eased back, abandoning his crouch for a cross-legged seat on the springy grass. "I dunno. What are you gonna draw?"

The rogue braced himself and leaned back, staring up into the blue, cloud-streaked sky. "It's a lot to choose from, isn't it?" He whistled softly as he watched the thin wisps of white slowly stretch and turn. He thought back to the royal sculptors and renowned artists they had studied as children, picturing the blossoming trees spun from gold and carved dragonhawks that stood stories high. But learning of art was much different than actually doing it, and they had been taught nothing of how to create it.

"What did you decide to do?" the elf asked after another few minutes had passed and the warrior was etching at the sand with a look of deep concentration. Strell's pale lips curved as an idea suddenly came to him. He angled his mold up so that his watcher could not yet see his own endeavor.

The troll held up the concave form of his mold and Strell squinted, wondering if maybe he was seeing it upside down. "It's a rapta," the troll supplied after a few seconds of silence. "Dat's da tail, and dere's de- ya know, nevamind," he sighed, quickly wiping away the scribbled reptile with the heel of his hand. "What abou' you?"

The rogue finished one last curve and then held his up proudly. In his sand, he had etched a crudely drawn penis. "What do you think? The centerpiece for Pilgrim's Bounty? Or perhaps Winter's Veil… oh, who am I kidding? Both."

"Oh, mon, I wouldn' display dat," the troll said with a cluck of his tongue. He grinned as he hurriedly drew something into his own sand, all long, smooth strokes. "Not next to dis one, at least. It'd jus' make all da elf guests feel inferior." He held up his mold, in which an even longer and girthier prick had been carved with an attention to detail that actually impressed the elf.

Enough detail that he had a sneaking suspicion that Kinzal had based it on his own. "That's not a faithful reproduction, I hope," Strell said flatly, refusing to believe it could be anything but an exaggeration. "You'd put someone's eye out with that thing."

Kinzal just laughed, the low sound simultaneously pleasing the elf and grating on his nerves. "But really, ya gotta smooth dat down and start over. I tink ya madda would question my influence on ya."

"As she should, you scoundrel," the rogue said with a devious wink. "I'm beginning to question it myself. Piquing my interest in trollish nethers like that?" He arched a slender brow. "You're clearly out to corrupt my virtue."

The warrior barked out a laugh at that. "Virtue? Ya be about as virtuous as Ah'tusa."

"Ah'tusa?" Strell asked, his brows drawn together in confusion.

"From Forbidden Love, da romance nov- nevermind," the troll said quickly, clearing his throat.

"Oh? Now I see why you want to spend all of our time in the library," the elf said playfully, smiling through the dark hair that the sudden wind had cast across his face. He glanced up briefly, noting how supplely the troll's fan of hair bent with the breeze, not at all rigid and unyielding as he had imagined it might be.

"No, dat's not-"

"You'll find my father has none of that tripe, filled with scantily clad women with heaving bosoms and well endowed knights in compromising positions," he said with an indignant sniff. "I would know, I have checked…"

"Dem books'd turn up sometimes out questin'," Kinzal explained, his cheeks and long ears tinged dark with a blush. "It'd help pass da time."

"Oh, I'll bet they were very helpful," the rogue said with a scandalous waggle of his eyebrows, "with 'passing the time'. Is that what they call it up in Northrend?" he tutted.

The troll groaned and redoubled his efforts at scratching a drawing into the sand, this time a simple pattern of leaves and what appeared to be tribal markings and symbols.

"Is that Darkspear stuff?" the elf asked as he leaned over to get a better look at the warrior's creation, gesturing at the decoration. Intricate lines and zigzags were beginning to curve around the bowl-shaped indention in the sand, all with a steady hand and not the least bit crooked.

Kinzal nodded and blew away some loose sand. "Is dat some elf stuff?" he returned, peering over at the fine swirls and knots that laced the rogue's mold. "S'real pretty lookin'."

"Indeed it is," Strell replied. "But I'm going to hide a prick in it somewhere," he said matter-of-factly, earning a low, rumbling chuckle from the troll.

Once they had both reached a point where they were content with their designs, the troll carefully crated their sand molds and promised to take them to a forge to be poured with iron as soon as it was possible.

"What now?" the elf asked as he dusted black sand from his hands. His pale cream shirt and plain leather pants were stained from the black sand, and he didn't doubt that his face was streaked with it as well.

"Well, we already pretty dirty," Kinzal muttered, peering down at his black-flecked clothing and skin. "So I was tinkin' we'd try fishin' again."

"No," Strell groaned, leaning against a wall sullenly. "Not again."

"Not… dat kinda fishin'," the warrior said slowly as he turned on his heel.

He refused to say anything more on the subject, and Strell, tantalized by both the mystery and the hope that it could be entertaining for a few hours, followed at his heel. He paid no mind to the golden trees and their brilliant, autumnal leaves; they were the same trees as all of Eversong had, and even beauty grew bland when it was all there was to be seen.

He did watch Kinzal, though, who kept turning his head to scan each one from trunk to treetop, as if no two were interchangeable. Strell found himself half wishing he could see the forest through the troll's eyes, to know how it was that he drew such fascination from the things that were like background noise to him.

When they reached the same pond as before, the elf frowned and crossed his arms as he looked expectantly to the troll. "I thought this place had no fish."

"Oh, it does," Kinzal muttered as he bent to roll up his pant legs. "Dey just hidin'. Fishin' line ain' gonna get 'em out."

"So?"

"We go in afta 'em." The troll gave him a toothy grin as he waded out into the pond.

"And how exactly do you catch them?" the rogue asked as he bounded in after the warrior, his excessive splashing earning him a long suffering sigh from his keeper.

"Ya feel aroun' for holes wit ya feet," he explained as he swept his foot along the floor, "an' when ya find one, ya reach in an' grab da fish. Or snake. Or whateva's in dere, really."

"That sounds like a good way to lose a finger or two," the elf muttered, standing waist deep in the murky water with little intention of blindly sticking his limbs down holes.

"Eh, what's one finger or toe gonna hurt? Oh, wait... elves don' grow dem back, do dey?" the troll asked with a grimace.

Strell shook his head. "No, we do not. Else Eight-Toe Terval might not have wound up with such an unfortunate nickname," he said with a little shrug. "So, have you ever lost a finger or toe doing this?"

"Yeah. Well, not doin' dis," Kinzal amended. "But yeah. I was still shovin' a cannonball into da barrel when dey set it off… I like ta tink dat a little bit of me helped take out dem felguards," he said with a brief laugh. "See?"

He held up his right hand and wriggled the second finger. Strell stepped closer to compare it to the others. "It looks a little bigger," he noted. "And half a shade darker."

"Yeah, dey say dat's what happens."

"Does it happen with every body part that a troll loses?" the elf asked lasciviously.

"Dat's what dey say," Kinzal intoned, giving him a knowing grin, "but I never been brave enough ta test it on anyting real important," he added in a mumble. "An' I don' know anyone dat has."

Strell nodded, standing waist-deep in the cloudy brown water, his arms crossed as he frowned at his murky reflection. "Let me know when you feel a bite."

The warrior grumbled a response, stooped to his shoulders in pondwater as he skimmed the bottom. "Ya support is real heartenin'."

The elf rolled his eyes and began sliding his booted feet through the mud, feeling like an idiot. He had no doubt that he looked the part as well, but considering that only Kinzal was here to bear witness, he only minded a little.

After a few minutes of shuffling through the muck, Strell decided that he wasn't all that interested in becoming known as Seven-Toe Strell or something equally abominable and ceased his searching. As he watched Kinzal still steadfastly checking the muddy nooks and crannies of the pond an idea for a different sort of entertainment came to him.

As silently as possible, he slid closer to the troll. The troll was still focused on his fish hunt, his strong back tense as he hunched to check the muddy pits along the side of the pond- and completely oblivious as the elf eased behind him.

"I just felt something move past me," Strell said with a short gasp, going rigidly still with his arms hoisted above the water. As Kinzal turned toward him, the elf balanced on one leg, extended the other, and let his toe brush against the warrior.

The troll stilled, then tried to peer into the muddy depths around them. "Didn' feel like no fish ta me," he murmured, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"There it was again," the elf said quickly, a grin splitting his lips despite himself. This time, he ran his soggy, boot covered foot up Kinzal's leg, a real gasp escaping him as he bumped into something that was unmistakably a rather sensitive part of the troll's anatomy.

"Caught it," Kinzal said flatly, the look in his eyes equal parts amused and triumphant.

Strell felt the hand around his ankle at the same time as he felt his balance pulled out from under him and water rushing about his ears.

He coughed and sputtered as he bobbed back to the surface, flipping back his long locks that had turned an even darker shade from the muddied water and wiping the unpleasant smelling water from his eyes. "You didn't have to do that," he said hotly.

"Ya madda an' fadda made it real clear dat if ya was ta try an' get frisky, I'm ta shut ya down," the troll said with a shrug. "I figure a little water gonna cool ya head-"

"I wasn't- that's not," the rogue spat, splashing the water around him in frustration. "I wasn't trying to seduce you, for Light's sake. You… thrice-damned troll," he breathed as he waded closer to shore. "Your ego is out of control-"

Kinzal barked out a laugh and resumed his slow search of the waters. "Well, if dat ain' the raven callin' da crow black."

"As if I'd seriously consider fucking a troll. I have standards," Strell insisted, his glare murderous as he wrung out his hair.

The troll paused briefly in his fishing through the mud, his hunched back facing the rogue. "Ah. Alrigh'."

The elf sobered slightly, his anger falling to a simmer. "Not… I don't mean…"He stopped, not quite certain of what he meant. Kinzal was undesirable in many respects; but then, the same was said of Strell's favored friends and acquaintances, and even of himself. "I fear my skill with throwing daggers will never quite measure up to my ability to sling verbal barbs at a moment's notice," he said quietly from the bank.

Kinzal sighed and rose up out of the water, apparently abandoning his fish hunt.

Dark water ran down him in rivulets, tracing the outlines of pronounced muscles through his soaked clothing; it drew the elf's eye to the stretch of glistening blue skin exposed at his hips, where drops clung to the trail of dark red-orange hair below his navel. Despite his earlier words, Strell found he had to tear his gaze from the troll and force it to rest on the nearest pale-gold barked tree.

"'S okay, Master Dayborne," Kinzal said from nearby. "'S for da best if ya do feel dat way. I'd be out on my ass if ya madda so much as thought ya saw me like dat. My fault anyway. Shouldn' have said dat. Shouldn' have done dat," the warrior said with a despondent look at his soaking wet ward. "Ain'… professional. I just- I be gettin' too familiar wit ya. My apologies, ser."

"Please," Strell said with a soft groan, his slender brows upturned in a sincere plea, "don't be professional. Be familiar. Just don't dunk me under that filthy water again. I much prefer you teasing me back, even if I am an ass about it." He pinched the bridge of his nose as they began a slow walk back to the house. "It's not you-"

"Uh huh," Kinzal grunted from beside him.

"It's not," the elf insisted. "It's them. I'm sorry. I just get so nettled when they… assume these things about me," he muttered. "That they told you to expect that of me. That they even think about me like that," he said with a shudder. "Like I'm so desperate that when I'm cut off from everyone else I'll turn on you simply because you're here. They hired a non-elf specifically to prevent that, but apparently that wasn't even enough reassurance for them."

Strell couldn't help but quietly think that his parents were right to worry, given how he'd eyed the soaked troll a few moments before, but he dismissed the thought.

Kinzal made a quiet humming sound.

"I have no interest in proving them right," the elf added as they rounded one of the stout trees at the edge of the wood, where the grass grew short and springy and the hills were dotted with artfully maintained topiaries.

"I got no interest in losin' my job," the troll replied with a shrug as they passed the pavilion that sat ringed by golden-leafed trees.

"Good," Strell said, nodding. "Good."

The proceeded in silence the rest of the way, both of them ignoring the stares of the other servants as they crossed the grounds and wove their way through the house. By then they were merely damp rather than dripping, but the elf noticed they had both left a trail of grime behind them on the pale marble and gleaming wooden floors.

"Are you to lock me in?" Strell asked when they reached the landing before his bedroom.

"Just until dinner," the warrior said apologetically. "I gotta go clean up, though, an' ya best do da same," he said as he pulled out the chain and the key that dangled from it. "I know ya havin' a family dinner tonight, so I'll be by when ya finished ta lock ya in for da night."

"We can't do anything this evening?" the elf asked, biting his lip.

"I get one night off a week, Ser Dayborne," Kinzal said heavily. "I-"

"Yes," Strell interrupted, leaning against the doorframe. "Yes, I know. Just me being your selfish ward, as usual."

The troll gave him a lopsided smile, his face still streaked with dirt and mud. "If it's any consolation to ya, I'll be spendin' it payin' bills."

The rogue frowned. "Don't do that. You can do boring shit like that when you're watching me," he said with a shrug. "Go find one of the stable hands and have a roll in the hay. Do something fun for a change."

"I gotta inklin' feelin' dat ya madda'd have me castrated," the troll said with a dark chuckle, which Strell was forced to join in on.

"Perhaps," the dark-haired elf sighed. "But maybe not- servants fuck each other all the time. You know, though… you wouldn't be unwelcome at a brothel," he told the troll. "There are whores that are used to orcs and trolls, even tauren. Does Northrend have brothels?" he asked in the same breath, his brows knitting together. "Oh, wait. Dalaran. Of course it must. I can only imagine the wand puns."

"Ya should see da signs," Kinzal said with a faint smirk. "I always had dis awe for magic… an' den I saw it used ta make a five-foot dick shower us in glitter when we entered Da Wooden Wand. Kinda makes ya see what dem blue dragons be complainin' about," he said thoughtfully.

Strell smiled slowly. "What color glitter?"

The troll glanced up as he recalled. "White and silver."

"Of course it was," the elf sighed, openly grinning. "Well, I won't hold you any longer. I'll see you after dinner. Briefly."

"I'll get ya some locks ta mess with," the troll promised.

"No, don't worry about it," Strell said as he began to close the door, still harboring a bit of guilt at his earlier behavior. "Kinzal," he said at the last moment. The troll paused with his hand on the outer doorknob, looking at him expectantly. "Thank you. That was… fun. Surprisingly. It was the best day so far."

The warrior smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. The amber of his irises suddenly seemed alight. "Da bowls. Dat's what I'll go do," he said, remembering their molds. "Shouldn' take long, either."

Strell thanked him, then watched the door click shut and heard the delicate clinking of the lock.

---

Family dinners were the worst. Strell tried not to dwell on the way his mother fawned over Torril's progress in his training, or his brother's meek interest in what he and Kinzal had gotten up to that day, or his father's preoccupied look throughout the meal.

It had been four courses too long, the rogue decided as he worked on the set of locks that Kinzal had gotten for him. He spent nearly an hour on the last one, a sizeable pile of broken lockpicks resting beside it before he finally cracked the bastard.

It almost made up for the stifling event that dinner had been. But it couldn't make up for the hours without the troll's company.

Strell was vexed to find that he had become more reliant on his keeper than he had ever intended. He'd imagined Kinzal would be a new incarnation of his governess, someone harsh and overbearing, someone to spite and heckle at every turn, someone who would in turn make his life more miserable by the day. Instead, he found he was almost lost without him. It unnerved him more than anything else.

He glanced out the wide, three-paned window that looked out over the back of their yard. It felt like midnight, but it was hard to guess at the time from the darkened clouds and the rain splattering against the glass.

Kinzal had gone in hours ago. And Strell felt more than a creep for having watched him from the window, but there was just nothing else to do, aside from practice lockpicking. The troll seemed to have taken his advice come late evening, having settled in close under a lantern in the stables with one of the girls that tended to the hawkstriders. He stayed with her for over an hour.

Strell didn't recall her name, but he knew her well enough. A pretty thing, innocent and shy. She had bashfully turned him away when he tried to bed her months ago; he had to admit, it stung a little that she was apparently willing to have Kinzal over him. But then again, the troll did seem the sort that wouldn't steal away before dawn, and maidens seemed to like that.

The dark-haired elf frowned as he thought of the warrior and the stable hand, absently clinking two picks together as he laid on the floor. It also stung a little that Kinzal had chosen her. If the troll preferred women, that was well enough. It was no hard feat to sway such a man. But if he preferred blushing virgins with sweet manners, then Strell was out of luck. Torril'd have a better chance than I do, he thought with a half-frown.

Not that it mattered. Even if he was tempted to fuck Kinzal, he certainly wouldn't be doing it so long as his parents had them both on leashes. He didn't doubt for a second that his mother would spread the troll's name far and wide if she found out he'd hopped into bed with her son, and likely trump up the accusation to ruin his chances of landing a job anywhere in Silvermoon.

No, it was better that he not concern himself over it. Kinzal could do as he liked on his night off, and Strell had him all the rest of the week. His company was more valuable than a quick lay, certainly, and Strell wasn't desperate. Not yet, at least.

The elf stretched, groaning as his back popped. A yawn stretched his mouth wide and he stowed the locks and picks back into a drawer before snuffing out the candles, the loss of their magically enhanced glow plunging the room into darkness.

A darkness that the elf liked. It made him feel comfortable, a shadow within shadows, protected from the eyes of servants and gossiping nobles. Torril had always shied away from dark places when they were children, while Strell sought them out- closets and cupboards and the dank spaces under old bridges, even hollowed out logs.

Strell slowly stripped off his clothing until he was left in nothing but his underclothes. That he slept in such a state seemed a constant source of scandal for the household, but he found it rather rewarding- both because it was comfortable and because it had led to the eventual cessation of early morning visits from servants trying to rouse him from his sleep.

He paused as he passed the window on the way to his bed. It seemed that the moons had managed to peek through the cloud cover; though rain still pattered against the glass heavily, pale, faint light managed to catch on the dozens of tiny bells strung just outside.

The young rogue sighed, listening to the faint sounds of their clinking and ringing as the wind and rain jostled them. His gaze drifted past the confounding bells and over the muddied garden, and at the edge of the woods-

At the edge of the woods. His long, slender eyebrows drew together as he pressed his nose to the cool glass, struggling to make sense of what he saw outside. With comprehension came a sudden twist of alarm; felt his heart push painfully within his chest, as if suddenly pressed against his ribs by some unseen hand.

Not more than thirty yards away, there was a woman dressed in a white gown that was soaked through; it clung to her, wrapped around her, made her pale as a banshee ghosting over the earth. For a moment, that was Strell's fear- a banshee hovering at the edge of their grounds, the villain of a children's tale come to sing them out of their beds and into their graves.

But he cast off the panicked thought when he saw that she was not alone, and very much a real, living woman struggling against a larger figure clad in a dark hood and cloak that sought to drag her into the woods. There was a faint scream that seemed to pull at Strell's blood, at his sinews; it tugged on each of his hairs, it seemed, until the back of his neck prickled as they stood upright.

The rogue's mouth felt dry as he pulled frantically at the window pane, his short nails scratching against the painted wood fruitlessly. He glanced up for a split second and saw the dark figure strike the woman, her head wrenching to one side from the force.

The young elf shouted as the ominous figure began to drag her limp form into the darkened wood, wordless shock and grief and fear coming out in a bellow as he bounded across the room and desperately tried the door; when it proved unyielding, he whirled until he found another way out.

Strell threw on his cape and slid a dagger into the waistband of his underclothes and then heaved up the hefty chest his aunt had proudly given to him after his first formal party. It was made of dense ironwood, from a tree that probably predated this house, and every inch of it was carved with swirled dragonhawks and twisted, gnarled braches dotted with delicate blossoms.

It soared through the windowpane with ease, shattering the glass and splintering the wood like an ogre's first might. Strell paused, stunned for a moment- he knew not from where such strength had come.

The rogue scurried out the window with the speed of an ambushed lynx, nicking himself on shards of cracked glass that jutted from the sill in his hurry. He half-climbed, half-fell to the ground, groaning as he landed on the sharp shards that littered grass and briefly bemoaning his hasty decision to forgo boots.

But he pushed himself up quickly, ignoring the jolts of pain that ricocheted up his spine with each step as he sprinted to the last place that he had seen the wailing woman and her assaulter. They were gone, but the damp grass was bent and broken where she had fallen, and crushed flat and streaked with mud in the direction that they had left.

Strell shook off the rain that trickled over his eyes and mouth and struggled to follow the trail as it led deeper and deeper into the woods, his fragmented thoughts always returning to the screaming woman in white; thin branches and saplings lashed at his bare body, steady rain made his footing less sure, and the cloud-darkened sky left him groping almost blindly, now frightened of the shadows that had always proven to be a safe haven before.

He stumbled into a small clearing, at last blessedly free of finger-like twigs pulling at his cloak. He drew in a shaky breath and pulled out his dagger, though now it seemed little more than an empty comfort, a child's toy clutched to ward off frightening thoughts. His cloak clung to him like a wet skin, heavy with rain, more burdensome than anything else.

I should have stopped to look for the oiled one, he thought briefly, for all the good it did him. He shivered under the sodden fabric. My urgency was my undoing, was his second thought, and it filled him with a despair that chilled him more than the cool nighttime rain.

The soaked rogue whirled about as he heard a branch snap within the woods, the muddled noise lost in the sound of rain and rolling thunder before he could place it.

A creeping fear slid up Strell's spine, paralyzing his limbs and rooting him in place. It was visceral, the fear as much in his body as it was in his mind. He felt the sensation of eyes upon him, as tangible as a hand ghosting over his skin, as unnerving as breath sighing against his neck.

It was a predator's stare, full of murderous intent. And he was prey, like the woman had been prey, lured out onto the killing grounds like a sheltered fawn drawn from its den.

At last Strell felt the feeling slide back into his limbs. He sucked in a breath and darted for the inky shadow cast by a towering palebark, crouching low as he manipulated the darkness just enough to conceal himself. Any thoughts of finding the woman lost in his fear. His long ears seemed to always catch just the slightest sound of whatever stalked the woods around him- the muted crack of a branch, the slick crunch of wet leaves, the soft thump of something dragging. Was that laughter or just some trick of the woods?

He pressed his palms over his ears and huddled against the tree trunk. And there he hid, shaking under the cold onslaught of rain and biting his lip to stifle his panicked breaths. Strell didn't notice how long he had sat like that until the rain relented and the sky cleared and the first rays of dawn crested the hills to the east.

The rogue clung to the shadows at first as he staggered home, fear of the dark-clad man still thick in his veins, but as the trees thinned and the house grew close, he broke into a shambling run. The vast house atop the hill had never seemed so inviting.

He cared not that tears now streaked his cheeks, or that he was a shaking mess, or that he was nearly naked underneath his sodden cloak. He ran blindly into the arms of the first body he saw, which he belatedly realized was Kinzal.

It wasn't until the troll wrapped his long arms around him that Strell realized the warrior was the one he had wanted the most. His slow heartbeat calmed the elf, as did his scent- salty and musky, damp with raindrops, the smell of his many copper bracelets and armbands mixing with his sweat-slicked skin. The rogue pressed closer, at the moment unashamed of his desperation. In Kinzal's arms was safety; in his arms was warmth.

Loktak lumbered over to sniff at the shaking elf, his pebbly scaled nose pressing against his shoulder, his breath comfortingly warm as the troll unclasped his soggy cloak and pulled off his own thick-spun cotton shirt to wrap around the much smaller elf.

Kinzal's voice was laced with urgent concern as he spoke of how the first servants to wake had raised the alarm at the sight of the trunk and smashed glass in the back yard, and how he had ridden to the nearest tavern to check for him on his parents' orders.

"But… ya boots were all dere, an' ya oiled cloak, an' ya'd left ya showy daggers behind," he said as he wiped back the dark hair plastered to his forehead. He made to help the elf back to the house. But Strell planted his feet and shook his head. He didn't want his family, or the gawking servants. He wanted Kinzal. The troll seemed to understand, and he pulled the elf close as he continued. "Loktak couldn' catch ya scent with all da rain. Else I'd have found ya," he murmured. "What… what happened?"

Strell hesitated for half a breath, and then the words tumbled forth in a maddened haste. He stuttered through his tale, his sentences occasionally punctuated by deep breaths and wracking sobs, his words more often than not muffled against the broad expanse of Kinza's chest. When he finished, he wrapped his shaky arms around the troll and hoped he was strong enough to keep him from leaving.

Kinzal was quiet. "Ya freezin'," he whispered at last, carefully prying the elf's arms away. At the rogue's cry of protest, he ran his thumb over the trembling, bloodless lips and whispered softly in Zandali. "Don' worry, Strell," he muttered as he scooped the elf into his arms, careful not to brush against his bloodied hands and feet. "I'm righ' here."

Right here. Strell slipped into a painfully dark sleep to those words.

---

He woke up alone, and that realization by itself was enough to make him whimper plaintively.

Though he chided himself for having held such foolish expectations of having someone sitting at his side, he could not deny his disappointment. His father, maybe. Even his brother would have been a comfort.

Kinzal had been the one he would have appreciated the most. He pulled a pillow over his face and muffled his angered cry. He wanted the warrior. Half of him resented the troll for not being with him, and the other half despaired to think that perhaps he'd been dismissed for allowing him to escape again.

If Kinzal had been released from his duty, Strell vowed to make his parents' lives as difficult as possible. He'd push his bed out of the window, if need be. He'd toast to his wellborn family in the brothels and taverns, he'd fuck whores in the middle of the Bazaar in broad daylight, he'd sing at the top of his lungs about all of the secrets never mentioned in polite company- Ser Brightblade had three bastards by a tavern wench, Lady Givana's young son had a nasty habit of skinning his pets, the servants in the Windglade household regularly heard the lord and lady entertaining half a dozen young men in their bedroom. And there were his own family's secrets, much more well-guarded…

He let his anger at the other members of the household simmer quietly, for if he kept his mind occupied with counting the ways they had disappointed him and the ways he could strike back, he could not dwell on memories of the dark forest or his growing anxiety over the next nightfall.

At last, a servant began to climb the stairs. He could tell by the clomping of her shoes.

"Oh, Master Dayborne," she said with faint surprise as she popped her head in, one arm piled high with folded towels embroidered with their crest. "You are finally up, it seems. Let me inform your lady mother." She gave him a look just before she turned to clomp back down the stairs, one that Strell was more familiar with than he let on- guarded disdain.

For a few moments, he curled on his side and longed for the stuffed dragonhawk that he had slept with as a child. He couldn't remember ever having named the thing, but it had kept him good company for many years, right up until his governess had thrown it out.

"Ser Dayborne?" a deep, familiar voice said from the door, sounding surprisingly tentative.

"Please come in," Strell said immediately, a smile flitting across his lips. He hadn't been let go, and he had come to see him. It didn't matter that Kinzal had let him wake alone, that he hadn't been right there as he slept; Kinzal was here now, and Strell needed him to be. "Sit. Sit wherever," he said eagerly.

Green eyes followed the troll as he crossed the room. The elf curled his toes as he drew close, the movement eliciting a dull sting from his lacerated feet, and then relaxed them in disappointment as the warrior crouched beside his bed. Strell frowned, realizing that he'd wanted nothing more than for Kinzal to sit beside him, to pull back the covers and lie with him, to hold him close again and assure him that all would be well.

"How ya doin'?" Kinzal asked somberly, clasping his hands together as he rested his elbows on his knees.

"I have been better," the rogue said with a brief smile. He shifted closer to the edge of his bed, wriggling under sweat-dampened sheets and his heavy blanket.

The troll's eyes shut and he sighed. "Ya madda sent me ta tell ya ta come downstairs," he said after a moment, his nose wrinkling into a sneer. "She said ta let ya walk, but I can carry ya easy-"

"No," the elf said, shaking his head as he sat up. He threw off his covers and set his bandaged feet flat against the floor, anger propelling him to his feet and dulling the pain from his fresh wounds. Belatedly, he realized he was still clad in next to nothing.

He offered the troll an apologetic look, and thanked him as he wordlessly pulled a pair of pants and a loose-fitting shirt from the armoire.

Strell needed to occasionally grab hold of Kinzal for balance as he struggled into his clothing. The warrior silently obliged him, even helping to support him as he slowly began to descend the staircase. Each time his foot landed wrong and he cried out, the troll would pointedly glance away, and when Strell needed to pause and catch his breath, Kinzal would comment on the servants' gossip or other news.

The elf wasn't certain he would be able to express his gratitude for these little accommodations to his injured pride.

"I went an' got da bowls poured," the troll said during one pause by the entry hall. Leave it to his mother to request his presence on the other side of the massive house when his feet were in ribbons…

"Oh? How was that?" Strell asked animatedly. Keeping his mind on the conversation kept it off the pain, or so he told himself.

"Good, good. Got 'em outta da sand an' everyting, but now dey'll need ta have all da excess metal ground off. I can probably get it done by tomorrow, an' den dey'll be ready ta keep."

"I can't wait to see," the elf said honestly as he limped to the door of his mother's den.

"Easy now," Kinzal whispered as he helped him just to the door. "I'll be here," he assured the elf, who turned with a shaky breath and pushed open the door. It was heavy, darkly wooded, and marked the end of the common areas of the house and the beginning of her domain.

He entered the study, noting that it wanted light desperately- even as a rogue, he found his mother's tastes to be dark, dark, dark. Dark paneling on the walls, dark maroon carpeting, dark drapes to block the sunlight. The stuffy room was lit by a handful of enchanted candles, but it still felt ominously dim.

Strell closed the door quickly behind him. The last thing he wanted them to see was that he had gotten help to walk here, and that Kinzal was gentle enough to give it.

"Mother," he said stiffly, keeping his eyes trained on the thin, auburn-haired woman standing behind the broad desk as he slowly crossed the room. She watched him as he watched her, her almond-shaped eyes impassive.

Torril was up from his chair in the corner at once, eager to take his smaller brother by the elbow and help him walk; Strell shook off the touch and continued by himself, reaching the chair clearly intended for him.

"I'm glad to see you've finally roused yourself," she sighed. She pursed her brightly painted lips as he made no move to sit. "Very well. Stand if you like. Strell, your father and I have been discussing what do with you in light of your most recent indiscretion-"

"Indiscretion?" the young elf interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "Indiscretion?" he asked again, this time looking to his father for answer.

"While I would argue your mother's choice of wording," Lyrent said with a warning glare at the woman, "I cannot disagree that you did act recklessly," he said as he turned back to his son. His long face was paler than normal and the poor lighting did the lines at his mouth and eyes no favors. "Your injuries speak for themselves-"

"My injuries?" Strell asked, baffled. "And my recklessness? These are your concerns? What about the woman that was beaten and likely killed on our property? And the one responsible for it?"

"As if something so scandalous could happen here," his mother said with a scoff. "Your years of bloodthistle indulgence have caught up to you, Strell," she said, her tone severe as the tight bun her hair was worn in.

"I didn't- it wasn't some hallucination," he cried, grabbing her desk and leaning across it. "I saw it happen."

"Saw what, exactly, Strell?" she asked, clacking her long nails against the lacquered wood of her desk. "You saw vague shapes in the middle of the night, during heavy rain, from forty yards away," his mother said with increasing condescension.

"Not vague," he argued, now with less conviction. "I heard a scream, too."

"Strell," his father said gently. "It is possible that you may have leapt to conclusions. These are… highly unlikely circumstances," he said with a sad look. "A shadowy man attacking someone on in our garden… it does sound as though it belongs in a nightmare."

"I wasn't dreaming," Strell said with a sneer, ignoring the prickling of tears in his eyes. "And I wasn't seeing things," he spat, shooting a glance at his mother. He had expected some measure of hostility from them, if only for being the one to bear them ill news- a bit of low class crime on their doorstep. But he hadn't anticipated outright denial.

"Not dreams, necessarily," Lyrent continued, trying to placate him. "Night terrors, things that feel so real that it is easy to become confused-"

"And we just ignore his years of huffing away on hookahs in those bloodthistle dens?" his mother interrupted. She faced her son with an air of disgust. "And the nights spent drowned in lotus concoctions? Knocked into a stupor by cheap liquor? Your mind is clearly addled." She put her hands on her hips and stared down at her desk. "It is times like these when I wonder if you would be better served at the sanitarium."

Strell's breath caught in his chest.

"Yvine," his father said lowly, "stop."

"You would ship me off to be rid of me," the young elf said bitterly. He glared daggers at the woman, hating her all the more as her heart-shaped face remained a cool mask. "Send me to wither away with the borderline wretched, is that it?"

"We would never put you in the sanitarium," Lyrent said sternly, shooting a dark glance at his wife, who glowered back.

"Then why do you both sit here and debate my grasp on reality rather than pursue the villain stalking our grounds after dark?" he asked exasperatedly, already beginning to feel a sharp ache in his chest, accompanied by a lethargy that was making it harder and harder to keep upright.

Torril rose from his chair in the corner and stood stiffly, silent as he waited for someone to grant him permission to speak. His pose was impassive and rigid underneath his plate, but his eyes darted concernedly from Strell to their mother. At a nod from Yvine, he said, "Mother, perhaps we should send a messenger to Captain Niandra-"

"We will do no such thing!" she said at once, appearing just a step short of actually stamping her foot. "And your misguided adoration of that woman is unseemly, Torril."

"But I-" the young paladin said apologetically, his face reddening within seconds.

"She is not the paragon you and your father believe her to be," Yvine said icily. "What an unscrupulous woman. There is a reason she is still unmarried after all these years. And no, we will not involve the city guard in some morbid delusion of our thistle-addled son."

Strell quailed under the penetrating glare that was leveled at him, and from the corner of his eye he could see Torril sit back down. He would not speak up again.

"This… disgrace will be kept as yet another family secret," she said, casting a glare at Strell, whose lip curled in response. "The servants do not know. They will not know. The gossip… if such a thing got out." She put her hand on her forehead and sighed.

"To that end," his father added, nodding, "we have asked Kindal-"

"Kinzal," Strell corrected, his stare icy.

"Yes." Lyrent frowned, appearing taken aback at his son's hostility. "Kinzal. We have asked him to remain respectfully quiet about this matter as well. It is... better if we forget this all," he said tiredly.

"Forget it?" the rouge asked, his brow furrowed. He thought of the scream in the dark, the woman beaten and dragged away, his helplessness in the woods. "I couldn't forget if I tried," he whispered.

His mother's look held no compassion. "Then you must simply bite your tongue."

---

Kinzal helped him limp back up to his room, the place that was by turns his prison and his sanctuary.

"She told me before I left," he muttered, "that they would send you away if you didn't keep your mouth shut."

"Aye, dat dey did," Kinzal replied as he gingerly took Strell's foot and placed it on his lap.

"So no one will ever speak of it," the elf said despondently, biting his trembling lip with enough force to turn it bloodless white.

"You can talk ta me abou' it," the troll whispered as he slowly unwound the bloodied bandages.

"Do you… do you also think I imagined it?" Strell asked weakly, his eyes searching the warrior's face desperately.

Eyes the color of dark honey looked up from his crimson-streaked soles. "No. I believe dat ya saw sometin' ya weren' supposed ta, some real evil."

Hearing it aloud, Strell grew doubtful of his desire to be believed. There was a certain comfort in a lie, especially one that would trade his witness of a dark and violent act for a simple delusion. "They ask me to forget."

"Dere always be people dat wanna pretend dat lookin' away from monsters makes 'em vanish. Dat ignorin' it will stop it bein' real," the troll told him quietly as he sponged at the blood seeping from his cuts.

Strell laid back, quiet and grateful as Kinzal finished wrapping his feet in clean bandages.

Kinzal sighed heavily. "Don' listen ta dem," he said, gently taking hold of the elf's chin and finding his gaze. "I'll be here, but… keep ya wits abou' ya."

"Should I be worried?"

"Ya saw a monster, Ser Dayborne," the troll replied, his frown heavy on his lips. "An' it saw you."

Strell shivered.

Kinzal cocked his head and grew silent. "I tink I hear ya fadda comin'."

The rogue frowned stiffly and glanced away, out the window that had been hastily replaced. The sky was blue now, not a muddied black-grey, but he shuddered and opted to look up at the ceiling instead.

"Strell," his father said as he peeked in, a tray with tea and a stack of squat little cookies in his hands, "I- oh, Kinzal. I did not expect… well, it is better that you are both here," he said with a tight smile. He crossed the room and set the tray on the bedside table.

"Kinzal changed my bandages for me," Strell announced, half wanting to have the troll's good care recognized and half wanting to sting his father.

Lyrent's eyebrows drew together for a moment as he saw the discarded bandages, blotted with dark crimson, and the young elf's sore-looking feet propped up on a pillow. "Yes… very good of you, Kinzal. Thank you."

"I suppose it wouldn't do to have the servants coming in to tend to me. They might take pity, ask questions," Strell stated. "What did you tell them, exactly? Do they also think that I am mad, delusional? Or did you simply say that in my eagerness to flagrantly defy all rules I broke through my own window and then leapt upon glass just to spite you?"

His father didn't say anything at all, and that was answer enough for Strell.

"You can go," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm afraid I must… adjust some living arrangements first," his father said, folding his hands behind his back. "It pains me to know that such measures must be taken simply to keep you from disappearing into the night, but we do what we must. You are… not stable enough to be alone, Strell. Kinzal, if you would please move your things into this room, we can have a cot and linens brought up before dinner-"

"Ser Dayborne," the troll interrupted, sitting up, "I mus' respectfully ask dat I have some privacy here," he said uncomfortably. "Ta share a room…"

Strell started at Kinzal's words, glancing up at him with unconcealed hurt. Unbidden, the same feelings of distrust that had prickled at him upon waking up alone returned.

"Oh, well," the older elf said to himself. "I understand that it is unorthodox," he said sympathetically, "but I can see no way around it, I'm afraid. He is just too troubled," he added in a hushed tone, casting his son a sad, concerned glance. "I will have Tyronus bring your things, on second thought. It is best if he is constantly attended to."

Without giving the warrior another chance to object, Lyrent left the room and took the stairs at a brisk pace.

Kinzal grunted once his employer was gone, looking severely displeased by his new living assignment.

"That bothered by being forced to room with me?" Strell asked with a glower, feeling betrayed.

"Hush." The troll didn't spare him a glance, his brow furrowed as he studied the wall opposite him.

Strell could not quiet the hurt that now blossomed painfully in his chest. He had taken to the idea of sharing a room with the troll with a frantic zeal. And why shouldn't he? He was comforted only by the thought of the warrior so close. Some part of him had thought it obvious that his keeper should be with him always now. Yet Kinzal objected strongly enough to plead with his father over it…

"I told you I'd go mad," he said with a short, hollow laugh after a few minutes had elapsed, "if you kept me locked in this room. And here I have. I suppose I cannot fault you for wanting your distance from me."

"Ya not crazy," Kinzal said harshly. When he saw the elf flinch, his expression softened. "Listen, I ain' upset at bein' in dis room because of you. It just… don' worry bout it. But da good ting bout dis is dat I'mma be right here."

"Right here?" Strell smiled to himself- and deeper inside, guilt settled in him like a heavy stone. He was more desperate than ever to take flight from this place, and… that would include leaving the troll behind.

Kinzal nodded and offered him a warm smile. When Tyronus came with a large knapsack filled with the troll's clothes and possessions, accompanied by three other servants to carry his armor and a cot, the warrior was quiet but polite, nodding at where to set down his things.

Strell watched as he rearranged his plate and propped his swords up in a corner; he laid blankets over his cot and kneaded his pillow, and then he disappeared into the bathroom.

The elf's gaze drifted over to the cot placed adjacent to the wall. When Kinzal emerged, his face slightly red from scrubbing and his heavy leathers and mail exchanged for cotton and a well-worn leather vest, he asked, "Could you… do you think you could sleep closer? Just for tonight. And any time it rains," he added with a raspy laugh. "I fear to be alone," he admitted to the troll.

"Yeah, no problem," Kinzal replied, his voice tight. He dragged the cot closer, until it was side-by-side with Strell's own bed. "Ya get ya rest now, Ser Dayborne. I'll be here," he promised.

And the rogue, exhausted already by his short day's events, was tired enough to let the words lull him to sleep.

---

The next few days passed in a haze for the rogue. He was mostly confined to the bed- a sentence that would have been torture under any other circumstances but was made significantly more bearable by Kinzal's presence and a small vial of a powerful sleeping drought.

When he was not in the aimless, dreamless slumber induced by the potion, he was kept company by the colossal troll, who alternated between reading to him and telling him tamer stories from his service in Outland. When he could, Kinzal gave him small tasks to keep his hands and mind occupied- homemade puzzles created with bits of rope, new lockboxes to pick open, cloth to fashion into more bandages.

The servants gave him a wide berth, only coming into his room to gather the dishes and dirty laundry. Strell preferred it that way- from Kinzal's understanding of the kitchen chatter and the elf's own observation of the way the household's workers looked at him, the general consensus was that he had had a fit of madness and had leapt from his room during a flight of fantasy. A few of the bolder, more vocal servants would voice their opinion that it was all nothing more than a spoiled noble's haste to visit some orgy out in the wilds.

Either way, Strell felt in no mood to suffer their looks of pity and superiority. He did not wish to suffer them at all. Life outside of his room had gone on as regular, not a hiccup in the daily goings on of the household, as if the night in the rain hadn't happened at all.

It disgusted Strell as much as it comforted him. In the quiet hours when fear crept back in, he could assure himself that it had all been in his head, or at least exaggerated; how else could so many people simply continue about their lives so peacefully? At times when he felt stronger, he sneered at their willingness to turn away from unpleasant truths and act the part of placid beasts. They were as sheep that had munched on too much bloodthistle, willfully ignoring the wolf that crept along behind the flock simply because the shepherd did.

Kinzal had made a few inquiries when he ventured down into the kitchens and laundry, he told the elf. But mostly he just listened, as playing the part of investigating guardsman would curry him no favor with the lord and lady of the house.

A washing girl had gone missing. She had only arrived a couple of weeks before Kinzal did. The gossip of the other servants was not kind to the girl; she had been boisterously loud, prouder than a girl of her station should be, and quick to boast of how she would soon leave this lot for better prospects. Her quick departure- her few possessions and clothing all left in the servants' quarters- had raised eyebrows, but nothing more was made of it.

"It was her," Strell had croaked the morning that his keeper had reported this gleaned information to him. He had picked feebly at the bun that Kinzal had already torn in pieces for him and ignored the jam entirely. "I'd stake my life on it. It was her that I saw."

But Kinzal had said nothing then, those deep set eyes falling from him to the floor, a sigh that spoke of being between a rock and a hard place escaping him.

Days later, when his wounds had sealed up and he could stand without pain, Strell insisted on some sort of exercise to return the feeling to his disused limbs.

He'd asked to spar. Kinzal had objected emphatically each time he asked, but after a dozen pleas, each more desperate than the last, the troll had finally caved.

A large room in the west wing had been fashioned into a training room, equipped with blunted weapons and padded vests and practice dummies. Though he hadn't explicitly told Kinzal his reasons for asking for this as a diversion, he got the impression that the warrior understood.

His month of confinement had meant no visiting his preferred trainer in Murder Row. A month with no rigorous practice or instruction had made him far less fluid with a weapon than he liked, not that he had been particularly skilled in the first place.

"I don' know daggers," Kinzal said plainly, eyeing the small blade in the elf's hand warily. "Gimme a sword, gimme an axe, gimme a shield. But a dagger…"

"They're not so different. It's like a little sword, isn't it?" the rogue asked. He held up the small blade as though he was parrying a sword strike.

"Maybe ta dem little hands," the troll mused. He held up one of the rogue's daggers in his own three-fingered hand, the little blade swimming amidst all the blue. "I can teach ya how ta use it like a toothpick, maybe," he said with a little shrug.

"A toothpick?" Strell asked with a hint of a grin. "Maybe to those big teeth," he said, nodding to the troll's heavy looking tusks.

Kinzal laughed, low and raspy, as he took up a dull-edged sword.

"You don't have to teach me anything," the elf said as he picked a pair of practice daggers and smeared rouge along the smoothed edges. "Just give me something to learn from."

"Experience be da greatest teacher," the warrior agreed, a smile ready at his lips as he raised the two-handed sword. "Ya ever had ta fight someone wit' a sword?"

Strell shook his head, looking slightly abashed. "No… no fights. A couple of drunken brawls," he said with a shrug, "but nothing more than sparring."

Kinzal grunted and swept a hand over his hair, smoothing the fanned mohawk down only to have it promptly spring back up immediately after. He lowered his sword, tapping the flat of the blade against the side of his foot for a moment. "Well, I'll start off slow. Get a feel for how a swordsman moves, den try an' hit me. Dodge my swings, don' try ta parry 'em."

"But… the clash of steel on steel," the rogue muttered disappointedly, a pout taking his lips.

"Da clash of dis steel on dat steel," the troll said as he deftly tapped the tip of his long blade against one of Strell's daggers, "would ruin ya weapon. Ya don' want edge-on-edge parries, if ya can help it. It does no favors ta da blade," he said gruffly.

"That's not how they fight in the plays and shows." The elf's mouth quirked to the side.

"No," the warrior said with a soft chuckle. "It ain'. Ya got a short reach, little elf," he continued, "so play it close. Dance away and I get da advantage."

"I'm not little," Strell muttered as he flexed his grip on the daggers. "The first trainer I found told me I was too big to be a rogue." It seemed silly, saying such a thing next to the troll that easily stood seven and a half feet, but the best rogues were usually lithe little things, small even for elves, and Strell was not small for an elf. He shared much the same build as his paladin brother, though he was not as muscled from years of burdensome plate.

Kinzal surveyed him anew, dark eyes roving him up and down. "Ya be broad in da shoulder," he agreed. "But ya all look small ta me," he added with a quick grin. "Found yaself a trainer anyway though, eh?"

The rogue nodded. "He's no great assassin or bandit, but he knows his way around the shadows. And pockets." He waggled his brows at the troll. "I cannot say for certain that I could disarm a foe in combat… but give me a moment to distract him beforehand and I could have him weaponless before the fight even started," he boasted.

"I've broken da fingers of pickpockets half as cocky," the troll laughed. He hefted the broad-bladed sword up and slowly circled around his ward. "Now, let's see ya best try."

"Oh," a gentle voice said in surprise, drawing both of their attentions to the door. "Hello."

A fair-haired elf in loose silks stood in the hall just beyond, hovering.

Strell really didn't know how Kinzal could ever have mistaken him for his brother- aside from the obvious difference of their hair, Torril was a classically handsome sort, with a strong chin and chiseled features that made lowborn girls giggle and sigh whenever they went to market. His nose was a little bent, true, but finding a warrior or paladin that still had an unbroken nose was easier than finding a maiden whore- plate was a capricious thing to train in, as like to smash in a face as any mace or club.

"Torril," Strell said in greeting, nodding his head slightly. He was also still miffed that his older brother had so blatantly cut his hair in imitation of him.

Kinzal gave the paladin a short wave in acknowledgement, his sword once again forgotten at his side.

"I didn't know you two were in here today," the blond elf said meekly, a smile just touching his lips. He gripped the doorframe as he edged close and peered around it, as if anchoring himself to the wall.

"Well, we are," Strell said plainly. "You'd better go to the east wing, or outside. Mother would have a fit if she knew you ran into us."

Torril's smile abated and he stared at the floor as he nodded. "Yes, Strell. I just… I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. After…"

"I'm fine," the dark-haired elf said brusquely, huffing as he turned on a practice dummy and began marking it in red.

"I am glad to hear of it," his brother continued, his gentle eyes still on Strell's back. "I went to the tower of the light to meditate. The…" He looked miserable, clearly torn between what he wanted to say and his desire to obey their parents. "The… injustice that you saw-"

"Torril," the rogue said sharply, facing him once again.

The young paladin swallowed his words, chastened by the reminder of his promise. "Yes. Yes, brother. And I wanted to apologize again," he added quickly, glancing up briefly at Kinzal, "for hitting you before. I should never have raised my hammer against you."

"Nah, s'fine. I deserved it," the troll said easily. He shrugged. "No hard feelings, mon."

The paladin bit his lip and nodded. "I think-"

"Torril, I can practically hear mother's veins popping out of her forehead already," Strell interrupted impatiently. "'A young lord's place is not with guttertrash and sellswords.' Now, I have no doubt that there is some kitten up a tree that requires your aid somewhere, and that somewhere is not here. Have a good afternoon, brother."

Torril shut his mouth and nodded, his gaze falling to the floor as he retreated from the doorway and turned down the hall.

"Ya didn' have ta be so short wit him, did ya?" Kinzal asked once the paladin's footsteps had trailed off. He swung his dulled blade lazily at one of the dummies, catching it in its burlap neck.

"It's for his own good, and ours," the rogue said defensively. "He's too soft. He positively hates getting a dressing down from Mother, and anything she does to him she'll give to us twofold. He knows better than to come looking for us," he muttered.

"He's just a kid," the troll said quietly.

"No, he's not 'just a kid'," Strell said with a sigh. "He's heir to the household. He's a paladin in the making. He's the future husband of Lady Dawnblossom. And he shouldn't be trying to associate with his delinquent little brother or the troll warrior he's infatuated with. Goodness, imagine the scandal."

"Infatuated?" Kinzal asked skeptically. "Now I tink ya be crazy."

Strell scoffed. "Are you kidding? The blushing, the fidgeting, peering around the corner at you and biting his lip," the elf said with a roll of his eyes. "I've only seen him look like that at the guard captain, whom he is utterly enchanted by. Stay away from him," he added as a warning.

"Ya don' need ta tell me dat!" the troll bit back. He muttered something in Zandali. "Damn crazy elves. What do I do?"

"Just ignore him," Strell said dismissively. "He'll pine quietly, maybe have a few wet dreams about the big troll with the rippling muscles and then he'll get over it when he has to start courting his wife. Or he won't. It doesn't matter, really- Torril's not one to act on anything he feels."

Noticing the hard, studying look Kinzal was giving him, the rogue continued.

"He's the sort that will take the life given to him- as wrong and ill-fitting as it is- and conform himself to it. It's that sense of honor in him, that eagerness to please. He's sincere, which only makes him that much more infuriating," he sighed. "So he'll do it. He'll keep up appearances. He will be the respected lord of a large estate, part of a proud order and with a wellborn wife of good reputation, and no one will ever know what he really wishes for and dreams of because no one will ever ask him."

"An' if dey did ask him… he'd never tell," the troll said quietly.

"You pick up quick," Strell said with a slow, approving grin. "No, he could never bring himself to do anything that would disappoint them. Or say anything," he added, thinking of a million times his brother had balked and backed down.

"Ya'd never do dat," Kinzal continued, his brow furrowed. "Ya'd never let dat happen ta you."

"No," the elf answered, shaking his head the barest bit. They were not cut of the same cloth, he and his brother. "I didn't."

He lashed out with the dagger, the pigment coated blade leaving a red streak across the throat of the dummy.

---

"All out of the sleeping drought," Strell sighed. "This is going to be a fun night." He frowned glumly at the empty brown bottle. He had taken a little bit more than prescribed once or twice, but it seemed it should have lasted longer.

Kinzal's smile was tight. His gaze lingered on the empty bottle as well. "Ya could probably ask dem for more."

The elf laughed roughly at that. "Ask my mother, who is already convinced I'm an addict whose mind is addled from magics and drugs? No. No, father went through seven hells to stop her shrieking over me getting this one little vial. Only natural sleep from here on out," he said grimly.

"Could we not… buy more?" the warrior said in gruff tones, his brow lifted questioningly.

Strell's mouth parted in a wide smile. "Kinzal, I daresay I have had an effect on you," he laughed, thumping the troll on the shoulder proudly. "You would defy them and buy me black market potions?"

"Black market? For dat?" the warrior asked incredulously. "Just a sleepin' potion," he said stiffly.

"A very strong one," the elf sighed. "Stronger than what they use in the dens, even. Medicinal value, yes, but also a plague to the public. Hundreds died from it- the 'sweetest sleep', it was called. After seeing your family and friends devoured by hordes of the dead, being carried into eternity in a dreamless sleep was an opportunity many could not pass up. So they put all sorts of bans on it after that. You can still get it illegally, of course. You can get anything. It's just very expensive," he murmured, turning the empty glass in hand.

"How expensive?"

Strell eyed him curiously. "Perhaps… a hundred and twenty gold per bottle? There are cheaper ways to die now, certainly, but nowhere near as kind."

The troll grunted and looked back toward his knapsack.

"Kinzal, you needn't worry about that," the rogue said gently, wanting nothing more than to hold the troll and be held in turn. He wrapped his arms around himself instead. "I am not so desperate for it. I wouldn't have you risk it, or waste the gold. One cannot live their whole life on the stuff. Better to face the nightmares sooner and get it over with," he said, half hoping to convince himself.

"Ya… ya have da right of it," the warrior said at last, offering the elf a bleak smile.

Strell smiled back, though he was troubled by the nervousness in the troll. "So long as you are by my side, I will be fine," he said softly.

He had taken to wearing clothes to bed for Kinzal's sake. The troll had been so uncomfortable about sharing a room in the beginning that the last thing he wanted to do was give him any more reason to leave.

Strell shuddered softly under the covers as they settled in for sleep. He could not face the window anymore, so he had taken to lying on his right side, and now he faced his keeper as he slept.

Yellowish eyes stared back at him through the dark and faint moonlight glinted off of tusks. It was like sleeping with a panther beside him, guarding against the dark. He rather liked the feeling.

Strell pulled the blankets higher around his neck, needing all the security that they could provide. Sleep was slow to come without the potion, but the comforting sound of Kinzal's steady breaths put him more at ease and his tiredness eventually won out.

His dreams were washed out shades of grey punctuated with bright color. The sky swirled with whorls of bleak clouds, tumultuous as they spun and turned and struck up thunder. It was the white woman at the edge of the forest, but now all was white- a thin sheet of snow bleached the earth, and the wood was dead and cold. When the dark-clad man hit her, bright red blood sprayed across the snow.

Strell felt his body move against his will, mechanically following the trail of blood and disheveled snow despite his screams to stop. When he reached the clearing, the woman laid in a pool of blood and snowmelt at its center.

His mother and the dark man were laughing at the other edge of the clearing, sharing wine- or was it blood?- and soft words. And hunched over the mangled woman in white was Kinzal, but drawn pale and gaunt. His tusks and mouth were bloody, and when he glanced up from feeding on her wetly glistening entrails, Strell saw that his eyes were a crystalline blue.

He jolted upright just as a violent shiver wracked through him, making his limbs tighten and stiffen painfully. His hair was plastered to his neck and forehead, clinging like fingers. For a moment it all seemed like a reality- until he reminded himself that Eversong receives no snow, and Kinzal's eyes are amber and his skin still blue, and his mother would never deign to sip wine with some lowbrow murderer.

The elf exhaled heavily and swept the sweat-damp locks away from his skin before feeling his pillow, which was also moist to the touch. Didn't wet the bed at least, he thought dismally as he made to push the blankets aside. His clothes stuck to him uncomfortably, and he thought he might bathe and then change.

A muffled noise from beside him made the rogue go still. His was not the only nightmare this night, it seemed.

He huddled on his bed as he watched Kinzal tense and twitch under his layer of blankets, anguish twisting his features. Twice he cried out, sounding as frightened as Strell had felt that night in the wood, and twice the elf made to comfort him but changed his mind, wary of the troll waking to find him having spied on him as he slept.

Only when the warrior made a strangled noise followed by softly whispered pleas did Strell act. It was too much, too much to hear Kinzal begging like that. Something in his nightmare was killing him.

He hunched beside the shaking troll's cot and placed his hand on the bare skin of his shoulder. He felt cold, despite all the blankets, and unresponsive besides. He shivered with every breath.

"Kinzal," the elf muttered worriedly. He shook his shoulder, but the warrior only cried out louder. "Kinzal! Kinzal, please wake-"

The blow was sharp enough to send him sprawling backward. Strell had tasted blood even as he reeled. He slowly drew his fingertips to his lips and found them sticky wet when he pulled them away. He glanced back up, stunned, and found dimly glinting eyes holding him with just as much shock.

"You hit me," the elf said, the words feeling flat on his tongue as they mixed with the coppery taste. He tenderly touched the corner of his mouth again and stared down at the dark stain on his fingers in wonder.

"St-Ser Darborne," the warrior said quickly, panic clear in his tone. "'M sorry, so sorry. I- I- I didn'- I didn' know ya were-"

"It's okay," the rogue told him. He licked his lips. "I'm okay. I shouldn't have tried to wake you," he mumbled as he sat up. "If anyone asks, I'll just say I tripped and my mouth bore the brunt of the fall. Not that anyone will ask," he added under his breath.

"I'm sorry," Kinzal said in a whisper as he rose from his bed. He clumsily grabbed a roll of cotton bandages from his pack and knelt where the rogue had fallen, handing them out like an offering. "'S all my fault. I… I shoulda said sometin'. I hit ya," he muttered, mortified as he saw the elf's split lip under the pale moonlight. "I can'… I can' apologize enough."

"I've had worse," Strell said, forcing a little laugh as he wadded up the cotton bandages. In truth he was more than a little frightened that the troll's sleepy backhand had been enough to send him flying. He felt lucky to not have any loose teeth. "Are you alright? You sounded… you sounded awful."

The warrior was silent then, meeting his glance with a stony look before he dropped his gaze to the carpet.

"You… you'd been taking it too," the elf murmured, his eyes sharp on the warrior's slumped form. He thought of the potion bottle, empty of the sleeping draught too soon.

"'M sorry, Ser Dayborne," the troll said heavily. "I know… I know dat theft ain'… I mean, I-"

"Why?" Strell asked quietly. "For your nightmares as well?"

"I… I din' want ya ta see," he muttered, sounding shamed. "I'll go. Was foolhardy of me ta try an' stay after he put me in here wit ya. I shoulda left, let 'em find ya someone better. Dis wouldn' have happened den," he sighed, glancing once again at the elf's swelling lip.

Strell held fast to his arm, not letting him rise or leave. "No. No, don't," he pleaded. "It was an accident, and I couldn't bear to be here without you," he said quickly. When the troll shook his head and tried to pull away, the elf felt panic rise in the back of his throat, forcing his words out. "No! Please, Kinzal, stop. I'll ask them to let you back in your old room, if that would help. I won't touch you again. You can sleep clear on the other side, far from me. It'll be fine."

"'M not da only blade ya parents can find ta hire," Kinzal sighed. "Ya don' need ta get so worked up over me."

Anger flashed through the elf, quick as lightning but with as little staying power. He reached out, his fingers tremulous, and trailed over one of the troll's engraved copper bands. "I would have no one that believed me, then," he murmured. "I… I would not bother you again, even if you sounded as though the Lich King himself had come to you in your dreams. But I need you here, with me."

Kinzal offered him a bleak smile.

"Are you plagued by these nightmares often?" he asked. "Are they always so… consuming?"

The troll nodded and rose, towering over the elf. And then he helped him to his feet. "Back in Agmar's Hammer dey'd have ta hold me down sometimes. I grabbed da captain's throat once. I almos' strangled him. He laughed abou' it come morning, but I…" He pushed his thumbs against the center of his forehead. "I'd make a little camp for myself outside da barracks afta dat."

"No wonder you were so cross about being moved in here with me," the elf said in hushed tones. He regretted having felt spited by the troll that day.

Kinzal plopped down heavily on his cot, making it creak and groan. He patted the area next to him and Strell settled down beside him, letting the troll wrap them both under the covers. "I shoulda said sometin'," he repeated forlornly.

"He wouldn't have listened," Strell assured him. He let his feet sway as they dangled an inch from the floor. "What are yours about?" he asked in a whisper.

Kinzal's expression was hard to discern in the darkness. "Differen' tings," he said after a minute of silence. "Some real, some not. I dunno which be worse."

"What was the one just now? Real?"

"Real," he answered with a shudder. "It was…"

Strell leaned closer to the troll. He laid his head against his arm, his cheek flush against the Kinzal's clammy skin. "You listened to me. I'll listen to you. And we don't have to say anything about it ever again, if you want."

Kinzal nodded. "I dreamt I was back in Zul'Drak. Dat was where I served da longest. I left not so long ago, ran back ta Agmar's Hammer. I couldn' listen anymore… terrors'd come up in da night, snatch people up. Ya'd hear 'em screamin', but by den dere was nuttin' ta do. Dey'd beg. Pray. I heard a hundred prayers ta a hundred differen' gods an' ancestors, an' ain' one of 'em ever saved someone from dat. I dreamt it happened ta me dat time, but I didn' die when I fell, jus' broke my spine. A ghoul was on me, eatin' me… an' dat's when I felt ya hand," he said apologetically. "Sorry."

"I would have done the same," the elf said, pulling the blankets tighter around them. He felt cold now, as cold as Kinzal did. "Your blankets aren't very warm," he noted with displeasure.

"Nah, not really," the warrior agreed. "So… did ya dream about it?"

Strell exhaled as he nodded, the sound filling the dark room. "But there was snow, and-" He stopped. It didn't seem right to mention that Kinzal had been there, not in that state. "And my mother was with the man that did it."

"If a witch doctah was here," the troll said after a few minutes, "he'd be knowin' what ta make of dat. Do elves got dere own doctahs?"

The young elf chuckled as he stood and made for his own bed. "I know of a priest with a penchant for divining and deciphering dreams… but the old crone would sooner kick my rump out the door than help me. Maybe if I took Torril with," he mused.

Kinzal's gaze was steady on him as he stripped his plush comforter from the bed. It was silky soft, the crimson fabric stuffed with downy feathers. The elf grunted as he heaved the thick blanket onto the cot.

"Str- Ser Dayborne, stop. I can' take dat from ya," he insisted.

"I was sweating like a stuck pig under it," the rogue said evenly. "And shivering under those threadbare rags they gave you. The nights grow cooler. Eversong is in an eternal spring, but there is a great deal of difference between its dawn and its end. We approach the closest thing to winter that this land has," he said.

"'M just used ta da heat," the troll explained as he sheepishly took the thick blanket. "I was born on da isles. Grew on Durotar. Fought in Hellfire. Northrend left me chilled ta da bone," he sighed.

"Maybe your dreams won't turn to Northrend if you're warm," Strell said hopefully. He bedded down under his sheets and one of the thinner blankets he had traded his comforter for.

"Maybe so," Kinzal said. He smiled faintly at the elf as he buried himself under the crimson cover.

---

"What's that?" Strell asked in between sips of tea turned pale with cream and sugar. His room- their room, he corrected- was messier than ever. He'd spent the better part of ten minutes searching for his other sheepskin glove while Kinzal went to gather the post that came twice weekly.

"A letter for ya," the troll muttered as he thumbed through the stack of mail. "A few, actually. What's dis?" he muttered as he spotted one with a lipstick-coated print of a kiss on the back.

"Give me those," Strell said at once, snatching them from the troll's three-fingered grasp. He smiled to himself as he flipped through- some had names and addresses that he recognized, some did not. "Admirers," he said fondly, half to himself and half to the troll that stood by, watching him curiously.

He tore open the first and was delighted at the concern voiced in the letter. It appeared Effira had spread the news of his true plight, and with his location and situation now known, friends and acquaintances had written to offer their sympathies.

Strell glanced up at the warrior and then back to the flowing script remarking upon his dark beauty and talented tongue, and then back up to the troll. His gaze lingered on Kinzal, who had received exactly one letter in the time that he had been here, a letter that he now tore open with all the enthusiasm of a child choosing a switch for his spanking.

"What's that?" he asked, folding his own letter in his lap.

Kinzal gave him a crooked smile. "Back pay from Northrend." He glanced back down at the crumpled note to be exchanged at the bank for gold. He folded it neatly and tucked it into his knapsack. "Certainly ain' no love letter," he said with a little shrug as he sat on his cot.

Strell bit his lip, internally berating himself for being so self-absorbed as to flaunt his stack of letters before the troll. "If you got out more, I'm sure you'd have piles to pick from," he offered.

The warrior shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Thanks, mon."

"I mean it," the rogue said with a forcefulness that made the troll raise his brows. He glanced back down to his letter. "As many sin'dorei as there are that are wary of orcs and trolls, there are quite a number that are very willing to embrace them."

"Dat so," the troll muttered, a statement rather than a question.

"It is," the pale elf said. "You could have your pick of any of them. Or all of them." He thought briefly of the stable girl that he'd seen Kinzal with three times now. It was not a stretch that he had set his sights on her alone. "Or is there one in particular you've already chosen?" he asked coyly.

"Yeah, mon." He leaned in close, as if to share a secret, and Strell stooped excitedly to better hear. "It be Eight-Toe Terval," he sniggered as the elf leaned close.

Strell swatted him on the shoulder with his stack of letters. "Don't kid about that. Poor fool, he always teeters a little to the left as he walks. It's a good thing his cock curves a little to the right. I bet it helps keep him balanced," he muttered as he turned and flipped through more of the letters. While most were quite uplifting to see, there was also the standard handful of disparaging ones. He wasn't surprised about that.

"Ya seem pretty knowledgeable about him," Kinzal noted, an amused smile stretching his lips around his tusks.

"It was an act of mercy," Strell said dismissively. "He lost those toes after he kept trying to nudge a hunter's sleeping worg out from under the table. Definitely not the best and brightest of the sin'dorei."

"Lucky all he lost was a few toes," Kinzal chortled. "I seen a warg take a night elf's arm off ta da shoulder once. Carried it aroun' for days afta…"

Strell's grin slowly faded as he began the slow task of reading his mail and writing out replies. It might have gone faster if he could have dictated some of the letters to Kinzal, but he was reasonably certain that the troll would want no part in the smut that was being exchanged.

"So you really have no lovers?" he asked the warrior after sealing his second reply.

"Ya sound surprised," the troll rumbled.

"I am. The Amani… well, we are no strangers to their appetites, sexual or otherwise," he said with a crooked smile. "Many elves have been carried off over the years, and the few that returned spun some rather terrifying stories. And a whore I once spoke to said that it wasn't unusual for troll patrons to go a dozen or more times in a single night. Twice that, if it was a female troll." He arched a questioning brow.

"We like ta get our gold's worth," Kinzal laughed.

Strell noted that he denied nothing and whistled lowly. "You're going to break that poor stable girl," he told the blue-skinned warrior, clucking his tongue.

The troll snorted and gave him a dubious look. "What stable girl?"

"The girl. The girl, the one you've been seeing every night you have off," he said knowingly. "What's her name? Talissa? No, that's not it. But I've seen you visit her in the stable."

"Tarana," Kinzal said with a little sigh. He leaned forward until his tusks nearly touched the elf's pale skin. "Ya been spyin' on me, little rogue?"

"Not spying," Strell argued, ducking away from the troll. "Just looking down from my ivory tower and seeing what's there to be seen."

Kinzal looked doubtful. "Well, I ain' doin' nuttin' ta da girl. She real sweet. She wanted ta learn ta read Orcish. I told her I'd help her."

"Oh." The rogue shifted uncomfortably. "That's… terribly kind of you."

The troll shrugged. "She takin' good care of Loktak. An' I taught one of my bruddas ta read not too long ago. Shouldn' be hard ta teach her."

"Well, if you need to borrow any books," Strell said, glancing at his shelf lined with volumes in near perfect condition, in Orcish and Thalassian and Common. He was feeling very generous to the girl that was nothing more than a pupil to the troll. "She'll get far more out of them than I ever will."

"Dat's kind of ya, Ser Dayborne." Kinzal smiled and leaned back, stretching. "Ya madda wants you an' me ta start plannin' sometin' tomorrow, too."

"Torril's party for his betrothed," the elf said glumly. He settled down on the floor atop a soft carpet of red and gold.

The warrior nodded, his hair bobbing forward. "Ya knew?"

"That thing's been on the books for ages. I don't know why she wants us to handle anything for it- Light knows the likes of us won't be allowed to attend. Or so much as show our faces."

"I don' know da first ting about elves' fancy parties," Kinzal admitted.

"I do," Strell sighed, trailing his finger over one of the thick swirls that decorated the carpet. "Unfortunately. Torril should be planning this, though. It's his stupid betrothed."

"You sound jealous," the troll teased, a chuckle filling his throat.

The elf frowned. He wasn't jealous, not in the least. "Do I really? I have no reason to be. I cast off my betrothed specifically to avoid this sort of drivel."

"Cast off?" Kinzal asked, aghast.

"Yes. Broke it off, sent her packing, ended it. I never want to marry," he added bitterly. "Anyone."

"Never?" his keeper asked, still looking shocked.

"Never. You sound surprised," he said, a grin working its way over his lips. It was interesting to see Kinzal unsettled.

"We trolls mate for life. Though we do also believe in frequent reincarnation," he added wryly, earning him a quick laugh from the elf. "But ta find someone, ta promise 'em dat an' den break da oath…"

"I promised her nothing," Strell growled. "It was no oath of mine, but a pact of our parents' making when we were both still children at play. Same as Torril's betrothal now." He sighed. "But yes… Silvermoon feels as you do. My desire to never wed is fortunate, as I am considered thoroughly unweddable by good society. My mother has never forgiven me, I think."

"Ya not marriage material jus' because ya refused one match?"

"Well… it was the manner of it, too, I think," the elf admitted, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. "I told my fiancé the truth of it one evening at a party. I'd taken a bit of wine and it got the better of me, I suppose. But she agreed. Her heart was with another, a third son of a merchant family. There's a challenging match. And as we commiserated, I made a plan to free us both, at least from that particular bind."

"Not a good plan, I take it?" the troll asked.

"Perhaps not," Strell agreed, a quick smile crossing his lips. "These contracts won't be dissolved over the betrotheds' wishes, or even their hate for each other, but they will be over even trifling embarrassments. I made more than a trifling scene, though, I'm afraid. Perfumed myself in rum and staggered out into the party. I was half-drunk, I think, as much on eagerness to steer my own life as on any wine. I catcalled and told every bawdy joke I'd heard on the street, hinted at a few of the juiciest bits of gossip regarding some of the lords and ladies present… yet I think her family might still have pursued the marriage had I not enthusiastically kissed one of the servants in the middle of the ballroom."

Kinzal snorted. Strell was not certain what to make of his expression. It could have been amusement, or disgust, or disbelief. Maybe all three and more. He could be hard to read at times, even for a rogue.

"He was quite taken with me, to my surprise. A good deal older than me and very tired of telling nobles that their shit smelled like roses, no doubt. He dunked his tabard in the punchbowl and rode out with me, and we fucked in their orchard. That was the beginning," he sighed. "Perhaps I lost my senses- I care not, I am the better for it now. I do not envy my brother's engagement or his party."

"What happened ta ya fiancé? She get her sweetheart?" Kinzal crouched down across from him now, his long legs coiled beneath him.

The elf scoffed. "No, of course not. That's the price of keeping their precious honor. She was married off to some eldest son, the last of his line, near twice her age. A poor trade, in retrospect? I have wondered if she regrets it now… but surely he is a better husband to her than I would have been. That is a sort of honor, is it not? Walking away from a situation you know yourself to be ill-suited for?"

Kinzal shrugged, his forehead creased in thought. "I'd like ta tink so," he muttered. "What good's a soldier too uneasy ta be trusted wit' a shift? Ta stand his ground an' hold his post? I left when I didn't tink I could anymore," he said bitterly. "Dey'll call ya a coward, an' craven, but it be worth the derision in da end. Maybe."

"Without doubt," Strell muttered in reply. The troll looked more despondent with each second that passed, clearly drifting to thoughts of Northrend. The rogue thought to turn him back to the present. "Of course, there are many lords and ladies that try to indulge their desires while keeping up appearances. That's a treacherous walk, but I've seen it enough… Torril and I, we're only half-brothers. Did you know?"

Kinzal glanced up at the sudden revelation, his eyes so wide that the elf could see the entire band of amber that ringed his pupil. "You an' Torril? Which of ya parents…" A beat later he looked guilty.

Strell poked him in the shoulder and gave him a look to let him know he didn't mind. "You're stuck dealing with our brand of insanity. You might as well know us true. My parents… well, it wasn't a marriage of love. Most aren't, with nobles." He rocked back and forth gently. "Torril isn't my father's," he whispered.

"Who's he be den?" the troll asked after a moment.

"Someone blond," the elf said with a hollow laugh. "Someone that my mother actually likes. I doubt if Torril even knows who sired him. We didn't even know until we overheard her complaining to her sister about it once when we were younger and asked our father what she meant," he said with a shrug. "Now it's just that uncomfortable not-so-secret that no one speaks of. The heir, a bastard? What a jest. And does it not strike you as a little ironic?"

Kinzal raised his brows in silent question.

"My mother, always so offended by me," he mused as he wound a loose thread from the hem of his shirt tight round his finger. "She, who could not even be bothered to give my father a child before engaging in her own trysts. From what I understand, he had to plead with her to get me. Gave her a wing of the house for her own use, agreed to let her keep her lovers on the side, allowed her a stipend from his own family's fortune for her discretion."

"He cares much for ya."

"Yes… well, I wonder if he thinks I was worth it all, now. Me, his only trueborn son, a depraved little madman."

"So ya brudda… he's ta be da lord, be he ain' of ya fadda's blood. Shouldn' you be da heir, den?"

Strell made a face. "It would be wasted. And mother couldn't have that, anyway. People would be curious as to why Torril was passed over- he's so unfalteringly good, and I'm… well, I'm me. He can have it, all of it. I wonder if it's a mercy or a burden for him, though."

Kinzal let out a lengthy sigh.

"I tire you with stories, or exasperate you with our follies," he said with a quick grin.

"I thought it was hard ta keep up wit four bruddas an' three sistahs. Ya got jus' da one, and it seems like more trouble between da two of ya den my whole family put togetha."

"That's a lot of siblings."

The troll bared his teeth in a grin. "Well, my madda an' fadda was real close. Loved each other sometin' fierce. Got da numbers ta prove it," he chuckled. "I got an olda brudda an' sistah. Everyone else came afta me. Already an uncle. Got a new niece on da way, I hear. An' a weddin' come summer for Janquil."

Strell couldn't help but smile at Kinzal's monotone delivery of the news. "That sounds exciting. Are you so jaded you cannot even enjoy a wedding?"

The warrior snorted. "Da tart chose me as her Hand, da one ta help her get ready an' stand at her side for da ceremony. She only did it so she can make me dress however she want. Mark my words, she gonna have me up dere in a loincloth made of bee-flowers."

"I think that sounds like an event worth attending," the rogue said brightly.

"Ya can come, but only if ya volunteer ta take my place," he chuckled. "Nah, on second thought… she'd like ya. Ya'd conspire togetha. An' I'd end up in a bee-magnet loincloth an' have a bunch of little elf dicks drawn in my facepaint besides," he said, his glare at the rogue softened by a quirk of his lips.

"Would you like one big troll dick better?" He laughed as he ducked the book that the warrior flung at him. "Or maybe a bunch of shapeless raptors," he suggested, cocking his head mockingly.

He yelped as the troll lunged at him, but it quickly turned to laughter when he found himself flat on his back, the tips of his ears brushing the plush carpet beneath him. He gave Kinzal a mischievous wink and hooked a leg around his waist as he rolled, pulling the troll with him until he sat triumphantly across his abdomen, his keeper laid out on his back.

"Ya couldn' come," the warrior said decisively from beneath him. "Ya'd be all over my sistah. Janquil's no maiden, but her betrothed'd spit blood if he caught ya wit' her."

"You sound so certain I'd pursue her!" Strell said cheerfully, a soft chuckle on his lips. He pressed his weight down on Kinzal's middle, feeling the hard plank of muscle beneath him. "But why go for the sister when I have her handsome brother already?" he purred.

Kinzal was stone-still, but his eyes gleamed with a hunger that excited the rogue. He made no move to press himself closer to the elf, but neither did he shy away from his touch.

"You have more self control than I do," Strell noted as he slid his hand up the broad slopes of the troll's thickly muscled chest, wishing that he hadn't bothered to put on a shirt. He felt it rise and fall beneath his fingers, his captive keeper's breaths coming fast and shallow.

"I'm supposed ta," the warrior mumbled, his three-fingered hands curling into loose fists up beside his mohawked head. "Ya don' wanna prove 'em right, remember? An' I don' wanna lose my job."

Strell remembered those words, vaguely. He bit his lip. "I… I don't," he agreed. If he knew that it could be kept secret, maybe. But the walls here often had ears, and he didn't trust himself to keep quiet if Kinzal was as impressive as the doodle he had drawn in the sand weeks ago. He nodded to himself. "They were right to choose you," he said after a moment, though he couldn't keep a tinge of disappointment from his voice. "Made of steel, you are."

"Not so," the troll chuckled. He relaxed now, confident that the situation was under control, Strell supposed. He uncurled his hands and allowed the elf to press his palms flat against his; his hands wrapped easily around Strell's, swallowing them up.

Strell felt the calluses left by his sword, the raised little scar where he'd lost a finger and regrown it. Kinzal resisted when the elf tried to guide those hands to his slender waist, though.

"Ya… tempt me," the warrior admitted uneasily. He wrested his hands free again, eying his ward warily. "But I gotta listen ta da head on my shoulders."

"I'll have to try that sometime," the elf said with a slight smile. He laid his hands flat on the warrior's flat belly and eased backward, sliding further down until he straddled Kinzal's hips. At the troll's sudden tensing and stuttered protest, he shrugged and said, "I just had to know if I really was tempting you. You're a hard one to read at times."

He smiled wickedly at the warrior's discomfort. Kinzal's stiffened cock had tented the front of his loose breeches. Strell could feel it, a hard heat that strained against the fabric as it pressed against his backside. As he slid back over the thick length that arched underneath the brown twill, a satisfied noise escaped him.

Kinzal looked less pleased and more tortured. "Apologies, Ser Dayborne," he said through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched hard. His face was flushed, the blue skin turning a sultry shade of plum across his cheeks and lips. He looked good enough to kiss, aside from the nearly foot-long tusks that made it precarious to lean in.

"No need for apologies," the young elf said as he gathered his feet under himself and bounced up into a crouch. He offered a hand to the troll to help pull him up, but found he was quite useless at that. Kinzal was easily twice his weight and likely would have just pulled the rogue back on top of him.

The troll was still flustered as he stood, trying futilely to hide the unmistakable signs of his erection. "'M gonna be in da bathroom," he said hastily, sounding out of breath. He kept his gaze everywhere but on the elf as he shuffled sideways, hands still cupped over his front.

The rogue grinned to himself and padded to the bathroom door once it was closed. He pressed an ear to the white-painted wood and his grin split wider. "Need any help in there?" he asked sweetly, knowing it was in poor taste to tease his frustrated keeper but loving it all the same. He was nursing his own arousal, anyway- it wasn't as though Kinzal would be the only one suffering through this tension.

He offered the warrior some friendly advice through the door- describing his own preferences in vivid detail, sharing things he'd seen especially talented whores do, admitting scenarios he liked to imagine- and all the while he tended to his own weeping erection, biting his lip to stifle the moans that threatened to escape from time to time. It wouldn't do to let Kinzal know that he was just as hot and bothered by the troll, and all without his even trying.

His voice trailed off at times, the elf occasionally getting lost as he listened to the faint noises within the bathroom, but each time he would recall himself and pipe up with some new lewd suggestion for his keeper.

The troll's muffled snarls were worth it, and truth be told, they only made him harder. Strell didn't have the first clue about how to speak Zandali, but he was fairly certain he'd been cursed to hell and back a few times, too. By the end, Kinzal was muttering darkly against the gap where the door met the wall, promising to repay the elf in kind one day.

Light, Strell hoped he would.

---

This was it, then. A moment like Strell had been waiting for. It had presented itself so suddenly, and all of his things were ready, and yet…

Too soon, too soon, he chided himself. But was it? Or was he just clinging to this place for the sake of one person? A little sexual tension is no reason to stick around, he told himself. And neither was friendship, or whatever it was that he shared with Kinzal.

Over the weeks he had ventured down to the vault piled with gold in his father's study and taken just little enough each time to go unnoticed- he now had a hefty sum in coins, enough to pay his way for half a year if he restrained himself. His knives were all stored away in a fold of aged leather, which was in turn tucked into a knapsack stuffed with clean clothing. He had his papers, his jewelry, his lockpicks, and the letters of promise to house him from merchants and commonfolk alike.

But now he paced, wasting this brief window of opportunity as he fretted over whether it was the time to leave. The rogue paused by his desk during his circuit of the room, running his fingers over the raised designs etched on his cast iron abomination.

With the edges ground smooth and even, it did indeed have the appearance of a bowl, if a little lopsided. The designs were even quite artistic, at first glance. He smiled at it, briefly considering bringing the hunk of metal… but it was too heavy. Severely impractical.

He set the bowl back down and sighed. Kinzal's cot and bag of belongings seemed to stare at him accusingly, in turns galling him and half-convincing him to stay. The repaired window loomed beyond it, reminding him of the thing he didn't like to acknowledge when he was alone- the creeping fear of monsters in the wood and the false safety of walls. To leave would mean no more contemptuous glances from servants, no summons from his mother, no worries about being the next to be dragged into the forest, no slinking about in his brother's shadow.

This was his opportunity to leave for good, and to have a decent head start. His mother had summoned Kinzal for some discussion concerning his pay, the servants were attending their monthly meeting, and his father and Torril were both occupied with his brother's studies upstairs in the library. Not a soul would be witness to his leaving.

Still, he acknowledged the sting of guilt that made his insides twist. By running away, he would likely cost the warrior his job. Kinzal might forgive him, or he might curse him. Three nights ago they had made talk of weddings and he had shared family secrets that none but his blood knew with the troll. They'd nearly had a good hard fuck, too, and it filled his mouth with a bitter taste to think that the warrior might spurn him completely after this.

It was a repellent thought, but no more repellent than remaining in this stagnant place where there was only one friendly face to greet him.

Kinzal came unbidden into his mind's eye, flushed dark with arousal, body dripping with pond water, his prick standing proudly. The elf pressed his legs together and tried to shake the thought, but it was only replaced by the troll sharing his bed, his arm wrapped protectively around him as they cocooned themselves in blankets. Not much better, he thought sourly, wondering whose side his imagination was on.

He thought of Torril, briefly, and then his father. But the reminder of Kinzal returned with a vengeance, filling him with doubt and almost convincing him to throw aside all of his preparation to blithely accept his life here. Almost.

I've lived my whole life selfishly, he thought as he gathered his things. Why stop now?

But he did stop, though only for a moment. Strell rummaged for a piece of uncrumpled parchment and pulled his ink pen from a drawer.

He jotted down a brief letter to his father, apologizing and absolving the troll of any guilt in the matter. His mother might toss Kinzal out on the doorstep without a second thought, but his father would perhaps search for some other manner in which he could continue to employ the trustworthy troll.

Strell was grateful for that. He let the letter be his thin little bulwark against the shame and longing that threatened to cow him into staying. Kinzal would find some better means of employment, surely. And if not…

He bit his tongue and dismissed the thought. With a last look around his lavishly furnished room- pointedly letting his gaze slide over his iron bowl and Kinzal's cot- he pulled on his cloak and knapsack and darted down the stairs, silent as a shadow.

---

I don't know what I'm doing anymore :|