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Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window, casting long shadows across the wooden floor and catching on the spines of books that hadn’t been reshelved in weeks. It was the kind of cozy mess Robert kept meaning to clean; once he revised the slides for his next lecture, once the essays were graded, once he had the time.
The scent of tea lingered faintly in the air – bergamot and black leaves, with a faint citrus edge that always reminded Robert of cold mornings and warm hands. Of the first winter Dane spent in Cambridge, half-buried in one of Robert’s crewneck sweaters and quietly stunned that Boston could be colder than London. He’d crossed the ocean for him, settled into this unfamiliar city like it had always been waiting for him.
He carried two mugs as he crossed from the kitchen to the study, the heat seeping into his fingers. It was past two, or maybe closer to three – either way, the kind of hour where time felt slow and sleepy and in-between.
He’d been planning to ask if Dane wanted to catch a film later. Maybe dinner afterward. They were overdue for something that wasn’t takeout on the couch, student papers scattered between them.
The door to the study was half-open.
“Dane?” he called, soft but audible, nudging it wider with his foot.
No response.
The room was empty.
He set the mugs down on the desk with a soft clink of ceramic. A polishing cloth lay nearby, slightly worn from the historian’s careful touch. The blade was right where Dane had left it – its box open, the sword resting silent and inert, black metal absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. Strange to see something so ancient among hardwood and books, like a museum artifact that had somehow wandered too far from home. Night at the Museum came to mind, though there was nothing whimsical about the energy the blade filled the room with.
Robert’s eyes caught the medieval box’s elaborate decoration – boldly bordered panels depicting knightly scenes in rich reds and golds, flanked by stylized text columns and interwoven lattice patterns. At its center, a circular metal seal embossed with a crimson emblem drew his focus, gleaming faintly under the dim light. His fingers itched to trace the pictures, to unravel the stories woven into the timeworn designs. He was an academic, after all. Curiosity was his currency.
The symbologist told himself he was just admiring the craftsmanship. He wasn't going to touch it. But the blade seemed to come to life in a way that was almost hypnotic.
He’d seen Dane after wielding the blade – how it burrowed into him like a sickness no one else could see. The way it twisted his senses, making him hear whispers in silence and see shapes at the edges of his vision that weren’t really there. How it dragged the historian down into low, depressive states, leaving him a shell of the man he’d fallen in love with.
Nights when Dane’s mind kept him awake for hours, tangled and restless, only for terror to take its place when exhaustion finally claimed him. The nightmares were never quiet. They tore through him, leaving him breathless, clawing at sheets, muttering ominous Latin phrases Robert’s half-asleep mind usually wasn’t quick enough to decipher. It was something to be feared.
Still, he stepped closer.
Before his better judgment could intervene, his fingers brushed the edge of the hilt. He doesn’t even register the cold before—
His father’s funeral.
Twelve years old, blazer stiff and collar too tight. His tie felt like it was choking him. The sky was a washed-out grey, the kind that dulled everything it touched, mirroring the ache in his chest. Someone was speaking – saying the right things, the kind things. “He was a good man,” they said. Robert wanted to scream. He remembered this moment. He was in it again, the weight of it pressing down until he could barely breathe—
A house he didn’t recognize.
Night bled in through the windows, soft and creeping, pooling in the corners of a quiet living room. A couple knelt on the floor, pleading for their lives, voices breaking as blood soaked steadily into the pale rug beneath them. They looked familiar; faces he had never studied, but somehow still knew. He would have remembered them. His memory didn’t forget. But something about them clawed at the edge of recognition, like a dream he couldn’t quite wake from, slipping through his grasp each time he tried to focus.
They weren’t afraid of him. They were afraid of someone else – someone worse.
A presence lingered just behind him. They weren’t visible, but he could feel them there, looming and malignant. The shadow of the blade fell across the floor, dark and still, as if poised to deliver the killing blow. It pressed in around him like a sky about to collapse – cold, cruel, utterly wrong.
Robert couldn’t see the threat, but he didn’t need to; whatever loomed behind him was evil, raw and unfiltered.
Fear rose in his throat like a tide, fast, choking, impossible to escape—
Dane.
Robert’s other half was on the floor, curled in on himself in the dim light. His chest heaved, pale and sweating, tears streaming down his face. The Ebony Blade lay across his lap, his fingers clenched tightly around the hilt, knuckles white with tension. His eyes were locked on his right wrist. It was bare, unscarred.
No. No, that wasn’t right. Robert remembered how quickly Dane had changed the subject before when he’d asked about it. He hadn’t pushed, assuming it was just the aftermath of a rough mission the knight had been sent on before he’d moved in.
Dane looked like he was about to lift the blade again. His whole body trembled beneath the weight of it. When he finally raised the sword, Robert couldn’t look away or stop him, no matter how much he wanted to—
Robert jolted back so hard he hit the desk behind him. His breath came shallow and fast. The world narrowed to a single point, trapping him. The study walls pressed closer, heavy and unyielding, triggering the tight, panicked clutch of his claustrophobia. He gripped the edge of the wood, fighting to steady himself. In. Out. In…
The door opened again.
Robert heard Dane’s voice first, soft and calming as always, drifting in from the doorway. “Sorry, I thought you were still upstairs—”
Then it faltered.
“Robert?”
His footsteps crossed the room in an instant.
“Hey. Hey, look at me. You’re okay. Robbie, love, you’re alright.”
Cool hands found his face, cupping his jaw with practiced gentleness. Robert blinked, and Dane’s face slowly came into focus. His voice was steady and grounding, but it was his eyes that gave him away. Wide and dark and full of worry, like the fear had settled there before it could reach his words.
“I—” Robert began, but his throat had closed up, the words catching.
Dane followed the symbologist’s gaze to the blade resting inside the still-open box on the desk. “…What did it show you?”
Robert swallowed, nodding once. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Yeah.” Dane’s voice was soft. Quiet. “I know.”
Robert’s breath hitched, fragile and uneven, before slipping out in a soft, shaky sigh through his nose. His eyes closed slowly, instinctively seeking a moment’s respite from the overwhelm. Dane’s thumb traced a slow, soothing line along the sharp ridge of his cheekbone – a quiet, precise gesture that somehow grounded him. Dane was always so remarkably in tune with him, noticing the subtle fractures beneath the surface, knowing exactly how to steady him when his mind felt scattered. Even in this moment of vulnerability, Robert’s thoughts steadied, locking onto one clear truth: he loved Dane more than words could ever say.
“It started with my father,” Robert started, the words scraping out rough, his voice catching in his throat. “The funeral. I was twelve.”
Dane didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just listened – open, attentive, unwavering.
“Then a house I didn’t recognize. There was this couple, a man and a woman. I didn’t know them, but their faces felt… familiar, like something I should have remembered. The blade was there, I’m pretty sure. They were terrified of whoever wielded it, and I don’t blame them. The energy was sinister.”
Robert’s fingers dug into his chest, fighting to contain the surge of emotion that threatened to drown him.
“And then it showed me you.”
A breath hitched in Dane’s chest. Barely audible, but Robert heard it anyway.
“You were on the floor. Crying. The blade was in your lap.”
Robert’s voice dropped, softer but sharper now, edged with quiet insistence. “You kept looking at your wrist. There wasn’t a scar there, Dane.”
Something shifted in the historian’s expression. Not surprise, nor denial. Shame, maybe. Or grief, dulled by time but never truly gone.
“That was—” Dane started, then stopped. His voice dropped low. “That was a bad night. Bad enough that Valinor came from it.”
Robert’s eyes tried to meet his. Dane looked away, gaze dropping like he was undeserving of the kindness waiting in them.
“The blade can’t physically hurt me,” Dane went on. “It knows better than that. The scar’s only there because every time I look at it, I have to be reminded of that night… and just how low I was.”
Robert nodded slowly. “It wanted me to understand you. Or be afraid of you. Maybe both.”
He said it without judgment, his voice soft but sure. He already knew Dane’s worst, and he wasn’t about to turn away.
Not now, not ever.
Dane didn’t answer. His shoulders caved inward, squeezing the breath from him. He carried the guilt in silence, each pang cutting deeper than the last, sickened by the knowledge that Robert had been hurt because of the curse he bore.
But even torn apart by remorse, Dane knew Robert needed him now. Slowly, he shifted closer, knees brushing, the movement hesitant but deliberate – an unspoken promise to be there, no matter how undeserving he felt.
“You’re not afraid,” he said at last. His voice was low, uneven. He still couldn’t look up.
“No.” Robert didn’t miss a beat. There was no hesitation in him, no trace of doubt – only truth, clear and immediate.
At that, Dane lifted his head. His eyes finally met Robert’s, soft with the kind of wonder usually reserved for discovering a favorite painting in a quiet gallery. There was no guard left in them, only soft reverence, like he was seeing something sacred. Dane had always looked at Robert like he’d hung the stars, but somehow, it still amazed him every time.
The historian let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years and reached up again, palm warm against Robert’s cheek. His touch was steady, grounding but also seeking, as though Robert’s presence was the reason he had endured everything and why it had all been worth it.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you away from this thing.”
Robert let Dane lead him to the living room, allowing himself to be settled onto the couch. Dane draped a blanket over Robert’s shoulders – the one with the softest, gentlest fabric that never made his skin crawl. Of course, Dane remembered. Without a word, he slipped away briefly and returned with the mugs of tea Robert had prepared earlier.
He didn’t argue when Dane placed one of the mugs in his hands, or when Dane tucked his legs up beneath him. The historian’s hand traced slow, steady patterns between his shoulder blades until the worst of the tremble faded.
Dane didn’t mention the blade again, nor did he bring up what Robert had seen. For now, every part of him was devoted to ensuring his partner was alright.
Robert sat quietly for a moment, gathering himself before remembering why he’d sought Dane out in the first place. He cleared his throat. “I was coming in to ask if you wanted to go out tonight.”
Dane turned slightly, his brow furrowed with curiosity. “Out?”
“A movie, maybe the new Wes Anderson one. Dinner. Just… something different. Something us.” Robert flashed a boyish smile, one that always felt a bit like a promise to Dane. “It’s been too long.”
Dane paused for a moment, then released a soft sigh, the tension slowly melting from his posture.
“And you still want to? After all of that?”
Robert leaned in, his forehead barely brushing Dane’s temple, breath warm as it ghosted across his partner’s skin. “Of course I do. Just… no haunted relics, yeah? No swords, either. Just you and me.”
Dane smiled, though it wasn’t the usual small smile. This was the real thing – teeth showing, eyes squinting, and cheeks rounding with genuine warmth.
“I’d like that.”