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Rain drips from the outside world, hidden by the sound of crackling flame.
The bed shifts with the release of weight as the figure rises into sitting. The blanket rumples as Ziard hugs it to his body. His lower half still aches from a night of oblivion. But it was a good ache.
Behind him, he watches his lover reach a hand in sleep, then sighs when the impression of warmth is the only thing to greet him. A moment of silence soon breaks its fast.
“You truly are considering this,” Aaravos says. His velvet voice makes Ziard itch to crawl back into his arms. To smell the scent of sweat and lavender. His voice was made for the bedroom.
Sol Regem would strike. Ziard is tired of having to strain his ears for the beating of dragon wings. From spurring his legs into movement. This had been going on for far too long. But he had to do what must be done. However dangerous, however vile.
Ziard glances at the staff. A gift from his lover. The purple gem glistens in the dark.
Elarion, the herald of humanity, had to be protected. It was the haven of dark mages, the only place they could call home. And the children. Innocent souls with wonder in their eyes. Full of potential.
The silence stretches like the quietness of a killing blow.
T wo glimmering hands rest on his shoulders from behind. Aaravos places his chin on his head. Ziard shrugs him off.
“He won’t stop unless someone does something, don’t you realize that?”
“Believe me, I understand the need to slaughter that arrogant monster,” Aaravos spits, an ancient rage curdles in his voice, “but for a creature like Sol Regem? He does not deserve a quick death.” He places a hand on his shoulder. “Allow me to speak for you. I do not wish for you to die.”
“I am mortal,” Ziard shrugs, “I will die anyway. What is it to you if I were to perish today or tomorrow? Death comes for us all. Besides,” he rises, grabbing the staff. He hopes his lover does not notice his vise-like grip. “I refuse to be seen as a child hiding behind his mother’s skirts. Sol Regem promised my safety.”
Aaravos gives a bitter chuckle. “Yes, he will keep his word. But the Dragon King enjoys making his prey suffer. There will be a price to pay for this visit without my interference.”
Ziard clenches his jaw at the warning. “Then let me pay it. Why does it matter if meeting with Sol Regem today will spare the lives of thousands of innocents? I do not care for my life. One death to ensure the legacy of humanity is a price I am willing to pay.” A hush dims the atmosphere.
Aaravos’s face falls. “You shouldn’t have to pay any price.” A somber expression graces his face.
The dark mage bites the inside of his cheek. In the corner of his bedroom, he could already picture the sigil of Death; a gleaming scythe, swinging.
He sighs, walking over. He cradles a purple cheek in his hand, tilting the elf’s face to his level. Hints of tears glisten in his golden eyes.
“However dangerous, however vile.” He vows. “I am willing to pay this price with my life if he breaks his promise.” Ziard locks eyes with Aaravos. His lover averts his gaze. The archmage does not argue, merely falls backwards on the mattress. Ziard turns his back to him.
He slips boots on, tightly buckled. The skulls of flayed animals swing on the staff.
“The sun will rise.” Ziard’s steps falter. “And you will not.” Prophecy. A premonition.
Hinges creak as the door slams in the wake of his departure.