Chapter 43 - Trauma's Embrace

After the first week among the skies, time slowed to a crawl as everyone settled into life around one another. Camlen and Icarus had become good friends, the Halruaans and Mindulgulph no longer squabbled on the deck every morning over breakfast. Even Lucian improved his opinion of the dark elven passenger often seen lingering like a shadow at Marcello’s side.

But not all was well.

Every day hosted a new challenge for the sickly Netyarch who rose every morning to oversee the state of the ship and walk amongst his people. His energy waned. His conversations far and few between. His glamor helped him upkeep a poise that diverted any such suspicions, and yet even that seemed to consume more energy than he could muster.

Death. Marcello could feel the inevitable like tar in his veins, corrupting parts of himself he held dearest. His fingers were white knuckled around a glass of wine as he stared out his one way window seated at the back of his bedroom overlooking the skies below. Pain coiled around his muscles, leaving a soft tremor to the hand as wine sloshed idle against the side.

Until dusky fingers fell to overlap, a weight pressing in behind the man, followed by the soft purr of a foreign accent up against his ear. “My lord. If you’re hurting, perhaps I could help.”

Marcello jolted against Rhaenoran’s frame, his gaze tearing from the window to sweep the Crinti. “If you wanted a sip of my wine, all you had to do was ask.” He skated around the worry in Rhaen’s tone as a smile glittered onto tired features. His glass rose up to press against the elf’s lips, getting him to take a reluctant drink.

“You know you cannot hide it from me. Even with your magic hiding what you can, beneath it, I can feel it. It’s been bad the last few weeks. Every time you cast, it grows worse, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm, so suddenly you’ve become quite cozy with me. No longer fear the wrath of your superior and captor?”

“If I recall, you’ve been inviting me to get cozy.” Rhaen’s fingers lifted up to Marcello’s temple. He hesitated as the mage flinched, before fingers brushed harmlessly over fair skin and tucked raven locks back. When his fingers came away, he could feel the sweat that had clung to skin beneath the glamor of magic. “I just want to help you. You’ve got a fever.”

A sigh tumbled past Marcello’s lips and he relented. His wine touched down to the table situated beneath the window where they stood, his weight leaning to Rhaen. “Then do me a favor and run a cool bath for me.”

Lips touched Marcello’s nose as soft as a feather. “Yes, my lord.”

It took only a few minutes for the elf to dip into the bathroom and pump the water reserves into the polished marble tub, leaving it at a lukewarm temperature. Plenty of time for Marcello to begin shrugging out of his clothing. One piece at a time. His robe fell first, the wand inside its pocket thudding against the ground beneath it. Then his vest. Loose white tunic. Trousers. At last, his eyepatch. Fingers shuffled through one of his drawers as the man stood in full nude, procuring out a set of silk clothing barely viable enough to be called clothing at all.

“Alright, the bath is ready!” Rhaen’s voice called from beyond the doorway.

“One moment, Rhaenoran. Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

“Comfort-?” The Crinti appeared in the doorway, his question lodging in his throat as green eyes fell onto Marcello who finished fastening a tie around his neck. “Wha… what are you…?”

Mix-matched eyes rose up to meet Rhaen’s gaze with a coy flutter of lashes. Ever still, the glamor hid the hideous lines of black that corroded his skin, leaving nothing but the pleasant visual of a tall, lean frame beneath a fragile layer of black, mostly transparent silk. Hooked at his neck and fixed taught around his hips. “Worry less, little elf. I’m not drunk enough to make a fool of myself this time.”

Marcello brushed past Rhaenoran to flit his way into the bathroom. Proud and with full intent to let the other man stare on the way through. It’d been a little over a month since the last time they’d been in the precarious situation of nearly falling into bed with another, and even still, the Netyarch forgot nothing, as if to save himself the embarrassing loss of control.

“Oh.. No I wasn’t thinking about- I just… Why?”

A laugh tumbled from Marcello’s lips as he sat at the edge of the tub, looking back towards the door. “You said you could feel it. I’m dying. I will live not a second in shame or like a scared little boy. I’m a Halruaan, we gorge ourselves on the finest till the very end. Even if you seek to maintain your moral compass you’ve discovered, we’ve spent a lot more time together. I know you find me appealing and I like the idea of you staring. Now come over here and help me.”

Rhaen’s throat was sandpaper dry as he stared down the Netyarch. Even dressed in all but nothing, vulnerable and talking of death, he oozed power and confidence. It was impossible not to feel anything for. Yet it wasn’t lust Rhaen felt, but something softer. His feet carried him across the bathroom and he caught Marcello’s arm just before he could lower to the tub. “You’re not dying.”

Surprise stalled Marcello. “I’m pretty sure the both of us have had this conversation before. Is that all you can focus on?”

“I know what we discussed before, but things are changing. We can find a way to cure you, and until then, I can pull the damn disease right out of you.” He spoke with a conviction he hadn’t shown before.

“...Are you afraid of losing me now?”

“It’s not your time.”

“And so you plan to what? Use your abilities as a spellthief to drain the cancer from my mana?”

“We know it works.”

“What if you can’t stop?”

Rhaen’s breath pushes out in exasperation and two dusky hands descended to grasp Marcello’s face, drawing their foreheads close. “Please. Let me try to do something good with myself just this once.”

There was no answer as Marcello’s resistance crumbled and fingers curved around Rhaen’s wrist with a squeeze. “I trust you.”

Something about those three words struck hard in the elf’s chest.

All at once, Rhaenoran’s lips descended to Marcello’s. Slow and warm. There is no desperation to it like before, and in moments its returned. Arms coil up around the elf’s neck and fingers twist into wispy white hair, drawing their bodies close.

“Join me,” Marcello murmured as mouths briefly parted. His fingers already shifted to work the hem of Rhaen’s tunic up over his head. “I’ll let you take some of it.”

This time there was no hesitation. Pushing off the edge of the tub, Rhaenoran eased his shirt off and threw it aside. As his trousers came next, Marcello dipped beneath the cool bathwater, letting his gaze scrape over dark, ebon skin.

The water sloshed out over the edge of the tub with the weight of another filling it past its capacity. Rhaen was careful and slow, like he wasn’t certain what to do with himself, and quickly Marcello took control. He climbed over the elf as shoulders eased back to the edge of the tub. Wet silks brushed about his frame in the water.

Mouths met again, curving to one another with a gentle affection. Marcello let his thumb draw the outline of Rhaen’s small, pointed ear, then snake down the length of his angled jaw. He felt the way the elf’s breath caught and he smiled to the kiss.

He could feel the shyness clinging to Rhaenoran and with a bold touch, Marcello directed a dusky hand to splay over his chest, letting gravity do the rest of the work. “Relax,” he uttered. “You can touch me.”

The only response given was a release of tension as Rhaen let the hand drip down to Marcello’s stomach, pressing up at his abdomen as his lips left to graze across fair skin. He mouthed at Marcello’s jaw, nipped at his neck. Every touch grew lighter and lighter with purpose. Like he were touching something so delicate it could fracture beneath any amount of pressure.

It went unminded by the Netyarch whose eyes fluttered closed. He sank to every touch, a low noise muffling against Rhaen’s skin. There was something so tender about the way they explored each other in soft touches and fleeting kisses. Something they both felt swarm their minds and chest with a warmth the bath lacked.

Confidence grew in the pair and Rhaenoran’s mouth drew down to Marcello’s collarbone, a tongue dragging over. “Oh.. that feels…” Marcello’s voice feathered off unfinished and he dipped forward to lay against his partner, fingers twisted up in white hair.

“...Good?” Rhaenoran finished in a purr. “How about… this?” The hand that had settled against Marcello’s stomach brushed past flowing silks to drip downward. Fingers just barely grazed across the man’s length beneath the water, immediately met with a surprised breath that exhaled against his shoulder.

“Mmm.. hmm.” Marcello effortlessly rolled his hips up to the touch and his teeth found purchase against Rhaen’s neck, tugging softly. “Further.”

The elf obliged, the palm of his hand curving around Marcello’s cock as a thumb brushed over his head.

Warm. Wet. Breathless. The glass of the window peering out into the passing night was steamed as the two men lay, touching, grinding. Marcello's mind was heavy with fog, noise deafened, everything gone, nothing but his elf - until Rhaen stilled. His shoulders went rigid, hand falling away and Marcello's breath released in a sharp exhale. "Rhaen?" The name tumbled from the back of his throat in a whine. "Why did you stop?"

Rhaen almost looked to be in pain.

The elf scrambled from the bath, tripping over his own soaking feet in his retreat. "M-Marcello," he uttered. Water slid down his nude body where his runes flickered with red light. "I don't-" His shoulders heaved.

Water sloshed over the tub as Marcello pushed up from the bath, scattering across the floor. "What's wrong?" He demanded. “Are you hurting? Look at-"

He placed a hand to Rhaen’s back.

And that’s when he felt it.

A surge of rampant mana that coursed through Rhaen's veins. His runes flared - not the usual shade of neon teal but a dark crimson. The dark elf turned, and every hair rose along the back of Marcello’s neck.

Rhaen’s eyes reflected the same hellish glow, features twisted into a feral wrath.

Rhaen lashed towards Marcello faster than he could blink. The back of his hand smashed into the mage's jaw and sent him sprawling.

Marcello’s instincts were on fire.

Even as Rhaen lunged, knocking him to the floor, only one thing raced through his mind. Spellthief. Danger. Dark fingers with tendrils of red clawing down Rhaen’s dark skin latched to Marcello’s throat. He cannot drain me.

Confusion and fear drowned the mage as he desperately struck outwards, his knuckles colliding with Rhaen's mouth. It was enough to make the assassin stagger, and Marcello scrambled away from Rhaen, his face throbbing beneath the hand he lifted to nurse it.

"Rhaen!" He snapped out, wheeling backwards. "Stop it! I-I don't want to hurt you!" Rhaen seemed to share no sentiment. He lunged at Marcello again, and this time collided with him, sending both to the ground. Marcello's head cracked against marble.

"Rhaen!" Marcello begged, as fingers closed around his windpipe, the other hand lifted to his temple. "I said stop it! NO!"

His hand grasped Rhaen’s arm.

Tired. Exhausted. The weight of illness was like chains coiled around him, strangling his spellcasting. Using spellcraft against Spellthieves was dangerous - among draining one’s magic, they could redirect the spell or shield it entirely. None of this passed Marcello’s mind as he cast, only the panic.

His concentration shattered into pieces. The spell slipped away from him, and rather than summoning black tendrils to contain the elf, there was a great detonation of arcane energy - followed by blood that burst across Marcello’s face.

It soaked his skin, and splattered across his lips as Rhaen's dominant hand exploded at his temple.

The discharge of magic sent Rhaen blasting backwards. He struck the back wall, bloody stump bleeding freely and went limp as a rag doll.

Marcello, for a moment, did not move. He lay in horror as the burning sensation crawled through his veins, his very mana like acid inside him.

Finally, he threw himself forward, making it only halfway across the room before he dragged himself the rest. "R-Rhaen! Shit, shit!" Tears were in his eyes, gripping hold of Rhaen as he all but yanked him into his lap.

Trembling fingers ripped a robe from a nearby hook and tore it to pieces, wrapping it tightly around the bleeding stump. Rhaen shifted in and out of consciousness, features twisted in agony. "No, no, no, fuck!"

The red along Rhaen's runes remained, illuminating the two in a wicked red light. In one desperate attempt to kill, Rhaen's remaining hand thrust towards Marcello. Fingers coiled at his shoulder and his eyes tore open.

They blazed like molten orbs of lava, nails tearing at flesh... before the glow waned. Rhaen's hand crumbled.

"Rhaen!" Marcello hissed. Briefly, he parted from the elf to lunge back into the bedroom, scrambling through his clothes to retrieve the wand of healing concealed inside one of the pockets. "Don't move!" In seconds, he returned, grappling Rhaen back into his arms.

"Marcello..." Rhaen's eyes flickered open. No longer blazing red, but their soft shade of green.

"Shh, don't talk." Marcello's features were strained with worry and focus, sweat beading down his forehead, a deep purple and blue mark swelling against his face. Even as he touched the wand to Rhaen's hand, the elf didn't seem to notice his missing appendage as he slipped back into unconsciousness. "I'm sorry," Marcello shook. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

They were covered in blood. It rolled down Marcello's face in rivulets as he held Rhaen in his arms, ebon skin a deathly shade of grey as red creeped across the soaking bathroom floor. Help. He needed to get help. Marcello fumbled for the ring gate he'd left aside the door, Rhaen cradled in his arms.

"Please stay with me," he begged, taking the bloodied wand and - thinking little of the heart attack Lucian was about to receive - sent it through. He rocked back and forth, unable to cease his trembling, his violent shakes, the tears that poured down his face as he held Rhaen's head close to his chest.

Why did this happen?

Rhaen... he wouldn’t hurt him. What they just did, what they felt. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Marcello’s shakes and rocks suddenly paused as he looked down to the bruise of a vice grip that had wrapped around his wrist. His trembling hand touched his throat.

Lucian couldn’t see.

If he did, he wouldn’t ever trust Rhaen again.

Following a weak attempt to hide his own bruises and wounds - the door slammed open.

Lucian and Aven poured through - Lucian gripping the bloody wand with white knuckles, and Aven wielding his two axes. "Marcello!" Lucian wasted not a second, skidding across slick blood and water as he fell to his knees aside Marcello. Both of them, naked and covered in blood. Blue eyes swept the carnage in a panic. "What's happened?!"

Marcello was in hysterics. "I-I-" His grip on Rhaen was iron. A sob ripped through his chest. "I cast a spell- it burned. It burned so badly. I let go and it-I took his hand. Lucian, it's gone, fuck, what have I done, it's gone-!"

"Marcello!" Lucian's fingers curved into his shoulders. Frightened. Not from the blood, or the horrific scene... but simply seeing Marcello broken and shattered before him. "Marcello, I need you to let him go. Give him to me."

Any uncertainty of Lucian's intent was dissolved by pure exhaustion. Marcello’s arms went limp, and Lucian pulled Rhaen away from him. "I ruin everything."

"No," Lucian hissed. "It was an accident."

Against Lucian, Rhaen was utterly still, arms dangling, and Lucian strained against the dead weight. "Aven! Get him to a healer, now." Aven's face was grim, nodding and the moment he took the elf into his arms, he was gone, sweeping out the door. In seconds, Lucian returned to Marcello's side, as the mage watched Rhaen depart with empty eyes.

"Marcello... are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

Marcello didn't respond.

Vacant eyes stared past Lucian's head. There was only the barest flicker of life as Lucian suddenly lunged forward. His arms wrapped around Marcello in a hug, squeezing fiercely, as though he wanted to squeeze the grief right out of him.

Marcello's body fell to Lucian's pathetically, and his face buried into his neck. "I just- I just wanted to enjoy..." His voice wavered.

Enjoy what?

Gone was the little brother that Lucian had been. Now, he took on the role of the older. The way he held Marcello was heartbreakingly familiar as the man clung to him and sobbed, hot tears and blood staining his skin. "It's okay..." Lucian whispered. "I've got you.."

It took a long while for Marcello to calm. The time he spent sobbing, clinging was almost worrying, and ceased only when dehydration and fatigue clutched at him. Exhaustion. It struck him like a hammer, arms falling from Lucian as he slumped. The arcane flourish of glitter cleaned him with arcane glamour, the only sign he'd just broken down was the red tint to his eyes.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Come on... let's get you to bed."

Marcello's gaze latched to the blood soaking the wet floors. His jaw twitched, allowing Lucian to help him to his feet. "...I need to be there when he wakes, Lucian. Promise me you'll make sure I'm there."

"...are you sure that's such a good-"

"Promise me."

Lucian's eyes searched Marcello's face, and with a weary breath, nodded. "...all right. I promise."

An hour. An hour was all it took for Marcello to cease the frantic jitters of his body and piece himself back into clean, dry clothes. He’d scrubbed his hands and face clean several times, but despite his pristine appearance returning, he still felt slathered in the sticky substance. Scalded into his mind like a bad dream. Itching at his skin.

He moved below deck, pouring over a desk of parchment as he scribbled away madly. A list of materials. Of costs. Strings of spells and incomplete theories. Marcello filled each page, crumbling up ones that didn’t fit his design and tossing it aside the door. As he wrote, a servant stood idly by the door, watching her Netyarch in worry.

“No.. no this won’t work. But maybe if I gather enough stone- oh but that’d be all our ammunition…”

Guided by a second servant, Lucian was led into the room as they approached behind silently. The prince nodded to both girls and they quickly fled out the door, shutting it quietly as to not disturb them both.

“Marcello. What am I hearing of you worrying your staff?”

A wildly moving quill stalled against the parchment and stained the area with a glob of ink. Marcello’s head turned aside to catch Lucian at the corner of his gaze, a sigh tumbling past his lips. “They need not worry. I can’t believe they bothered you over this. I’m just trying to find a way to fix this.”

“You mean fix Rhaenoran.” Lucian moved around, his hand falling atop Marcello’s to ease the quill down. “He’s been stabilized but he’s lost a lot of blood. I think what’s best right now is taking care of yourself. Perhaps this is even a good thing.”

“How is this a good thing?!”

“Because he is a Spellthief, Marcello! Something you seem to forget! With one of his hands gone, he can’t use his abilities to drain mages, it makes him safer. Your people will be less weary and so will I.”

“No.” A cold gaze locked onto the prince. “You couldn’t possibly understand this, but I will not take that from him. I’m going to make him a new hand. Something he can utilize. I know he never meant to hurt me-”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Marcello grimaced. “Nevermind it.”

“Don’t do that.” Lucian squeezed the man’s hand, drawing him to sit down in the desk chair. “You can’t do this on your own, Marcello. Trust me at least to help you even if we don’t agree on other matters.”

The man sighed out as he eased to the chair. A hand tossed up through his hair and immediately, the damage became apparent. The glamor fell. Bruises purpled visible around his neck where fingers had grasped. A red welt was still burning at his cheek. Both stood out fresh against the crawl of black veins that scattered his pallid skin. “I don’t know what happened.”

“...But I think I do.” Lucian’s blood boiled as he stared down the older man. “He attacked you. Why?”

“I don’t know. Everything was going so well, we-”

“I knew he wasn’t to be trusted, Marcello, why are we even here fussing over him? Why are you still defending him? He’s no good.”

Frustration sparked and Marcello’s fist crashed against the desk. “Stop! It was something else, and I know it. We were intimate. One moment he had his hand around me and the next it was as if he’d gone feral.”

Lucian settled and pointedly ignored the intimate comment. “What do you mean feral?”

“His runes burned red and it was like he’d lost his own control. He didn’t mean to do this, and I will not permanently mar him as disabled for it.”

“...Alright, alright. Then what is your plan exactly?”

“I’m going to use magic and our stone resources to create him a new hand.” Marcello drew up a specific piece of parchment with several materials listed and offered it out. “Can you get these for me?”

Lucian took it, a relenting sigh exhaling from his lips. “Of course. But only if you do a favor for me as well.”

“What is it?”

“Get your head out of the clouds. We’re going to war and you’re worrying your own men. These obsessions you’ve been having are distracting you.”

“They are about to watch their Netyarch create a hand from stone and place it onto a living body. Consider it handled.”

Lucian’s jaw slid. “That is not what I meant.”

“I know. Worry less of me, Lucian, I’ve been a leader a lot longer than you. Cancer will not suddenly change that.” Marcello pushed up from his chair to go back to writing out his plans and without another word, Lucian marched from the room. Behind him, the door slammed shut tight.

Two days.

Two days of non-stop work. Of wasting away at workbenches with artificers and locked in his room, studying and crafting. It was at the end of the second day that Marcello finally finished, and with exhaustion dragging his feet, made his way to the infirmary for what felt to be the tenth time that day.

He navigated his way past beds until he found the one he was looking for. The one hosting the elf. Ebon skin had been washed clean and dressed in cotton, stump wrapped and bandaged. It rest upon Rhaen's chest as it slowly rose and lowered.

He'd been unconscious since losing it.

Marcello swallowed the pang of guilt that threatened to strangle him. He drug a chair over to Rhaenoran's bedside, and a firm grip took his remaining hand, the other placed gently over the stump. Silent, as he watched over his... complicated partner.

Sitting beside the elf, Marcello looked no better. Even his glamour struggled to conceal the black veins that now ran along his neck, eating slowly away at any spell he cast to hide his illness.

Lucian had warned that the strain of crafting such an item might wear away at his health. He’d been right. But it was something Marcello had to do.

He couldn’t live with himself, otherwise.

Hours passed.

Marcello had nearly fallen asleep, before he felt the smallest squeeze against his hand. His eyes snapped open. Rhaen's gaze was unfocused and hazy. When he spoke, it was as though his voice ground against sandpaper. "You're getting bad again."

"You're awake..." Marcello's voice drowned with relief. "I-" His eyes swept down to the stump. His jaw tightened. "Don't worry about me..Rhaen..."

Marcello squeezed. And that is when Rhaen saw it. It took a moment, as though trying to comprehend what had happened... why his hand seemed to be suddenly gone. Then, his face morphed into terror. He jerked, tried to stand, to spring away. His strength betrayed him, and he crumbled against the bedframe, unable to manage even a single word as he turned in a panic to Marcello.

"Easy," Marcello murmured, squeezing.

"What-?!"

"...I tried to cast a spell." His voice split. Shame and self-blame was heavy on his features.

"A spell?" Rhaen's body was rigid, face white. "What spell? Why?!"

Marcello stared. He didn't remember. He drew a ragged breath. "...we were together. In the bath. I just wanted to make you happy. I cast something to..hold you." Not a total lie. Marcello's head fell to the bed. "...it's all my fault, Rhaen. I'm so-"

He cut off as he heard laughter.

First, a faint, whispering chuckle. Then, Rhaen's head arched forwards, silver hair falling in his face as his shoulders shook. Marcello tore his head back up, horrified. "...I don't understand.."

"My gift." Rhaen spat it with the utmost hatred. "It can only be used with a very specific hand motion. One that needs both hands." He lifted up his stump. "I’m missing one."

"That's not funny!" Marcello lashed harshly. "Look, I- I fixed it, all right..?"

"Fixed it..?"

Marcello gave a weary nod - and produced the hand.

It was beautiful, and masterfully crafted. Carved from a smooth material, it was exactly the shape of Rhaen’s hand, and even held the runes that his skin once possessed, empty of color for the moment. Marcello must have studied Rhaen’s hands in the times he’d held them keenly, in order to reimagine them so flawlessly.

"Stone," Marcello said, answering Rhaen's unanswered question. "With a bit of transmutation and working with a golem smith... it'll be a real, living hand."

Rhaen stared. "And it's... usable?"

"I hope so. Rather Frankenstein, to say the least. I'm hoping I can fuse the nerves, considering I got your measurements right. That is, if you want it.”

Rhaen stared down at his bloodied stump. His gaze was a world away, and with a ragged, breath, nodded. “...I’m not of much use without it.”

“That’s not true.” Marcello eased down beside Rhaen. "I'm going to need to take off your bandages... it's going to hurt."

Rhaen nodded. "Naturally."

Marcello gave a breath, and began to unwrap.

The first layer came off easy, releasing a great deal of weight that held it snug. The pressure tightened Rhaen's jaw, lips curled into a grimace. "Are you ok-"

"Keep going."

Marcello continued to unwrap. Three more layers were shed, growing close to the skin. Rhaen stiffened and at last, down to the last layer, Marcello brought his gaze up. "It's going to tear. But I've got you, all right?"

"Just do it. Rip it off."

Marcello's jaw set. He nodded, and with not a countdown nor warning, tore the last bit of bandaid off, followed by a muffled scream. Rhaen's vision swam. Weakly, his gaze lowered to his stump, starting to bleed from the stress of being unbandaged. Ugly, red and raw.

“Ow.”

“I warned you it would hurt... but not as much as...reattachment.”

Rhaen grimaced. “Reattachment... no, that doesn't sound pleasant at all. How will you...?”

“Attaching stone to flesh is of no difficulty to a transmuter.”

“But your illness-”

“Is of little importance right now... are you ready?”

Rhaen hesitated. He watched the hand, as though considering something before - with a shaky breath - he grasped Marcello’s hand tight. “Ready.”

The hand took three hours to reattach.

Three hours of screams, writhing, biting down onto cloth to keep from snapping his own tongue off. By the time it was over, his arm was wrapped, stone hand attached and already, flares of teal blue rushed through the empty runes of his prosthetic, sweat dabbed at his forehead. Rhaen lay in the bed, panting, eyes closed as Marcello leaned to the bed wearily.

“How do you feel?" Marcello asked.

"Like shit... thank you."

Marcello's shoulders sagged with relief. "...good." He'd traded his glamour for energy and control, leaving him ghostly save for blackened veins and sunken features. The bruise on his neck had turned black and blue, and Rhaen's eyes latched on to it for a long while.

"Did I do that to you."

"Don’t do this. Not now."

Rhaen flexed his fingers. "I hurt you."

“Rhaen-”

“Let me take some of it from you.”

Marcello's eyes snapped up. "What?"

"I remember, you promised me I could."

Marcello watched his lover for a moment. "Take my hand, Rhaen. I want you to try and sense it, and tell me what you feel."

Rhaen... hesitated. The last time he'd touched Marcello, he- no. That wouldn't happen again. Rhaen's eyes slid shut. When they reopened, they gleamed with a teal glow, a glow that erupted along his runes, racing down his neck and across his fingertips. He took Marcello's hand - and focused. He could sense the magic in the room - the potions lining the infirmary walls, Marcello's wand, the magic inside his own prosthetic... and then sought out Marcello. The sensation had him reeling backwards. It was like a netting of tar inside Marcello's chest, draining, killing. "Marcello," Rhaen whispered, eyes tearing up to stare at the man helplessly.

Sadness swept Marcello's face. "Bad, isn't it? Makes me wonder. It didn't take my dad nearly as fast, so why is it ripping me to shreds?" Marcello pushed to his feet. "I am beyond strong. The Weave that flows through my veins is ancient, devastating. The Silvercrest line has always had powerful arcane essence. I have so much more for it to feed upon. So it spreads quicker, faster. If you took even a little bit... it would hurt you, and do very little to help me. It would be useless."

“I have to do something,” Rhaen snapped, frustrated. “To make up for- for-”

Marcello’s hand touched Rhaen’s. “Back in the room... what happened.”

Rhaen didn’t answer. Not for a long while. He stared out the window at passing clouds. “...it’s slowly coming back to me. The touching. The sudden fury.” He turned back to Marcello. “First... Marcello, I promise I would never mean to hurt you. Not ever.”

“I know. I knew from the beginning you never meant to. So why..?”

“The curse.” Rhaen’s knees pulled into his chest, and he stared at his new hand. Flexed it, magic rippling down his construct fingers. “I told you that the longer I don’t bring harm to my target, the more it will kill me... it seems it comes with side effects. What I felt... it was desperation. Feral desperation, to kill. I imagine it’s akin to the hunger a vampire feels when it’s been starved for a century. I felt nothing but the urge to drain you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I tried.”

“You stopped.”

“Only because my hand happened to blow off. But if... if I stay...I might..”

“Don’t you dare think about leaving.” Marcello gripped Rhaen’s hand. Tight. “Remember our promise to one another? We’ll fix it. We’ll fix all of it. Your curse. My cancer.”

“And then what?” Green eyes swept to Marcello jadedly. “You’re going to announce to Halruaa your new dark elf partner? The one who slew their former leader?”

“Yes.”

Rhaen went quiet. His eyes searched Marcello for a long while before he sighed. “Sure, you will...”

“Don’t you doubt me, elf,” Marcello purred, helping Rhaen ease back into the bed as exhaustion took them both. “I never break a promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”