Something is wrong. Why the hell is Cahir so nervous? He was uncharacteristically tense before, pacing up and down, absentmindedly playing with his ring when they were waiting for the Emperor. He himself was nervous. The city, the palace were impressive, intimidating. He has never seen anything quite like this place before in his long life. But Cahir must be used to it. He has been here before, lived here for months. He fucking took this city. It was almost like his friend was scared of something. He said he had failed and betrayed Emhyr. Was he afraid the Emperor would not believe him and send him away again? Possible. Even likely. But now? It appears everything is going smoothly. The Emperor has invited him, Gallatin, to stay, provided him with a nice room, plenty to eat, excellent wine, a silk robe. He has just had the first hot bath in a very long time. The White Flame sure knows how to host. And Cahir, he is still here, cleaned up, with a fresh shirt. Emhyr seems to like their proposal. If he did not, he would have thrown them out right away, right? So why is Cahir drinking so much? He has downed three goblets full of wine already in as many minutes. And now, now he is telling him about his family, his past, how weak the Usurper thought he was. Strange, they have never talked about anything remotely personal before.
Gallatin looks at his friend quizzically. What the hell is going on? Why has he come to his room so late? Does Cahir want to initiate something even more personal than mere emotional story swapping? But is nervous like a school boy about it? Maybe it is a human thing to not find it natural if two men are attracted to each other and want more than just to save each other's lives? Silly humans. What could be wrong about it? Cahir is the only human who has ever earned his trust. Who has ever piqued his interest. He is a great fighter, the best he has ever fought beside. Brave to the point of foolhardiness, intelligent, loyal to a fault. And hot. Damn hot with those tight leather pants, that shirt revealing half his shoulder, the cute, brown locks freshly washed, tall and slender like an elf, with his slightly slanted, blue eyes, high cheekbones, the fine line of his lips. Maybe not what most humans would define as exceptionally attractive. Still, he is to him. Damn fucking attractive.
Gallatin takes a few steps toward his agitated, unusually vulnerable friend.
"Cahir, I've known you to walk into battle with little more than a breastplate of chicken bones and a stick for a sword. Fuck the Usurper. He was an idiot."
"That's what the White Flame said to me when he came to free me. The Usurper was a fool to let you go, son, because you are the strongest of them all."
"Now I suppose you're strong for a scrawny little—"
He cannot finish the sentence. A sudden sharp pain flashes in the side of his neck. Cold steel. He feels a gush of warm blood down his shoulder. His blood. His friend's hand around the back of his neck. Cahir is holding him, but it is not the embrace he expected. He struggles for air, wheezes, cannot breathe. Cannot say a word. Cannot ask the question. WHY? Why, Cahir, are you doing this to me? We were best friends. We could have been lovers!
Then, everything goes black as they sink to the floor together.