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The human is infuriatingly lovely in the candlelight.
As he takes another sip of wine, Essek pushes this thought out of his brain. It doesn’t belong there, not tonight. Not ever, if he’s wise, but he needs to keep his wits about him during the reception. Which is why he’s having just one glass of wine, to settle himself and calm his nerves.
Like Essek, the human rarely engages with other guests, staying on the fringes of the room and turning a remarkable pair of eyes on the small, glittering crowd instead. Essek can’t tell what colour they are from this distance, but they are sparkling with calculation or amusement. Or both.
He doesn’t notice they’re making eye contact until the corner of the human’s mouth quirks imperceptibly. And then, as if that wasn’t mortifying enough, he winks at Essek. If Essek had been drinking right that moment, he would have choked on the wine.
As it is, he can only hope the heat he feels on his cheeks isn’t apparent. He’s far enough away, he thinks, and the candles, though abundant for their guests’ sake, surely don’t make for a particularly brightly lit room. If worse came to worst, he could blame the wine.
Maybe he should pace himself.
Dinner with the Empire delegation is a relatively informal affair, which actually makes Essek more nervous than the alternative. Formality means structure, which means safety, clearly defined tracks, a script to follow. He can lose himself in small talk while the rest of his brain is free to think about his latest project, or—more recently—stew in frustration at the lack of it. The downside of being a prominent political figure in a theocratic society is that you can only push the envelope so far before your ‘cutting-edge’ research proposals cross the line into ‘heresy’.
Now, however, there is no pre-established seating, no thoroughly vetted dinner companions, only a spread of painfully bland finger food on a table in the middle of the reception hall. Being a social event, shop talk is frowned upon, so Essek is unofficially banned from talking about the only thing that interests him. Wine and a subtle scowl are the only lines of defense between him and inane chit chat.
One guest in particular seems to have taken a leaf from Essek’s book when it comes to laying low and watching the party from the side-lines.
He’s tall. He would certainly tower over Essek if his feet were touching the ground. His clothes are plain but finely made. The cut of his black tunic cleverly emphasises his broad shoulders and subtly tapers at the waist, with ruby-coloured geometrical embroidery on the hems, trousers to match and boots that look well-kept but are not as shiny as courtly etiquette would demand.
Essek wonders if the man’s hair would shine like rubies in the sunlight, or if it would look more like fire. Those are not common thoughts for him. When he looks back at him after a short while, those intelligent eyes are pointed elsewhere, but the wry half smile is still in place, as if he was aware that Essek was looking at him.
Of course Essek is looking at him. His name was not on the guest list, only his job description: liaison for the Cerberus Assembly. In other words, the embodiment of Essek’s headaches. It doesn’t help that he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from this particular embodiment.
He needs to clear his head before he makes a fool of himself. Slinking away towards the balcony is easy enough since he’s already on the outskirts of the party. He takes his half-full glass with him.
The music (a trite, inoffensive piece for strings even more insipid than the food) follows him outside, where it’s blessedly quieter and easier to ignore. Essek sighs and watches the cloud of his breath fade in the cold, clear night, leaving the starry sky unblemished.
“How high does it rise?”
Essek doesn’t know what his voice sounds like, and yet he knows it’s him. The human steps were quiet, but Essek is too married to his composure to have any kind of reaction; which is good, since he doesn’t want the human to know he was startled.
The man walks up to him, keeping the proper distance—by chance or design, Essek is not sure. When he comes into Essek’s line of sight, he’s wearing a politely curious expression. Innocent. Oh, this one’s dangerous, Essek thinks.
When Essek tilts his head questioningly, the human nods up at the sky. “The darkness. How high does it go?”
Essek blinks slowly. “About a mile,” he answers mechanically.
“That is fascinating.” The human is still looking at the sky. His smile is almost boyish. His profile is sharp, all cutting angles.
Essek follows the slope of his brow and the long line of his nose, eyes narrowing. This is an Assembly envoy in Rosohna. He must have been briefed on this particular enchantment, and yet his fascination sounded genuine, and those remarkable eyes are wide in naked wonder.
The plum wine in Essek’s glass is deeper and darker than the sky. He clears his throat politely, takes a fortifying sip and reaches for his diplomatic voice. “What’s your line of work, Master…”
“Ermendrud.” His eyes flick to Essek for a second, and the tilted, roguish smile is back. “You can call me Bren.”
Essek is fairly sure he cannot. “Master Ermendrud, as a practitioner of the arcane, as I have no doubt you are, given your allegiances, this must be far from the most impressive feat you have seen.”
The silence lasts for just a second too long. It’s bait, obviously, as Essek understands to his own chagrin when the man smiles at him with teeth. “It’s the most beautiful, though.”
He holds his gaze until Essek tears his eyes away, taking another sip of wine. The edge of his glass is a poor hiding place, but it’s the only one he has.
“You’re the Shadowhand, are you not?”
Essek very deliberately keeps his expression blank. “I believe you already know the answer to that question.”
“I do.” Ermendrud has the gall to sound cheerful. “I was looking forward to meeting you. If I’m to be honest, it’s the reason I applied for this expedition.”
Cold pinpricks skitter down Essek’s spine, and the queasiness in his stomach threatens to run up his throat like bad wine and spill out in the form of an ill-advised question. He bites the inside of his cheek as his fingers twitch around the chalice.
He doesn’t know where the man is aiming at with this confession, but Essek feels at the edge of a precipice, unbalanced. So he reaches out blindly and takes back what control he can. Externally, it looks like a straightening of the spine, a tilt of the head and, most importantly, eye contact.
Essek’s floating spell means they’re at eye level with each other, and when he stares back at Ermendrud, he’s satisfied to see an eyebrow quirking, broad shoulders just barely inching up. The faltering is immediately replaced by the easy, feline smugness from before. He looks like a chess player whose challenger finally made a good move and is pleasantly surprised by that, but now it’s Essek’s turn to be smug. Others would have missed that infinitesimal crack in the human’s composure, but Essek reads it like a prisoner’s confession.
“And?” he says, with a casual flick of his free hand. The man narrows his eyes: a stunning lapse in control. Essek revels in the feeling of holding the dagger instead of being held at its point. “Did you have any expectations that I succeeded or failed to live up to?”
The amusement in Ermendrud’s eyes seems at least partly genuine. “Exceeded, I would say.” He seems to make a split-second decision, of which Essek can only guess the nature of, and takes a step forward. He leans against the balcony’s railing, resting an elbow on the stone balustrade and crossing his legs at the ankles. Not relaxed, of course, but blatantly unguarded. Also not in Essek’s space yet, but a square closer.
Essek doesn’t move a muscle.
“I know you’re a scholar,” Ermendrud says, “among other things. And I am a big learner.”
Essek admires entrepreneurship, but he’s not about to reward such gall. “And you thought you could show up and ask?”
“Of course not.” Ermendrud flicks an invisible speck of dust from his cuff, then looks up at Essek through his lashes. He’s so blatantly transparent it’s almost offensive. “I should persuade you first, right?”
Essek can’t help it: he laughs. He reins it in immediately, but he doesn’t regret it. It’s been a while since someone has made him laugh earnestly, even just by being a preposterously arrogant, entitled, duplicitous foreigner. “And what was your plan? Something this indecent surely requires at least a dinner invitation first.”
Ermendrud half smiles, amused, playful. Essek has half a mind of throwing him off the balcony. “Is that all it would take? I was thinking something along the lines of an even trade.”
Essek shouldn’t let his guard down. He knows he shouldn’t, and yet this fruit is hanging so low that it would be criminal not to reach out for it. “And what do you have to offer that is worth my time?”
When he leans forward, however imperceptibly, the light from inside makes Ermendrud’s eyes shimmer. Essek still can’t tell what colour they are exactly, and it’s baffling and infuriating that he’s even wondering. “The same thing I’m asking you.” His voice is low, almost sultry. “Knowledge.”
Essek’s breath catches. He remembers the last time someone made him an offer like that, one that he’s still considering, as if that wasn’t treasonous already. He remembers where Ermendrud comes from. He doesn’t flinch, but he stares at him without a shred of the impatient humour from before. “Did Da’leth send you?”
Ermendrud’s pretend levity is swept away as well, like it was never there in the first place. Dangerous, Essek mind repeats. “You already know the answer,” he says, sober, echoing Essek’s words from before. “Of course he did.”
Essek doesn’t express his disappointment out loud, he just tilts his head. That’s not what he meant, and he’s insulted that Ermendrud would deem him so easily misdirected. But frustration is an interesting look on that handsome face, he has to give him that.
“I’m not Da’leth’s puppet.”
“Not directly,” Essek corrects him. “I believe your handler is, though. Which means you’re not leashed to the master but to the master’s dog, if you’ll allow me a crude but, ah, accurate analogy.”
From the way his jaw is set, Ermendrud doesn’t look inclined to allow him that at all. “And how does the Shadowhand of a nation on the brink of war with the Empire know the ins and outs of one of its most secretive institutions?”
“For that reason precisely,” Essek counters suavely. “As the Shadowhand, it is my business to know.”
He’s about to add that he’s had enough, that he has a party to attend. The words wilt and die in his mouth when Bren Ermendrud—if that’s his real name—reaches out. His long fingers close on Essek’s cuff, just above the wrist, his thumb resting not so subtly on Essek’s pulse.
It’s such a blatant violation of both personal boundaries and social conventions that Essek is petrified for a long moment as his mind catches up. He feels like he’s witnessing a crime. It doesn’t occur to him until afterwards that he could have been the victim as well as the witness.
For that long moment, anything can happen. Possibilities spawn and fizzle out from that point in space and time. If they weren’t following a script before, now they have burned it and scattered the ashes.
It feels like they’re on the edge of a fight. It feels like they’re on the edge of something completely different.
That thought breaks Essek’s paralysis, and he smothers the impulse to yank his arm away. He doesn’t think Ermendrud would hurt him, not here, not now, not like this. Essek could walk away and pretend nothing happened.
What stops him is the look in Ermendrud’s eyes. It’s not angry: it is pleading. “You don’t know everything, Shadowhand,” he whispers so softly that Essek wouldn’t hear him, if they weren’t this close. The music is a distant buzz and the city is quiet, and yet Essek finds himself leaning in to catch his words. “I know you’re looking for… interlocutors on our side. You have been around longer than I have. I trust you to choose them wisely.”
For the second time this evening, Essek wants to laugh, but this time he bites it back. It would be a bitter, incredulous laugh at that, because of course this is about blackmail.
Every instinct tells him to retreat, regroup, dig, find some leverage, give Ermendrud a taste of his own medicine.
But another instinct raises its head, more appealing than the first. This might be a game of cat and mouse, but if this man ever thought he was the cat, he’s sorely mistaken.
Instead of pulling away, Essek drifts closer. To his credit, Ermendrud doesn’t step back, but his fingers on Essek’s arm twitch. To Essek, who has spent a century learning how to read people, it’s clearer than a written statement. “Trust, you say. And trusting you would be the wiser option? You,” he repeats, letting a thick, mocking amusement seep in his voice. “Could you give me what I want? And what would you ask of me, Master Ermendrud,” Essek goes on when he opens his mouth, cutting him off, “in exchange for that? Spells? Secrets? Favours of a different kind?”
When Ermendrud huffs from his nose, Essek can feel warm air on his upper lip. “Are you offering?” His smirk is teasing, but he’s not just touching Essek, Essek is touching him, and this close he can see his frown, feel his tension. This veneer of self-confidence is brittle and superficial.
Essek doesn’t even pretend to know the inner machinations of the Assembly, but he doesn’t need to know the specifics. And he hasn’t met many humans, but this one looks young. Whatever his goal may be, he’s trying to bite off more than he can chew and he knows it. And now Essek knows it too.
He leans further in, tilting his head in a way that’s impossible to miss, misinterpret or ignore.
“Threaten me again,” he says, almost sweetly, his lips almost brushing Ermendrud’s, “and there won’t be enough of your corpse left for your people to bring home.”
There’s the smallest intake of breath, the barest shift in the man’s posture, and for a single moment Essek’s eyes dart to his lips.
He’s been in this place before. Traded things he didn’t care about too much—some of his books, some of his research, some of himself—to gain something superior. But his curiosity has never been piqued quite this way.
What would it feel like to give in, go all the way in, turn his threat into something else? He could do it.
He wants to do it.
The realisation makes his stomach swoop, but the vertigo of excitement is quickly replaced by something much more unpleasant.
Essek pulls back. The hand that was holding his arm falls to Ermendrud’s side, letting him go without resistance.
Judging from Ermendrud’s stare, Essek’s hesitation didn’t go unnoticed, and part of Essek is pleased by that: let the human know he could have given in, but he chose not to. Another part bristles at Ermendrud’s smirk, more assured than before. “Suit yourself.” He’s not whispering anymore. “Should you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Essek wants to say that he won’t change his mind, and he certainly won’t walk into the lion’s den to look for him. Once again, the words don’t come out of his mouth, because Ermendrud is looking at him as if he knows Essek will eventually give in to curiosity. Worst of all, he looks as if he knows Essek is already thinking about it, about the innuendo baked in that reply. As if he knows the effect he has on Essek, and that later, when he’s alone and safe, Essek may have to take care of the lingering consequences of such effect with his hand.
When Ermendrud reaches out again, Essek isn’t as surprised as he was the first time. Still, he almost drops his chalice when warm, soft fingertips stroke the hand that’s holding it.
Essek’s gloves are decorative, the lace they’re made of doesn’t have a purpose beyond the ceremonial and the aesthetic. He doesn’t remember the last time another person’s skin has come into contact with his own. He freezes, focusing on controlling his expression, tearing his eyes away from Ermendrud’s hand on his own, where his fair skin—covered by nothing but light red hair—glows against Essek’s amethyst one and the black swirls of lace that shadow it.
It’s far from the first time they’ve made eye contact tonight, but this time it feels different. This close, in this light, he can finally see it: Ermendrud’s eyes are as blue as the midday sky when the clerics part the darkness that covers Rosohna like a curtain. They hurt like the sun.
While Essek is busy wrapping his mind around these thoughts, clever fingers free the glass of wine from his hand. He doesn’t even think about stopping him. Everything in Essek feels on fire, as if flames ran through his veins instead of blood. His heart can barely stand it. And the worst part is that he’ll miss this when it’s over, he’s sure of this. He despises the fact that he’ll remember this forever, and that this is all it’ll ever be: a memory.
Neither of them blinks as Ermendrud brings the glass to his mouth, and Essek holds his breath when the man stops just before his lips touch the brim. It’s not poisoned, he wants to chide him. If I killed you, it wouldn’t be like this.
He understands what Ermendrud is doing only when he sees him rotate his wrist a little, tilting the glass towards his lips in what looks like a slightly uncomfortable position. Unnecessary.
Except that it brings his lips exactly where Essek’s have been.
He keeps holding his breath as he watches the man take a sip, unable to look away from wine-stained lips as they curl in a smile. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he says, leaving the chalice on the wide surface of the balustrade.
The glass clinks on the stone, and the sound barely registers in Essek’s mind before Ermendrud is walking past Essek, rooted where he stands.
It’s not until he’s alone again that he remembers to exhale, but the dizziness doesn’t fade.
Later, when Essek slams the door of his private chambers, the tingling in his skin has become unbearable. He’d hoped it would cease if he ignored it, instead he feels like an animal is trying to claw its way out of him.
He crosses the floor without stopping and heads straight to the door that leads to the restroom, disrobing as he goes. He claws at the fastening of his mantle and fumbles at the buttons of the tunic underneath, undoing three of them before his impatience gets the better of him. His fingers fly to the fastenings of his trousers, and he stops, leaning against the closed door as he presses a hand on the part of his anatomy whose demands he can’t ignore anymore.
He exhales shakily, tilting his head back until it collides against the door with a soft thud. He lets his eyes close. Not watching makes what he’s going to do a little more bearable, a little less mortifying.
He’s in his second century. It’s not the first time he’s touched himself. It’s always been a mechanical process before, though: satisfying a physical urge, like hunger or exhaustion. He usually undresses and gets comfortable, taking all the time he needs, nothing more and nothing less. There’s no urgency and, except in the strictest sense, no pleasure in it.
Now, he finds himself rutting against his hand through his clothes, hissing as he seeks a relief that keeps escaping him. Every time he tries to focus on something else, the phantom of a breath on his lips and a touch on the back of his hand demands his attention again, making his spine tingle, electricity pool in his guts, and a frankly embarrassing stiffness grow between his legs.
He makes a noise he’s never heard himself make when he finally has enough presence of mind to tear a glove off with his teeth and slip his right hand under his clothes. He’s so hard it hurts, and when he squeezes himself, his mind conjures the image of lips brushing against his neck, right below his ear. His cock twitches in his hand, and the imaginary lips smile wryly against his skin.
He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. He also knows he has no choice. Taking care of the problem is the only way to make it go away. Once he’s dealt with it, he will go on with his life and never think about Br—about it anymore.
Maybe it would be better if he banished all thoughts of the man from his mind. Treat this as simple physiology. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the floor, with only the long hem of his tunic between skin and the polished hardwood when he slides out of his trousers.
He takes himself in hand again, and it’s deeply unsatisfactory. This is not what his body wants, apparently. What, then? he thinks, irritated, pressing the pad of his thumb on the head of his cock and flinching at the uncomfortable intensity of the sensation.
Long, pale fingers wrapping around the glass still in Essek’s grasp, picking it up, holding it gracefully, exactly where he wants it.
Essek presses his lips together to smother the sound he was about to make, but the guttural noise deep in his throat is probably more indecent than a full moan.
Inconceivably blue eyes capturing his own, unblinking, heavy with their own inescapable gravity.
He spreads the bead of moisture that has leaked from him with his thumb, and gives up on the pretence altogether as he starts stroking himself lazily while his thoughts circle again and again.
It’s not long before he settles into a pace that is effective but slow enough to make this worth it. He’s not enjoying himself, precisely—the circumstances are too frustrating for that—but he can bring this to an end soon, and then he’ll metaphorically and literally wash his hands of all this nonsense.
This is, of course, when the voice rings in Essek’s mind.
“I really meant what I said.” Ermendrud’s voice is low, relaxed, casually speaking into his head as if they were just resuming their conversation after a brief lull.
Essek’s hand stills, the build-up to his climax evaporating instantly.
“My offer still stands,” the voice goes on. “And be careful, Shadowhand. Be a shame if something happened to such a pretty face.”
Essek barely registers the meaning of his words. Hells, he can barely breathe through the lump of his heart pulsing in his throat.
He won’t answer. Every word he says in a verbal sparring match with this man puts him at risk. This was true at the party, and it’s even more so now, with Essek minutes away from coming at the thought of graceful hands, confidence, wit and—gods—those cold, intelligent eyes levelling a calculating look at him over the rim of Essek’s own glass.
In Essek’s mind, fantasy overlaps with memory, and he imagines the human looking at him now. Essek’s heart stutters when his imaginary foe watches him with amused appreciation. As if he liked what he saw.
Oh, Essek can’t let this go.
“Be careful yourself,” he answers, enunciating carefully, “and don’t pick challenges you can’t win.”
Instead of the silence he’s expecting, there is a chuckle that makes his body react with embarrassing eagerness. “But I enjoy a challenge, Shadowhand, and I am sure you do too.” There’s a playful note in his voice when he adds, “You sound a bit breathless. Have I interrupted something?”
“No,” Essek chokes out before he can stop himself. He flushes, hating himself. He never throws caution and common sense to the wind like this. What is he doing?
The best damage control is to shut up, so he brings his still-gloved hand to his mouth.
But it seems like someone doesn’t like to be ignored.
“That’s too bad. I’ve been thinking about you. I thought—I hoped it was mutual.”
Essek’s hand drops from his lips. “Evidently,” he replies, because the only way to ignore the way his heart rate is picking up is to be reckless, “since you keep wasting spells to torment me.”
“What if I told you that I have been thinking about you… intensely?” The voice is lower, rougher. Essek can’t help it: he pushes into his fist to find some relief.
And then, “Ignore me, if this is unwelcome.” Softer, quicker, like an afterthought.
Essek almost cries out at that. He should ignore him. It’s the safe, reasonable, sensible thing to do. But he’s so close, he’s right there, he’s— “It’s not unwelcome,” he whispers as he thumbs the head of his cock again.
The thought of Bren as impatient and compromised as Essek is, surrendering to this most basic of urges as soon as he found some privacy, maybe on the floor of his chambers as well, somewhere in the palace not far from here, or sprawled on his bed, still mostly dressed, almost sends Essek over the edge.
He pushes back. He doesn’t want to come yet. The thought that they’re both powerless to stop this—whatever it is—from happening is headier than wine and he wants it to last. Even without the spell, he feels a connection to the man who’s probably touching himself right now thinking of Essek. He wonders how it would feel to be the one who touches him, if he’s bigger than him—Essek has no experience with humans but he must be, if he’s proportionate—how different the heft must feel, and then he wonders how Bren’s hand on him must feel, stroking him, those long fingers wrapped around him instead of his own.
The silence is suddenly unbearable.
The somatics for the spell he needs to cast require both hands, which may pose a problem. Conversely, Mage Hand is a very simple spell he can cast in his sleep.
The spectral hand is not freckled and warm like the one in his memory, but Essek can pretend it is. It’s even easier, and he regrets not thinking about it sooner. He fumbles the somatics for Sending twice, but he’s smart and determined.
The thin silvery line between his hands is intimidating in its realness. This must have been nerve-wracking, he realises with begrudging respect.
“I’m close,” he spits out before losing either his courage or his hold on the spell.
The answer is a choked-off gasp, and then, “I’m— I’m—”
Just like that, Essek spills over cold, spectral fingers and pretends they’re Bren’s, pretends to unravel under his touch and his gaze, and this thought makes him come even harder. He’s still pulsing when he casts again. “Come for me,” he breathes out. “Let me hear you.”
Miraculously, Bren does: he lets Essek hear him, the spell carrying over a few breathy words in a language Essek doesn’t understand. They tell Essek all he needs to know nonetheless.
When the spell fades, all he’s left with is a wild heartbeat, a sticky mess that he Prestidigitates away with an annoyed gesture, and an odd sense of dissatisfaction, considering he just came harder than he’s ever done before. The weight of what just happened, of what he’s not only allowed to happen but has actively sought out, settles on his shoulders heavier than any armoured mantle he’s ever worn.
With a sigh, he puts his face in his hands. “What have I done?” he murmurs to no one.