love is the voice under all silences,
the hope which has no opposite in fear;
the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:
the truth more first than sun more last than star
- do lovers love? why then to heaven with hell
~ love is the voice under all silences by e. e. cummings
The fire crackled in the hearth. Dyre stood above it, picking the logs with a tined spoke. Draco fiddled lightly with the curtains of the bed behind him. It was unbearably warm so close to the fire but Dyre didn't pull himself away. The orange coals knocked against each other like dragon teeth. The logs sagged, blackened with yellow heat.
He felt guilty about abandoning Hermione, though Victor seemed strangely happy to fill the role of escort for him. He was sure she saw him departing, clever thing that she was, but still propriety should have bade him stay.
While he thought, it seemed Draco had had enough of the awkward silence. He approached the fire. He ignored the well-furnished, antiquely upholstered chair and knelt down on the carpet. He was close enough that the fire dance across his eyes. It took no time at all for a flush to rise on his pale face. The heat played in his hair, plucking rare strands of copper amidst the gold and silver. He crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap.
"Join me?"
Dyre moved to Draco's left. They stared into the fire. After a moment, Draco let out a loud sigh and collapsed against his side, resting his head on his shoulder. Dyre was unsure of what to do. He was woefully inept as this sort of thing. After a long moment of stiff reserve, he rested his cheek in Draco's hair. He smelt of shampoo, some herbal formula that Dyre was unfamiliar with but reminded him of leaves. He closed his eyes, imagining mountain ridges, the sky and a multitude of things wondrously blue.
Draco shifted, the knees of his pants getting burned. He drew his legs to his chest, holding them there with his arms. Dyre was struck with the sudden desire to remove Draco's shoes and feel his ankles. His fingers twitched with the ache to run over the strong muscle of his calf. He wondered what his wrists felt like. He wanted to sit atop him and just stare.
He wanted so much it hurt.
"I want to kiss you," he said, memorizing the feel of the head beneath his, the cheek against his shoulder, the forearm pressed into his.
"I really want to kiss you too."
Neither moved, resting against each other in almost perfect bliss. Eventually, the words sank through the heat of the room, and Dyre tensed. Draco watched him with a strange vulnerability in his gaze, and Dyre was struck suddenly by the lack of confidence there. He looked nervous, and Dyre wasn't sure that he liked it.
Dyre wasn't thinking as he moved up to his knees. Lifting the lordling's chin slightly with his finger, he watched how Draco closed his eyes and parted his lips ever so slightly to breathe. There was a crease in his brow as if he was thinking really hard about something. The muscles in his arms were twitching, and he was playing with his fingers. Still, he kept himself in place, eyes closed, trusting, and waited.
Dyre didn't know much about kissing. He knew that it was usually sloppy, accompanied by rough grunts and rutting. He knew that he hadn't wanted anything to do with it. There was only one instance when he had not been thoroughly repulsed. The adepts of the Tower were forbidden interaction with men. Dyre was a strange exception, tolerated by the Maiden's irreproachable will, and he still had to purify himself before crossing the grounds. All of the adepts were virgins. Still, there was a secret shared by all the inhabitants, something even the strictest of All-Mothers did not breach.
There was no courting, no declarations, certainly nothing as forward as a public kiss, but Dyre had once found all-sisters Bekah and Halldóra ensconced in each other's arms on the way to the pantry. For a moment, before he hastily scurried away, he had thought they looked rather pretty like that, their belts abandoned and the laces of their tunics loose enough to reveal their shoulders.
Dyre didn't like men. They were cruel, crass creatures more often than not. At one point in his life, he had been so ashamed and scared of himself that he had almost mutilated himself. Though it had been a phrase he had grown out of, still, he knew better than to look for beauty amidst the throes of man's rapacious sex. He knew better, so why was he so drawn to one now? Why did it feel so impossible to leave him alone? Why was he so overwhelmed by the expression on his face, something like the birth of a hatchling or the first bud of the season? Why was he so enraptured?
Why wasn't he scared anymore?
He had always associated men with violence. But Draco looked so warm and welcoming, not at all like Victor or even slender Fredrick, the mousy man who managed the school's accounting, just as athletic if not more so as Draco. Why did he have such a hard time imagining any sort of cruelty from him?
Still watching from hooded eyes, he closed the distance between them. Such softness was surely not meant for men. There was no way that they were meant to survive such things. Dyre's lips were chapped. He could feel the way they crinkled against Draco's, which might as well have been rose buds. He felt the breath shudder its way past his lips and into his own. He felt Draco's fists bunch over his legs. He felt his mouth moving.
He felt Draco restraining himself from pouncing across the distance between their bodies and demanding the tongue from his mouth.
He smiled at the thought and lost even the small part of him that thought this was a horrible and irresponsible thing to do. The hand tilting Draco's chin went to grip the back of his neck. It brushed over his hair, moving through the tresses to grasp both the heat of his skin and the silken folds of the locks. Feeling his way through the kiss, Dyre pushed Draco back, lifting his head to take more of his mouth.
He was damned for this. Godsfire, if this was Hel… If this was some type of trick or jest, let it come later. Let him burn but not now.
He nibbled on Draco's lip, unable to retreat from the petal softness, just like the blooms of the tree in the courtyard of the Tower. Draco was braced on his hands, his legs having given way when Dyre crawled into his lap. Dyre's other hand was cradling his cheek, rubbing circles with his thumb. Sure that Draco's lower lip was perfectly bruised (and his heart could take no more), he drew away. Draco's eyes were so deeply hooded that only a small spark of color remained.
Dyre could hardly believe that he could touch such a thing, forgetting anything about men and women and humanity. Draco looked perfectly debauched, the flush from the fire having blended with his panting. His lip was just as swollen as Dyre imagined, as if stained with pomegranate juice. A hint of saliva clung to its corner, glistening in the fire. Though his hair was fair, he had inherited his mother's dark lashes, resting now in bare slits.
He didn't know what to do with him. His hands were filthy, his intentions deplorable and selfish. And still, they strayed to his sides, massaging the lax muscles of his forearms. Dyre watched him try to focus his gaze and pressed their foreheads together. The action startled Draco slightly, who was still reclining between his splayed thighs.
"You make me…" Dyre started to say but shook his head.
It wasn't his fault. It wasn't Draco's fault that Dyre was so enamored, that he had never felt this way before. He would not blame the fire for the moth. He didn't want to let go. He was burning from the inside out, and he still didn't have the strength or the intelligence to let go. He didn't have the selfless compassion to escape intact. What would the Maiden think of these base actions?
But he knew She would smile at him. He knew She would give him Her blessing in everything he did because She loved him much more than he loved himself. She would touch his temple and let him be free. He was sure that She would love Draco. He was sure that if they could ever meet, the Maiden would love his spirit, his innocent arrogance, the belief that the world existed for the sole purpose of such delights as freedom and love.
He wanted to tell Draco to never leave, but he couldn't. Dyre had no place here. This was not his home. No matter how much he loathed him, he was bade to follow Karkaroff. Perhaps in another lifetime, they could have lived together. Maybe in another lifetime, Dyre could have just been, instead of playing marionette and martyr. But that was not his Skuld.
"I make you what, Dyre?" Draco asked softly, peering up at him.
Too trusting. Too honest. Too close. Too, gods damn him, there and warm and welcome.
"It's nothing. I'm just a fair shade short of my wits tonight."
"Would you like to go to bed?" he asked then blushed at his implications. Still, he refused to take it back or correct himself, staring at Dyre with a stubbornness beyond pride.
Dyre couldn't disallow a smile. He reached up to stroke Draco's cheek. If he was going to Hel, he was going to the deepest ring, the farthest pit. Anything to continue lying here against him.
"I've been sleeping in the forest."
Draco scowled at him. "On what? Leaves? It's safe here you know."
Dyre shook his head indulgently. "The forest is more than accommodating."
"Do you not like the castle?"
He huffed as his persistence and cocked his head wryly. "Do you not like the forest?"
The lord crinkled his nose. "It's dirty. It's cold. Bugs are everywhere, and who knows what's waiting to eat you."
Dyre laughed and collapsed over to his side in a disarming motion, freeing Draco's lap. "You can smell the earth," he said, taking a deep breath of burnt wood and carpet. "Everything is alive with movement. Not for a moment is anything silent. The world is singing to you. The sky is wide and open and when it is clear, full of secrets and wisdom. You are never alone."
Draco was silent a moment, and Dyre feared that he had revealed too much. Then, the boy crawled over onto his stomach, regarding him with his head propped on his hand and his ankles crossed above him.
"It doesn't sound so bad when you say it like that, but I think I'd still prefer for crawlers to stay out of my pants."
"Seems a fair trade to me," the north-man responded.
Draco shivered dramatically. "I woke up with a cricket in my pajama bottoms once. That was enough intimacy from an insect to last me a lifetime."
Dyre smirked.
They talked into the night, chaperoned by the fire. Things of little consequence. Eventually, the early hour became too much for Draco. His head was slumping against Dyre's belly, lids drooping. Dyre watched him put up a valiant effort to stay awake, but the drowsy warmth of the room and Dyre's lilted voice inevitably overcame him. Dyre observed him in slumber for a bit, gaining simple pleasure in the pulse of his lungs and the steady motion of his back, the slight patch of drool that leaked past his lips to soak his shirt.
It was no effort to slip out from beneath him. Knowing that Draco was probably unused to the floor, he coaxed him into his arms. Draco mumbled in his sleep, moving easily into his grip. He was heavier than he looked and a deadweight. Still, Dyre, with a grunt, hoisted him up and onto the folded sheets of the bed. Draco curled in on himself, rubbing his face into the pillow like a contented kitten. Dyre slipped off his shoes. The fabric of his trousers looked too expensive to sleep in, but Dyre was only willing to push decorum so far. He did relieve him of his waistcoat, doubting that Draco could sleep comfortably with it still on, though he seemed rather unbothered by anything at the moment. Dyre tucked the sheets around him and with a whisper, dimmed the fire.
As the room darkened, Dyre couldn't help but marvel at the peace that swathed him. Out of tune with everything but his own illusions, Draco seemed to be made more from myth than flesh. The moon was now on the other side of the castle and only the low hues of the dying coals illuminated his face. Dyre brushed the hair from him, kissing the bare flesh of his forehead.
"Á morgun, litli herra."
He left, closing the door behind him softly.
Draco shifted, pulling the sheets higher on his shoulder. "Good night, Dyre."
o.O.o
The train was scheduled to depart from Hogwarts the morning after the Yule Ball. Really crappy scheduling, Draco mused, as half the student body stumbled about the school in post-drunken stupors from random unlocked classrooms and miscellaneous dormitories sporting last night's spotty dresses and robes. Draco watched them mingle at breakfast, collapsing into porridge and too dim-witted to sneak pepper-ups into their pumpkin juice.
For his part, he looked perfectly refreshed, having stolen time in Dyre's shower and calling in the spare uniform he kept tucked away in a pocket of between-space just for such occasions. His hair was damp and unstyled, and though easy rectified with charms, he hardly felt the need. He knew that Dyre liked it better without gel.
He had to admit though, that despite his outward appearance, much better than most his peers, he felt hardly refreshed at all. He wasn't at all sure that the liberties he had taken with Dyre last night wouldn't come back to haunt him. Already people, the few that were marginally functional, were sending him inquiring glances. The purpose of his mother luring the north-man onto the dance floor had been to allow Draco to ask for his hand without appearing overly interested. That had been the plan.
But, even after all this planning and effort, Draco still hesitated to approach him. Part of him was still reeling that Dyre had asked some strange girl to the Ball instead of him. It was difficult for him to describe Dyre's appeal now, sitting in the Hall with none of the darkness and whiteness of elegance to surround him. Other than his raw talent for movement, which really made him attractive but not enthralling, Draco could not remember what had held him so enraptured, enough so that he had forgotten even the simple ire of seeing others touch him so freely while he could not or the deprecating jealously of standing aside while Hermione Granger escorted him into the Hall.
And when Draco had finally bumbled his way through asking him to dance, he had forgotten everything he was supposed to do. He had wanted to say so many things to him while they were dancing. He had planned to comment on Severus' ability to play the piano. He had thought of a wonderful joke that was sure to appeal to Dyre's dark sense of humor. He had planned to ask about the golden egg and very subtly about Miss Granger.
But he didn't. He wasn't sure if it had been a choice or just something that fled from him the moment he had guided Dyre's hand around his waist, determined to let him know that he saw him as an equal. He had always planned to say something, but there just hadn't been a time when he was willing to break the tension between their bodies.
Merlin, he had felt everything. He could smell Dyre so finely it was ridiculous. A crisp taste like morning and wet pavement mixed with a scent like evergreen but softer, not as pungent. He could taste the light fragrance of dust on Remus' jacket, the soapy tendrils of freshly washed skin.
And the press of him. Strangely gentle, like part of his nature forbade him from coming too close, even with his fingers. Touches that mounted as they continued to dance, the hand at the small of his back taking more space, thighs brushing, arms crossing chests.
It was only in the coming morning when he realized their mistake. They had been far too lost in each other, far too obvious. Draco should have stayed to handle the rumors that were sure to follow. Of those from Hogwarts, perhaps only the Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws would be interested in the politics of the arrangement, but he was known for conquests, some of which were true and other pure fastidious myth. Few would truly understand the outrage of it. The French would gossip over the scandal, too estranged from the issue to truly care. However, it was the Nordic students that worried him.
No, their infatuation had not been overlooked. Most the Durmstrang students sat at the Slytherin table, and of those, most were sending him haughty, hostile stares, the most prominent from Headmaster Karkaroff, who looked like someone had cursed his mother's grave.
Draco could give two flying fucks whether they approved, but he was sure Dyre hadn't wanted this to be made public, if not at least because of his schoolmates aggression. Second because he might not want to be in a relationship with him at all. They hadn't actually talked about it, and Draco knew enough not to assume anything from a kiss or even a full night of conversation. Though ensconced in the warmth of the fire they had been amicable - perfect really, he mused a bit sadly - such things coming to light, he knew from experience, were different.
Draco wasn't even sure he would know how to date someone like Dyre. He went into relationships confident in knowing what he and his partner wanted to get out of it – which was of course sex but also someone to talk to when he got bored or needed a distraction but wouldn't get clingy. He couldn't even think of Dyre in something even near that category. And he wasn't at all sure where this was going. Dyre had to leave when the tournament was over. Even if Draco could convince him to stay, his bond to Karkaroff overruled him.
So what the hell was he doing? This was so… not smart. Severus had always told him that any Slytherin and lord worth his salt never went into something without knowing what he would get out if it. But the thing was, he didn't want anything from Dyre, at least not anything material. He wasn't even sure he really wanted something physical, at least not purely physical, because he knew that if Dyre wanted him only because he was pretty and a good fuck, he'd probably lose it.
Merlin, that thought hurt.
He only knew that he wanted to be with him for as long as he possibly could, and Draco had always been one for selfish indulges.
"Forgive me for being late, my lord," a cultured, accented voice said to his side.
Draco started from his thoughts, thankfully able to retain his hold on his fork. He stared as Dyre waited for his acknowledgment, single green eye shining darkly.
"Late?"
"For breakfast," Dyre clarified with a soft, sly smile. "I had planned to escort you."
Draco gaped. "You did?"
"If it is permitted."
"Uh, yeah," he stammered.
Belatedly, he realized that Dyre was still standing. Though unnecessary, he scooted over, nudging his plate. Dyre allowed him a gentle, open grin and slid in beside him, pulling the back of his robes gracefully as he did so. Draco watched him in somewhat of a daze as he prepared his plate.
Something was different. He wore the same patchy, ill stitched black clothes, his scar peeking past his patch. He was clean, poised, and dark, just like always. Suddenly, it struck him that he was sitting beside him and not opposite him.
He looked away, sure that if he kept staring he was going to start kissing him or say something silly. Still, a private, pleased smile lightened his face. He pushed the eggs around his plate, unable to consume anymore with the butterflies in his stomach. It was difficult to control the urge to sit in his lap or grab his hand.
"You are quiet," Dyre noted after a long moment, in which Draco tried to stop fiddling with his food and fingers.
"Sorry," he said automatically.
Dyre sent him a wry look and returned to his fruit. Merlin, hadn't he just been thinking about all the things he wanted to tell him or ask him about? What were they? He couldn't remember.
"Why were you late?" he settled for saying after various unsuccessful groping.
"Professor Sprout caught me coming out of the forest and requested assistance."
Draco frowned. He had been in the forest again? "You know there are acromulas in the Forest, don't you?"
The corner of Dyre's mouth twitched across his cup, an herby tea that blew in wisps over his upper lip.
"I am aware."
Draco glared at his nonchalance. "And nightgaunts and black annis and red caps and strixes and the Danu?"
Dyre regarded him with that single-eyed stare, very much like Severus whenever he thought Draco was acting exceptionally, most often inappropriately, playful.
"You know many of the creatures in the Forest. Have you been in there by any chance?"
Draco watched that eye glimmer. Was he teasing him?
"You're going to get carried off by the sidhé," he grumbled, poking mulishly at his food.
Dyre's lip quirked in a manner that betrayed him.
"It's not funny!" Draco snapped, irked that his concern was being brushed off so casually.
"Forgive me, my lord," Dyre said around pressed lips, his eye dancing. "The Danu dare not lead me to their courts. I was merely wondering if you had once fallen into such a predicament yourself."
Draco blushed and proceeded to return to his abandoned plate, busying his tongue with his empty fork. Dyre did not press, though he was forced to cover his mouth with his hand to control his mirth. His shoulders shook minutely.
Draco, unable to control himself, smacked his shoulder. "It's not funny!" he shouted again, accidentally grabbing the attention of the people around them.
"Of course not, my lord," Dyre agreed, rolling his lower lip. "That would be… absolutely horrible."
Draco felt himself turn redder. This was so not fair. He huffed, turning away so he could hide his face in his knuckles. He was hot to his fingers.
"Would you tell me the story one day, my lord?" he implored, once he had subsided a bit, impressed by Draco's embarrassment.
"No," the lord pouted.
However, he made the mistake during the silence of glancing over. Dyre was staring at him curiously, eye still dancing like a nymph, head tilted and face unimaginably kind. He grunted.
"Though I'm sure Sirius would tell you even if I told him not to. Heaven knows he never lets me forget."
He mumbled it into his fist, eyes flirting across the various heads in the Hall and not on Dyre. The light touch that greeted his knuckles startled him, and he turned overly quickly. With hardly any pressure at all, Dyre drew the hand from his face, placing it on the table. Draco continued to stare at him in a stupor.
"If I may," Dyre said with a light, winsome smile. "I enjoy seeing your face. I would prefer you not to hide it."
Draco blinked at him. That had to be… one of the sweetest things anybody had ever said to him. Dyre held nothing but sincerity, making the line infinitely less corny and irritating had anyone else said it. Draco had never been shy or modest in his life, but in the face of such raw intensity, he couldn't help but lower his eyes, the feeling in his chest tightening with both pleasure and embarrassment.
He thought he had finally met his match in courting.
"I, uh, I'm not sure I can do that, but, um… thanks." he fumbled and coughed.
Dyre opened his mouth to say something else that Draco was sure would only increase his incompetence when a loud fist slammed next to the empty plate across from them. Draco jumped, far too caught up in his emotions to have noticed the boy's approach. Dyre's reaction was much more subtle.
The softness on his face changed, the mischievous aura fading into apathy. It was almost cruel to watch the loss. Though his beauty remained solid, the approachability was gone. Draco buried the hurt, knowing it was foolish to feel alone when he hadn't moved.
A stolid river-rock eye met the northern lord leaning over the table. The plate rested upset beside him, the goblet tumbled. Fury reigned in a blue gaze, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He glared down at Dyre with no less outrage than a wild boar. The students around them turned to watch, the teachers at the table stiff at attention.
"You think you're important now," Farkoff snarled, eyes flitting like a snake as spittle clung to his lower lip. "You think because some goblet spit out your name, you can act like a warrior. You don't deserve to sleep with the dogs. You think you can sit at the same table as us, you filthy mongrel," he snarled, his angry keeping his voice low and spiteful.
"I forget nothing," Dyre said in a calm voice, watching the lord with an even if hostile stare. "This is not Durmstrang."
"So you think you can break all our laws!" Farkoff responded hastily, barely letting him finish. "You are a bastard in any country!"
Draco bristled, mouth open, but Farkoff drove over him, flinging his arms so that he almost hit his two cronies.
"If this land had any honor, it would throw you out with the animals."
Dyre stood. "A lord would do well to remember that he is a guest and as such should not insult his hosts!"
Farkoff laughed, though it was a brittle sound shaky with malice. "A fatherless son of a whore would do well to remember that he knows nothing of his betters. If your own family cast you out, what makes you think they would welcome you here?"
Dyre remained silent, having no answer. Draco dared a glance at the Potters. James' face was a mess of rage and sorrow, warring with his voice and kept quiet only by Dumbledore's urgent whispers across the table. Lily looked too horrified to be properly angry, and Remus had been forced to take a hand to Sirius to keep him still. Draco's parents remained thoughtful, watching the boy handle himself alone, taking the insults against himself stoically
Draco stood.
"Dyre has been welcomed into Hogwarts because he is a brave and valiant fighter. With or without a father, he has shown more decorum and decency than you. Is this what Durmstrang has to show of its warriors?" he sneered with his mother's indignation. "That anyone is unwilling to see such talent and honor is a disgrace."
Dyre (and more than half the Hall with him) blinked. As the whispers started, Draco's glare resilient on the lord, Farkoff gathered his bearing enough for a leering sneer.
"So this is a bastard's honor," he jeered, eying Draco like a piece of meat. "Hiding behind the skirts of seiðr to England's child lords now? Eh, egri?"
The northerners gasped. Even Dyre looked stunned. Suddenly, the hall burst into foreign tongues, the Durmstrang students screaming in Germanic and Scandinavian languages, Russian and, in the case of Victor, Bulgarian. Teachers flooded to the Slytherin table, trying to keep the Hogwarts students from being trampled. The women had removed wands and daggers and were shouting alongside the men, split down the table between Farkoff and Dyre.
"Silence!" Dumbledore thundered, silencing everyone but the northerners, who ignored him to continue spitting curses and threats in harsh languages.
"Blood!" a boy demanded in English. "To the blood!"
"To the death!" shouted a girl.
Draco's heart caught in his throat. He had lost Dyre, and with the Durmstrang students still clawing and trying to throw each other across the hall, he had no chance to find him.
Karkaroff dragged two boys from each other and shouted in Russian, eclipsing Dumbledore in volume only. The students, trained to do so, stilled, though they did not stop throwing glares and snarls and did not sheath their weapons. The headmaster growled again in Russian and dropped the lads.
"I declare Holmgang!" rang Dyre's voice.
He stood in Lockjaw's and Crowley's grip, his nose bloody and eyes dripping hatred. Farkoff laughed.
"You milkmaid," he jeered. "You don't even possess a sword. This is why you are argr."
Dyre's nostrils flared. He clawed at the hands holding him, driving desperately for Farkoff's throat. The boys lost their hands, as happened when holding wild beasts. Farkoff met him with a smirk, taking his fist in his own. Dyre brought up his knee quickly and winded him.
"Dyre!" Karkaroff thundered.
Dyre stumbled over his next blow, his legs tying themselves together, fist raised and frozen. He growled, spitting syllables more beast than man.
"I have the right!" he shouted at last, furiously.
"You're a filthy bastard," Farkoff snarled.
"I offer my sword," Victor said suddenly. He stepped forward and unbelted his sheath. In the eyes of all the hall, he pressed the blade into Dyre's hands.
Dyre gave him a grateful but serious nod and turned his stare back to Farkoff. The lord glared.
"Even slaves have right to demand Holmgang," a girl said angrily, glaring at her fellow. More students backed her.
Draco didn't understand what was happening. How could Dyre be holding a sword? How had trading insults turned to this? He didn't even understand what had been said.
"Your filthy hands smear a sword," Farkoff spat but he straightened. "But so be it. To the death."
Dyre's eyes were steel. "To the blood," he said. "I will not deprive a house of its lord, even one as cowardly as you."
Farkoff's eyes blazed and he moved to accost him. Victor stepped between them, his wide shoulders and chest enough to dissuade even spells. He frowned darkly from his massive brow. Farkoff spat.
"A dog will bark and bite, but it is still a filthy mongel. I will have your tongue when I gut you."
"You will apologize to the English lords in this hall," Dyre said in agreement. "Even a dog doesn't slight that hand that feed it," he added with a horrible sneer.
Farkoff stepped around Victor to approach. "When I have your tongue, maybe I'll send it to your pretty lord. So as not to deprive such a pretty thing the pleasure of a dog's kiss."
Dyre's jaw clenched so hard that it was obvious he was trying not to bite him. Farkoff spun away and out of the hall, his cronies scurrying after him. Dyre gave a swift look to Victor, and they too left, sparing nothing for their watchers.