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Chapter Text

Dearest Alexander, 

It is with greatest surprise that I find myself writing this letter from Baldur's Gate, whereupon I am to spend the season representing your father's seat on the Alliance Council and to marry, in accordance with Father's wishes and my duty as the new heir to the seat of the Evermoors. 

Though I will miss the solitude of the temple I do not resent my new duty. I owe a debt of gratitude to Father – and to yourself – So I would not refuse any such responsibility. 

Please rest assured that I do not bear you any ill will for leaving. How could I, to the boy who accepted me so readily when I was brought to his home as his Father's ward? Who loved me like a brother despite how reasonable it would have been for him to be angered by my presence? 

Most of àll, I must admit that I admire your decision to choose love over duty too much to resent you for it. 

I hope that you, too, see the irony in giving me Mornbryn's Shield after refusing so vehemently to have a farmer’s daughter as the lady of the house. Soon, more so than I would like, I fear, the head of the household shall be a commoner himself. I owe Father a great deal for taking me in, but I cannot confess to fully comprehending his intentions at times. 

All my love to you and Matilda

Xenk.

There is a knock at the carriage door and Xenk startles, "Yes?"

A servant opens the door, "We have arrived at the Palace, sir." He says smoothly. 

Xenk gives a polite smile, "Thank you," He folds the paper and tucks it in the drawer of his travel writing desk alongside the others and steps out of his carriage. “I shall return at midnight.” 

The footman bows, and Xenk looks towards the opulent palace of High Hall, the seat of Baldur’s Gate’s Council of Four, and takes a deep, steadying breath. Out here there is a moment of calm in the dark, cool night, broken only by the sound of hooves on the approach to the palace, but he knows it can’t last. Steeling himself, he makes his way to palace doors, where light pours out opulent gold onto the stone below. 

The ballroom at High Hall is grand in both scale and architecture, with marble columns extending up to the vaulted ceiling which is adorned with delicate stucco patterns painted with gold leaf, glittering opulently in the light of the chandeliers. Its size is fortunate, for it is packed to the brim with nobles from across the Lord’s Alliance celebrating the start of The Season. It is an astonishingly loud place, with a full chamber orchestra playing an upbeat tune, though even their near-fifty in number seems to be nearly drowned out by the indistinct hum of conversation. Instantly, Xenk longs for the relative peace of the abbey, and finds himself closing his eyes briefly as he attempts to fortify his mind against the tide of sensation. 

As he rocks backwards on his heels in a nervous habit he has never been quite able to break, he is approached by Duke Silverhall of the Council of Four and his wife. "Mr Yendar, we are most grateful you are able to join us for the festivities this eve," the Duke says jovially with a tip of his hat. He’s a tall man, slightly rotund and red faced in the way that many men go when they reach a certain age;  which altogether gives him a physical presence that well matches his social status.

He bows, first to Duke Silverhall, then the Duchess, "Thank you kindly for your invitation, Your Grace." 

"Have you travelled with no companions?"  The Duchess asks. She is shorter and softer in features than her husband, but they are not unalike in countenance; despite her lack of size, she still commands a presence of her own, the picture of a dedicated hostess. 

"I am afraid not, my Lady. I have been dedicated to the church these past years, so I have not had opportunity to make acquaintances amongst good society, and as Duke Rockingham is still, regrettably, too unwell to travel, I have come to Baldur's Gate alone." 

Duchess Silverhall gives him a soft but slightly pitying expression, “Well, do not fret, I shall ensure you are not companionless by the evening’s end. I shall make you some introductions - I hardly think there is a young woman in this room who would refuse to know a gentleman as fine as you."

He gives as polite a smile as he can muster and bows his head again, "You are too kind." 

“I shall leave you in the hands of my good lady wife. I have yet to find a woman who is a better judge of character than her, and I am most certain you will leave this ball with only the best of connections.” The Duchess offers her husband a fond look as she swats him playfully. 

Dutifully, Xenk holds his arm out to her, and she places a hand delicately on his elbow, “Thank you for the kindness.” He says politely, because he knows he must. This may not be the life he wishes for himself, but it is the one he has found his duty. 

“Tis no hardship, Mr Yendar,” she tells him, with a pleased, smug look which suggests to him that she hopes to be the one who introduces him to the woman he will make his wife, “Praytell, have any of the fine young ladies caught your eye?” 

He can hardly tell her that he has yet to find a woman who has caught his eye in all of his three-and-thirty years, so he chooses to defer to her, “Are there any you would consider to be in particularly good standing?” As expected, she looks particularly pleased by his demurring, turning to the room at large, and begins leading him through to make introductions. 

Quickly, he is engaged for nigh-on every dance, overwhelmed and struggling to remember the names of the ladies he has been introduced to, let alone their standing or their estates. He has never been well made for this - for entertaining or for crowds. Despite all efforts to teach him, Xenk has always been a poor conversationalist; though he is never unhappy to talk to others, he has never quite been able to grasp those unspoken rules of high society, resulting in a tendency to cause offence unintentionally. He keeps his answers short and rote, and thankfully their pace is just fast enough that he never needs to linger with one person for long enough that they might suspect his discomfort. 

Duchess Silverhall looks mighty pleased with herself as they finish their turn about the room. "And now you have made more than a few acquaintances in this room I dare say. Praytell, have you found any of the women you have been introduced to particularly diverting?"

"They are all the picture of charm and grace," he says diplomatically. They are also young – he has yet to be introduced to any lady older than three-and-twenty. "However I find my affections are not easily won, I shall have to consider for longer than a few moments conversation before making any judgements." 

She nods understandingly, though she cannot possibly understand, "Of course, you must at least dance with a lady before you can get a true sense of her character. Though you will have ample opportunity, I warrant your dance card is full to the brim for the eve!" 

Before he can respond a murmur seems to pass through the crowd, eyes turning towards the door. He follows the gaze towards a young woman dressed in the white crinoline of a debutante, flanked by an older man and woman, one on each side. He doesn't recognize them immediately so they can't be high aristocracy, and the girl is handsome enough, considering how young she is, but she is not such a beauty as to warrant the attention her party is drawing.

"If I may be so impudent, I cannot help but notice how much interest the young lady over yonder is drawing, though I recognize neither her nor her companions." He says despite himself so as to sate his curiosity.

"Ah, The Darvises have arrived. The daughter is a fine girl, but the interest is likely being drawn by her father. He hasn’t been out in society since the death of his wife more than a decade ago. The gossip of the day is whether this means he’s finally looking for a new engagement.” Mr Darvis is greeting a man Xenk hasn’t been introduced to in a more casual way, with a friendly grip of his arm. He looks relaxed and confident, but now that Xenk is looking, he can see a hint of tension in the lines around his eyes. “It’s a pity he did not do so sooner – a girl ought not to grow up without a womanly influence.” 

Xenk tilts his head curiously, “What about the woman they are with?” He asks.

“Oh, she’s just the girl’s chaperone. Not a high-born lady, you understand.” She says dismissively, which seems a little unfair to Xenk. The Duchess pats his arm, “Miss Darvis is a dear thing, just came out this year - would you like an introduction? The Darvises hail from Ten Towns, which is only a few days' ride from Morbryn’s Shield if I recall correctly. Could be a good match.” 

He manages to keep the look of distaste off his face, “I fear she is a touch too young – I must be nearly twice her age.”

“She is seventeen, which is a perfectly reasonable age to come out, particularly for a first-born girl.” The Duchess replies, which doesn’t quite feel like a response to the observation he made. “Come, I shall introduce you. I must head over in any case or be remiss in my duties as hostess.”

She offers no recourse for him to excuse himself, and even he recognizes that refusing an introduction kindly offered by him by his hostess would be considered improper, so he stands before the Darvises, being introduced. 

“Mr Darvis, it has been far too long since we have seen you at a ball,” She says jovially, “I trust that it will prove sufficiently diverting.” 

Mr Darvis bows politely, then says, “I can only hold out hope that I may find myself diverted during it.” He quite clearly knows what he’s saying, rather than stumbling into impoliteness as Xenk finds he has a habit of doing. This is a pointed attack of a sort, the kind that cannot be easily rebuffed. Mr Darvis has a sharp, confident voice, and a smile that very much doesn’t reach his eyes. Instantly, Xenk is fascinated. 

Duchess Silverhall chooses to plough ahead despite the slight, “Miss Darvis you look very fetching. Have you any engagements for the dances as of yet?” 

The girl curtsies gracefully. “Thank you, Lady Silverhall. I have already been promised two dances, in fact.”

Mr Darvis turns the full force of his gaze onto Xenk, and unlike most in these circles, he doesn’t try to hide the scrutiny of his gaze. It is all Xenk can do to not suck in a surprised breath at the weight of his judgement. “And who is your companion?” Mr Darvis asks.

“Allow me to introduce Mr Yendar. He is the new heir to the Evermoors title.” 

Xenk bows as Mr Darvis’s eyes flick down and up dispassionately. “Pleased to make your acquaintances, Miss Darvis, Mr Darvis and…” He looks at the woman with them, trailing off expectantly for her name. 

“Huh?” She looks distinctly surprised to be addressed, “Holga.” Miss Darvis elbows her none too subtly and she adds, “Oh, right uh. Holga Kilgore.” She gives a half-hearted curtsey then refuses to suppress a grimace as she smooths out her skirt, as if it has wronged her personally. 

He bows to her as well, “Miss Kilgore.” This, he knows, is the wrong thing to do based on the interaction he’d had with the Duchess moments ago and the slight press of her lips in grim distaste, but both Darvises look upon him with something approaching surprised delight.

"Though I believe we have never met, I must confess to knowing your name, sir." Xenk continues, turning to Mr Darvis, "I believe you served as an officer alongside Duke Rockingham. He has recounted many an act of heroism in which your name has been mentioned." 

Quickly it becomes apparent that he said something wrong. Mr Darvis's eyes narrow, his jaw set with tension. "Yes, I did." He replies, with more sharpness than Xenk thinks the remark should have drawn. "Then you must be his Thayan orphan." 

" Father !" Miss Darvis admonishes, but Xenk holds his shoulders back, and continues looking evenly at Mr Darvis. It is not the first time he has been treated with hostility due to the marks of Thay given to him as a child, nor is it likely to be the last, especially now that he is set to inherit a not insignificant amount of land.

"I renounced the Empire of Thay many years ago. Were I to return, I would be branded as a traitor and executed, as I expect you are aware." 

A muscle in Mr Darvis’s jaw ticks with the effort of not responding rudely, “I believe I just spied Lord Corvidae - I simply must ask about his racing pigeons.” He says tersely and peels off before anyone could respond.

“Ed-” Miss Kilgore calls after him, moving to follow before stopping and looking back at Miss Darvis with a frustrated sound as she remembered her duties as chaperone. 

“I apologise for my father. He is having trouble finding his footing in society once again.” She explains. Her face is serene, but there’s a slight pinch of irritation behind it.

“If I took every slight against the Thayans to heart, I should not have any heart left. I understand the impulse - I, more than most, know the horror of the Thayan Empire.” 

It is customary for a gentleman to ask a lady to dance after they are introduced, to not acknowledge this would be a slight, especially after her father's terse words. He does not wish for the actions of one to hold consequences for another, especially since Miss Darvis has only just come out and holds little reputation outside of her family name. So, despite how little he wishes, he says, "Would that I have the opportunity I should like to engage you for a dance, but I am engaged for all but the eighth." Of all the ladies he has been entreated to dance with, all have been engaged for the 8th dance, the only waltz on the schedule. If he is fortunate, she will be also.

Miss Darvis smiles politely, "I am not otherwise engaged for the waltz." 

Xenk feels a pit of dread pull at his stomach. The waltz is not popular only for its novelty but as a closed dance between two partners rather than a line or group dance, where the dancers are always physically close and gaze into one another's eyes. The concept holds no appeal to him in general - he has never enjoyed such intimacy except with a rare few people he has grown to be comfortable around - but to perform such a romantic dance with one so young is an exceptionally unappealing notion to him.

He thinks he manages to mask this fairly well, his smile only slightly strained. “How fortuitous.” He loops his name onto Miss Darvis’s dance card without any further complaint, and with a small curtsey, she and Miss Kilgore make their leave.

He handles the first few dances amicably. His partners are genial and not unpleasant, and the vigour of the dance leaves little room for in depth conversation where he would be more at risk of mis-step. All the same, by the time he is bowing to his partner at the end of the fourth, the noise of the musicians and chatter, the sheer number of other people around him, trying to talk to him, are becoming too much and he is exhausted. 

A hand touches his shoulder lightly, and he doesn’t have the energy left to hide the flinch. It withdraws, “My apologies, Mr Yendar, I wasn’t certain how else to get your attention.” A person behind him says, and he turns. He had been introduced to Mr Aumar earlier in the evening. The Aumar family is the oldest and most powerful of the Dalelands, though Xenk’s impression of the young Mr Aumar was simply of a young man trying to find his footing in the world. He gives the same impression now, bouncing on the balls of his feet nervously. 

He offers a polite incline of the head, “No offence taken, Mr Aumar. I was merely not expecting to be approached.” 

“I wished to enquire if you would like to join me in the card room for a game or a cigar in the lull between dances.” 

Xenk’s shoulders drop slightly in relief, “I would be most obliged.” 

The card room is smaller and more sparsely populated, mostly by men gambling idly on games of chance. The music is muffled from here, it is dark and smells mostly like smoke. Mr Aumar offers him a smile which is more friendly than merely polite, “I apologise for the presumption but you seemed like you might benefit from a respite from the festivities." He places a crystal tumbler into Xenk's hands which he takes gratefully. 

"Thank you." He says simply, swirling the amber liquid in his cup for want of something to do with his hands.

"I recall the first ball I went to I felt as if I'd rather die than attend another. You do grow accustomed to such things though, after a time." 

"Perhaps so." He replies blandly, not believing him.

“It does become much more pleasant once you find a lady who you wish to court.” Mr Aumar says, likely in the hope that he will find it comforting – he does not. 

“Have you found such a lady?” He asks to distract the conversation. 

Mr Aumar blushes, “Indeed I have – Miss Doric Emeris. She refused my suit last season but she has graciously allowed me to prove myself worthy of her hand once more this season. And yourself? I know it is early yet, but has anyone caught your eye?”

“I highly doubt anyone will.” He says unthinkingly, because he has already expended so much of his ability for forethought. 

Thankfully, Mr Aumar either does not pick up on his genuine meaning, or he deigns not to press. “Careful, sir, you would not like to nurture a reputation as a rake.” 

He frowns, and struggles with the word for a moment, “What, may I ask, do garden implements have to do with anything?” 

Mr Aumar stares at him in confusion for just long enough that it sets him on edge, “A rake is a gentleman who believes himself above marriage. One who toys with the affections of women.” 

“I can assure you that I am not such a man. I do not wish to marry, but it is not because I wish to besmirch the honour of good women.” 

Mr Aumar considers him briefly, frowning thoughtfully, then nods, “Ah, I understand. You were in the church before you were given your inheritance, correct?” 

He doesn’t know what that has to do with anything, but it is correct so nonetheless he nods, “Indeed I had intended to devote myself to the Church of Ilmater, but obligation has forced my hand.”

Mr Aumar nods as if it explains everything, “I see.” Xenk does not see. 

He hears the opening bars of the next song and sighs, placing his glass down. “I must be away, I have duties to attend to. Thank you for the respite, however brief it may have been.”

He dances the next three dances dutifully; bows to his partners and deigns to speak little to them. Still, he begins to notice the number of eyes on him increasing as the evening wears on, though he is unsure whether it is a judgement on his seemingly cold demeanour, his choice of partners, or some other unknown element that he is unable to fathom. Eventually the time comes for the dreaded waltz, and he finds himself bowing to the young Miss Darvis. 

She curtseys politely and he offers her his hand. She puts her hand on his shoulder, he places his fingers on her waist, just enough that he can lead and they begin to move. 

He keeps his distance and she allows it. “Mr Yendar, it seems you have made quite a stir.” She says, amused. 

“I have noticed.” He replies, “Though I cannot fathom what has captivated them so.” 

Miss Darvis raises an eyebrow, “You don’t?” she asks, “You are quite handsome, sir, I don’t believe anyone with eyes could deny that.” 

He doesn’t know how to respond to such a compliment. “I see.” 

“And what’s more, there is a saying amongst the Ton - a man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” He thinks he must have made a face at that, for she laughs, sharp and genuine before she gets herself under control again. There is a few beats of quiet, as she follows him through a turn, then she looks at him with a serious expression on her face, “Now, you must understand that Mr Aumar is not a gossip - he only told me out of concern for my own wellbeing, but am I to understand you have no intention of marrying?” 

He sighs, because he abhors lies despite how the truth might affect his reputation, “No, my Lady, I have no desire to marry. I understand that in all likelihood I must, but the idea will… take some getting used to.” 

“I have a proposition for you.” She says. 

“No.” He replies immediately.

“Mr Yendar, I beseech you to hear me out.” She says firmly. He sighs and inclines his head to indicate to her to speak. “I have arranged to spend the summer in study at Candlekeep. However, were I to be engaged this season, I would be too busy with my duties in organising a wedding to be allowed to study so far away from home - or I would be at the whims of a husband who may rescind my permission to study entirely.” 

“Could your father have not delayed your coming out until next year?” He asks.

“Regrettably we tried, but I am an only child, Mr Yendar - with no elder sisters to protect me, to delay would bring into question my honour and suitability for the marriage market.” 

“And spending the season unengaged would not?” 

“Not if I spent most of the season with a serious suitor who, for one reason or another, could not propose. When Simon told me of your predicament, I could not help but think that perhaps it would be a beneficial arrangement for the both of us.” 

He dislikes the idea of courting in general, even if it would be a fiction. Would pretending to court one woman be more tolerable than being forced to endure the advances of many? 

“There need not be any declarations or overt moves, Mr Yendar.” She insists, “It would simply be enough to be seen in one another’s company, and we would not be unchaperoned.” 

The song is nearly finished, he leads them through the last few steps. The season lasts for months, and he is already so tired of this game after one night. Would it make it easier if he had someone who he could fall back on? “I shall need time to think.” He tells her. 

She curtseys as they part, “I understand, sir. Will you be in attendance at the Neverember ball one tenday hence?” He nods in confirmation. “Then I shall expect your answer there.” 

“Very well, my Lady.” 

He turns away from the dancefloor, and as his eyes sweep across the room, he catches sight of Mr Darvis watching him. Their gaze meets, and Xenk is suddenly struck by how intelligent and calculating his eyes are, and how intensely blue, enough that it might have been enough to stop his breathing if the man weren’t glaring like he could do harm to Xenk with a look alone. 

He breaks eye contact, nodding his head in acknowledgement before turning away, not waiting to see if the man returns the gesture, as he knows he will not. 

– – – – – – – –

Father,

I cannot do this. I have sworn to you that I will take on the responsibilities of the Lord of Mornbryn’s Shield and I take this honour seriously, but should those duties necessitate my presence at parties or include the procurement of a suitable wife to run the household, I find myself incapable. 

I shall perform all other duties with dedication, I will care for the land and tenants above all other motivations. I shall protect the ancestral lands of your forefathers. I will ensure that for generations to come Mornbryn's Shield is considered a paragon of charity and piety. But if this is an irreconcilable difference between you and I, then I am afraid I must thank you for your kindness and part from you. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe to you, but I regret that this is intolerable to me. 

Your obedient servant,

Xenk Yendar.

In the dark of the master bedroom, the one which not been his but for a mere but five days prior (one which, for the past six years had been his adoptive brother's and still bears remnants of his presence). He stares at the paper until the ink seems to smear in his blurred vision, then holds it to the candle until the parchment catches, until it is reduced to ash. He centres himself, the scent of smoke thick in the air, then produces another sheaf of paper and begins afresh. 

– – – – – – – –

Xenk is immensely weary by the time he bows to Miss Darvis at the Everember ball. Days upon days of being introduced to countless women or mithered by their mothers, being drawn into discussions about the ladies present at the balls as if they were cows at market. He has made his choice. 

“Very well, I accept your proposal.” He tells her as the music swells around them and they begin to dance, “But I have conditions.” 

She inclines her head, “Of course.” 

“I will not make any overt declarations, as I will not outright lie. I am not a fool, I will not tell the honest truth, but I will never claim to love you when I do not.”

“That is acceptable. I doubt anyone would attempt to force you to make such a declaration – actions will be sufficient. I appreciate your directness, but it seems you are yet to understand that society lives and dies on subtle overtures. You need do no more than dance with me twice of an evening on occasion and to be seen in one another’s company. I, and the Ton, will do the rest.”

“What of Mr Darvis and Miss Kilgore?” 

“As I said, my father did not want me to come out this season, my own machinations are to continue that work as he has attempted. Ideally before he can ruin my prospects for the season to come with his melancholic countenance.” Her eyes drift to the crowd, where the two are watching them dance, then back to Xenk, “As for Holga, she does not like the idea, but she has no qualms about lying to society and she will not stop me.”

“You must understand that this is an agreement and nothing more. I do not mean to be cruel but I must be direct. I could not love you, it is not in my nature.” 

“I did not ask you to.” She assures him, “I think to do so would rather ruin the point.” 

“As long as we are both in agreement.”

“Then it is settled.” She smiles, satisfied in her manipulation. “You must attend our salon tomorrow afternoon. Bring flowers.” 

“Very well. What sort do you prefer?” 

She looks utterly delighted, as a child might when their vie for sweets is met with agreement, “I should think periwinkle is a good choice. It goes well with my eyes, I’ve been told.” 

For a brief moment, Xenk cannot help but remember her father’s ice-blue eyes, and wonder what sort of flower might go well with them. 

– – – – – – – –

Dearest Father,

The Season is off to an excellent start – though I had no acquaintances when I arrived, our gracious hosts have been most auspicious in assuring that I am well connected and never in want of a dance partner. You were quite correct in that the tone of society is much away from that of the country, and I live in hope that it will suit me more as well, much as you have implied.  

I have yet to find any lady who catches my eye, but I have always been a very fastidious gentleman in selecting a potential partner, as you well know considering I had made no such connections even prior to my diversion to the church. 

I have been introduced to one Miss Kira Darvis and her father, Mr Edgin Darvis, who I recall from your tales of your days as a Harper. While he has had reasonable doubts about my character, being Thayan in heritage, I hope to win him over yet. He seems to hold no good will for the Harpers, but you have always spoken highly of him. Do you recall the man? For her part, his daughter has debuted to society just this season, and while young she seems well-mannered and intelligent, though we have only danced twice in a tenday, so I have yet to form a more full opinion on the girl. 

Should you respond I would well like to hear on the status of your health. While it is your wish for me to attend to Baldur’s Gate in your stead, I do feel dearly worried being so far away while you are in such an ill state. 

Your obedient servant,

Xenk

Chapter Text

Xenk,

I am glad to hear you are finding your time in Baldur’s Gate pleasant. I know you struggled so with the society in the north, so I had long suspected you would find the more refined manners of Baldur’s Gate more to your liking. 

I do recall Mr Edgin Darvis and also once met his daughter, though only as an infant. However if she is even half as lovely as her mother was, I imagine she has grown to be a very fine girl indeed. It is true that Mr Darvis left the Harpers on poor terms, but the inciting incident for his resignation of his commission is a tragic one which I will not tell if the man is reticent to do so. I would not wish to kindle the fire of gossip. But please understand that knowing the reasons why he chose to leave I do not begrudge him, nor do many of the fellow officers who fought alongside him. 

I have placed great expectations upon your shoulders by sending you to Baldur’s Gate, but I do hope that you enjoy your time in the City. A good wife is a keystone of the household, this is true, but for this reason I would urge you to take stock of your options rather than rushing into a marriage. A woman of good breeding whom you find acceptable will be a valuable asset and a companion for you, such a contract is not to be entered into lightly or with too much haste. Take your leave to enjoy the season for all its delights for a bachelor, and if you find someone you like out of the stock, then this is merely a felicitous happenstance. Similarly, do not spend your time fretting over the health of an old man.

Duke Geoffery Rockingham

– – – – – – – –

The Gatewatch Society Papers

Dear readers, the first few weeks of the season is nearly over, with not so much of a whisper of a scandal in the works. Why, only three days into the season last year, Duke Andhera Unseelie had challenged Captain Hobb to a duel! However, do not fret, my dears. Where the Ton goes, scandal certainly follows, and I shall certainly uncover it. 

In the meantime, allow us to discuss those ladies and gentlemen who have thrown themselves upon the vicious spotlight of the marriage market. First, the man proving the most fascinating and eligible bachelor of the season - Mr Xenk Yendar. Not only is the man handsome, but, in a way that is catnip to young ladies, he is also aloof and mysterious, deigning to talk very little at social events. Countless women are chomping at the bit to be the one to break through his icy demeanour.

It seems that one such lady is Miss Darvis, who seems to have attracted the attention of our aloof bachelor. Could this result in a match, or will Mr Darvis put a stop to it? The man's comportment at social events has been, to this point, prickly at best, and overtly cruel at its worst. With Mr Yendar being of Thayan heritage, his suit may prove too much for the veteran of the war for Faerun to handle. 

– – – – – – – –

As requested, he visits the Darvis household the following day, with an arrangement of periwinkle and gardenia flowers which he was assured was not too grandiose nor too modest. He suspects that the florist overcharged him, sensing his unfamiliarity with Baldur’s Gate and courtship in general, but it's no matter, he is fortunate to have access to far more money than he could reasonably need and has no qualms over sharing it. 

The Darvises have a modest but well presented townhouse in Bloomridge not far from his own. He sits in their receiving salon for his morning visit, alone on his own sofa, while Miss Darvis and Miss Kilgore sit opposite him and Mr Darvis sits on a chair to his right. Mr Darvis’ eyes are narrowed as he stares at Xenk, as if he expects the man to whip out a blade at any moment to make an attempt on him. It feels a little like being interrogated, but he deigns to ignore the feeling as well as he can. 

Miss Darvis doesn't seem to mind that he's not much in the way of conversation - she is perfectly happy to wax lyrical about a science experiment she's working on, and he's quite content to listen. He follows along well enough that he can comment at the appropriate moment, or ask a question or two, but it's clear that she has him outmatched in the field of modern science. She is obviously intelligent, and he understands more now why she is so determined to make it to Candlekeep for her studies. He had already agreed to the ruse for his own benefit, but now he also wants to help her, whether it benefits him or not. 

She’s finishing explaining a theoretical that includes a concerning amount of explosions, when Mr Darvis cuts in, clearing his throat. “Give us a moment, would you, Millicent?” He says, looking at the maid who has been serving their tea. Though she looks curiously at him, she curtseys and makes her way out of the room. He glances at Miss Kilgore, “Make sure she doesn’t eavesdrop, would you?”

She glares back at him, “Ed. Don’t be stupid.” She tells him plainly, as she gets up and stands by the door. 

“Father, be reasonable, please.” Miss Darvis adds her voice to the chorus, and while it is polite and calm, it’s also strained. 

“I am being reasonable, Kira.” Mr Darvis insists, still glaring at Xenk, “If I am to allow this man to continue to court you, I will know his intentions.” He raises an eyebrow, “So, Mr Yendar, what are your designs towards my daughter.” 

He blinks, “Intentions? I have none.” He says, confused. Surely Mr Darvis knew that he had made it very clear in the agreement that this was not going to be anything more than a ruse? 

However, Mr Darvis’s knuckles were white against the armrests as he looked on in fury, “You wish to lead her on? To what? For games? To besmirch her good reputation?”

Miss Darvis is looking down at her lap very aggressively, as if she knows this line of questioning will not end well for her. Miss Kilgore, standing by the door, looks between the pair, “Uh, Ed, we were gonna tell you-” She starts to say, but Xenk is already elaborating. 

“I have no interest in or desire for marriage with anyone, and Miss Darvis is aware of that. I only court her on her own request, so that she does not need to be the focus of another, genuine, suit.” 

The thunderous look turns from him to Miss Darvis, “You did what?” He asks, voice low and dangerous. 

“Father-” Miss Darvis starts to plead.

“I was under the impression that you were aware-” Xenk adds. 

Mr Darvis raises a hand to silence the room, “I would like a word with my daughter in private.” 

She sighs, “Yes, father.” Both Darvises stand, though propriety is not wholly forgotten as they leave. Miss Darvis offers him a small curtsey, even if she doesn’t meet his eyes, and Mr Darvis nods his head perfunctorily before he guides her out the room. Miss Kilgore leaves behind them, and suddenly he is very alone in their drawing room. 

He stands, not so much to try to spy, but because the situation feels like it’s gotten out of hand and he needs to do something other than sit and wait for the Darvises’ return. The drawing room has long windows looking out into the gardens behind the house, and he looks out upon them, hands behind his back. It is decidedly autumn now, no longer warm with the vestiges of late summer but still bright nonetheless. The garden is awash with the bright pinks and reds of autumn roses and carnations, along with some younger plants which he suspects will bloom in winter. It makes sense that a home that is only used for a portion of the year would bloom while its residents are able to enjoy it. 

He frowns thoughtfully. How has this gone so wrong? He had thought that a fake courtship would save him from his struggles with the rules of conversation, save him from causing offence – clearly, it had not worked. Although in his defence he believes that he need not say any words to insult Mr Darvis, the man had been determined to hate him from the moment they had been introduced and he saw the brand on his forehead. 

The erstwhile Mr Darvis appears in his vision as he heaves his daughter into the garden to reprimand her and he steps back lest they think he is spying. He doesn't intend to eavesdrop, but the window is slightly open and he's always had very sensitive hearing combined with an unfortunate inability to tune out the sound of speech.

"What would you have had me do, father? You tried and failed to keep me off the marriage market, so I deemed it best to take matters into my own hands." 

"I said I would handle it. I promised you, Kira." 

"You and I are both perfectly aware that our position is not secure enough that we could refuse a good offer of marriage should one be made to me." Miss Darvis sounds indignant and frustrated.

"I would have ensured you had a long enough engagement to go to Candlekeep. And you must know I would never force you to marry someone you disapproved of. Whatever their standing." 

"If I end up engaged, then there will be an entire other factor to contend with. Yes, I may want a long engagement but what if my fiance-to-be does not? What about the risk of a scandal, or of being tossed aside for a lady who will marry sooner. It would be mortifying."

"Yes, actually, what of scandal?" Mr Darvis's voice is sharp and firm, "Were you to spend the season in this flirtation, there would be talk of why you did not get engaged. Your virtue or his intentions would be called into question, or both." 

There was a tense silence for a moment as she scrambled for an answer. "He's Thayan, he doesn't know the customs?" She suggests hesitantly.

Mr Darvis laughs, sharp and cold, "Mr Yendar is well known to have left Thay as a boy, and been under the care of Duke Rockingham, who would have ensured he was given sufficient training in etiquette. Were you wishing for me to be the villain? To tolerate the courtship and then publically forbid any further association with a Thayan ?" 

She scoffs, "You need no help from me to appear a villain - you are doing an admirable job making a villain out of yourself. I am well aware that you do not want to be here, but you do not have to make that fact so abundantly clear to everyone who has attempted to show you any kindness or good manners." 

Mr Darvis is quiet for a tense moment, and Xenk takes a few steps closer to the window to peer through. If he hadn’t been eavesdropping before, he is making the choice to do so now. The man is sitting on the low stone wall edging a flower bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Miss Darvis is near, but not beside him, arms wrapped around herself as she seemingly tries not to cry. 

“I just…” Mr Darvis sighs, “Couldn’t you have asked..  Simon?” He said it like there was something else he wanted to say instead. Xenk could guess what it was - ‘ couldn't you have asked anyone else?’ . 

“I couldn’t do that to Simon! You know he’s going to propose to Doric this season.”

“Yeah, but he’d do it for you, if you asked. And he’s nice, if a bit inept, he’s a family friend, so I know I can trust him, and he’s not- not…” He trails off.

Miss Darvis gives him a pitying look, “He’s not Thayan?” She finishes. Mr Darvis looks away from her, lips pressed into a frown, which is as damning as anything. “Mr Yendar did not kill mother.” She says oh so gently, and Xenk understands better now.

Mr Darvis presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, “I know , I know. But every time I- Every time I see him – dancing with you, in our home, just breathing the same air as us – I can’t help but wonder… how would this make her feel? Am I betraying her by letting a Thayan -” He trails off and doesn’t speak again. 

Miss Darvis fidgets with the corner of her dress. “Father I- I’m sorry I don’t remember her.” 

Xenk knows he should look away, but he is transfixed by the sight of the tragedy within Mr Darvis’s countenance. He is intruding on a moment, he should look away, but that desire to put things right which burns within him, the one that drew him to the church in the first place, is consuming him, no matter how impossible a want it is. 

His hand grips the edge of the window fruitlessly. 

A moment passes before Mr Darvis takes a shuddering breath, running a hand through his dark hair, peppered with grey, “Kira, go to your room.” He says, not angrily but with the sternness befitting his role as patriarch. 

“But-” She starts. 

“Not now, Kira. We will discuss this later, do you understand me?”

She sighs reluctantly, “Yes, Father.” 

Mr Darvis does not leave the garden, and Xenk doesn’t leave his spot in the corner of the window. It goes on for long enough that Xenk starts to wonder if he should leave, despite how improper it would be to do so without bidding his hosts a proper farewell. Then, once more, his eyes meet blue, the colour of ice over the lake in winter, 

He tilts his chin up slightly and nods in acknowledgment. He has been invading the Darvises’ privacy - it is only fair that he accepts whatever retribution is deemed appropriate. Mr Darvis, however, does not look angry; rather, his shoulders slump and he sighs, crossing the grounds to the window Xenk is standing in front of. 

Mr Darvis pries the window open enough to lean through, so as to address him properly, leaning an elbow on the frame casually, “I ought to be grateful you overheard. It saves me explaining myself again.” 

“Perhaps we should talk. Properly.” There is something about the conversation taken through a window which feels more illicit than foolish. It conjures up images of star-crossed lovers, which is most certainly inappropriate.

This notion is not disabused, however, when Mr Darvis looks at the window frame and says, “Hm, I suppose so.” Before opening the window as wide enough as it will go and climbing through headfirst, turning in midair to land feet-first, a feat of strength and acrobatics which Xenk finds, immensely inappropriately, very attractive.

He frowns to cover for his own slip, “Is this not unbecoming behaviour?” He asks, “There is surely a door, sir.” 

"This is my house, I shall ingress in any manner which catches my fancy." He says, with a slight edge that perhaps suggests that the action was done impulsively under the apprehension that if he were to let Xenk out of his sight, he might not have the nerve to continue the conversation at all. Even now there is a certain level of movement to his countenance which belies a man ready to run.

He runs a hand through his hair again, a nervous habit, it seems. “Look, I recognise that I have not comported myself to the best of my abilities.” He sighs, frustrated, “But you must understand the position I find myself in.” 

“Of course I do.” He says, extending a metaphorical hand. He feels the need to make Mr Darvis understand, though he’s not entirely sure why. He thinks he would not be upset if the false courting of Miss Darvis couldn’t continue, but he knows he could not live in a world where Mr Darvis thought ill of him. “Thayan soldiers killed my parents.” 

Those sky-blue eyes snap up to him, and suddenly it seems as if they are seeing him properly for the first time, not just the marks on his face, “But you’re marked as loyal.” 

He tries not to feel discomfited when talking about Thay. He likes to see himself as an ambassador of sorts - not for the Empire, but for the people; those downtrodden who, like he was, were pressed into a service they did not want. “In the common tongue it’s called ‘The mark of Loyalty’, but that is a mistranslation of the Thayan, and a misunderstanding of the culture of the Empire.” He explains, “You are aware, I assume, that Thay operates on a caste system - slaves and freemen. All slaves are branded with the crest of the house that they serve, as the property of that House. All freemen belong to the Empire, and are similarly marked as such when they come of age.” 

He can still remember it, the ceremony, tears running down his face, his mother screaming as he was told it’s an honour, he should want to be marked for the empire, holding him down and-

“Did you say branded ?” Mr Darvis’s voice cuts through the memory, unguarded and alarmed. 

“With an iron.” He confirms, “Most are indoctrinated into believing that it’s something to be proud of - if only in the way that sets them apart from the slaves - but Thayans are branded at thirteen years old. It is painful and frightening.”

Mr Darvis has gone pale, “Gods above.” He mutters in shock, “At only thirteen?”

"Are you aware of the Solstice Rebellion?" 

"Of course, it's what inspired me to join the Harper division. Hundreds of Thayans, massacred by their own state." 

"I was there. It was the day I was to get my mark - a group of us tried to refuse the ceremony, but we were forced, which incited the initial riot." 

"How did you survive?" He looks astounded and a little horrified.

"Luck, mostly. And my mother - she threw herself at a guard who nearly had me cornered. I couldn't stop running to see what fate had befallen her but I heard." Scream, slash, thud. "Lord Rockingham found me close to the Thayan border, half-dead from exhaustion. He saved my life."

"I suppose I should cease being so cruel to you." Edgin says quietly, almost reluctantly.  

“I would welcome the change in comportment, though I do not tell you this to garner your pity, but as recompense for my actions in listening in on your conversation with Miss Darvis and perhaps to help provide some oft lacking context on the Empire of Thay.”

He doesn’t understand quite why Mr Darvis looks irritated with him as he explains, nor the rueful, “Must you insist on being so kind?” He responds with. Xenk does not understand; kindness is a core tenet of Xenk’s belief system, to not practise it would be untenable. “I feel I am honour-bound to ensure that you are comfortable with this arrangement. My daughter is very single-minded, and she often doesn’t consider how her actions will affect others. Your reputation could be damaged more severely than hers, and I find I am incapable of determining how you stand to benefit.”

“While I appreciate your concern, as it stands I do expect to find the arrangement useful. I am not accustomed to the ways of high society, preferring a life of solitude and serenity to the noise and company of the Ton. I am finding the transition to be jarring.”

“You were in the church before, correct? It must be quite the change.”

“Just so, sir.” He agrees, “I am constantly beset by marriageable young women and their mothers, so I have nary a moment’s peace at these functions I am obliged to attend.”

“Surely if you are being set upon, the most efficient solution would be to find a woman who you tolerate and marry her quickly?” Mr Darvis suggests, “From what I have heard, it sounds as if you have no shortage of willing sacrifices.” 

“While there is truth to your words, I cannot bring myself to chain a woman in matrimony to me knowing that I would not be able to love her. No matter my duty to marry, I have never met a woman I could love, nor do I believe I shall. To enter into such a bond with a woman who did not know this would be untenable.” 

“Ah,” Mr Darvis says, “I do believe I understand your predicament, of sorts.”

Xenk’s pulse quickens. He has said too much, and perhaps is allowing himself to hope more than he ought. “Do you, sir?” 

“I have oft found myself under pressure to remarry - having been so young when my Zia died, and having but one daughter as my legacy. Even now, with my daughter old enough to marry, I am still under the expectation to find a wife. But Zia was…" he breaks off, looking stricken, "I loved her greatly, the kind of love that all other women have been measured against and found lacking." 

He bites off the longing that grips his chest, his disappointment undeserved. "I appreciate your candour, Mr Darvis."  He says politely. 

Mr Darvis releases a long-suffering sigh, the kind of a man who has at last spoken of a burden he has carried for some time. "In such a case, if you are happy with the arrangement I will permit it to continue for the time being. I have my own caveats, however: any encounters will be made through me, not Kira; there must always be a chaperone of my choosing present." 

He says it with a challenge to his tone, but Xenk sees nothing objectionable in his requests. “I accept your terms.” He holds out a hand. 

Mr Darvis stares at his outstretched hand for a beat, then takes it, squeezing until his fingers are digging into Xenk’s. “But if you ever do anything that could even call her honour into question, I will demand satisfaction.” 

Xenk does not flinch, “If your daughter’s reputation is ever besmirched, rest assured I will be second in line behind you to defend her.” 

There's another long moment, Mr Darvis' palm is warm against his, then the tension dissipates as Mr Darvis' face twitches into a smile, "Third," he corrects him, releasing his grasp, "Holga would never allow a slight against Kira to pass unchallenged.” 

Xenk finds he can’t help but match his smile, “Ladies first, of course.” He replies smoothly, which causes Mr Darvis to laugh, short and bright. 

It feels as if he leaves on better terms. He does not stop to say goodbye to the other members of the household, but Mr Darvis is cordial, if somewhat distant as he sees him out. He doesn't take it to heart, not now that he's heard his laugh - besides, I think none of the participants could deny that the visit, which was supposed to be for the sake of face, had taken something of an emotional turn. He could only hope that this would prove to be a positive step towards their ongoing association. 

But then again, he has never been adept at understanding the minds of others.

– – – – – – – –

Dearest Alexander, 

I find myself troubled and longing for your counsel. Of course, the dreaded irony is that were you here I would no longer need it, for it is only in your absence that I find myself in Baldur's Gate in the first place. Nonetheless I find myself in a most peculiar situation, one that I am certain you would find amusing were you to hear of it: 

I have been recruited to a deception with a young debutante who wishes to avoid a situation whereupon she may have her hand forced into a marriage by circumstance. This is a strange enough situation of its own, but I fear it gets more complex. 

Her father is a former Harper, his wife tragically murdered by Thayan mercenaries it seems. And thus, on both accounts he dislikes me immensely. On this fact, why the girl chose me for her ruse is beyond me, whether it represents a streak of adolescent rebellion or if she saw how troubled I was by proceedings and took pity on me in turn. Nonetheless the result is that I have been pulled further into Mr Darvis' circle than he would like. Already he has been forced to bare his heart to me – tell me of the tragic loss of his wife which has troubled him so. In return I offered some of my own perspectives on the kingdom of Thay which has resulted in some kind of fragile accord between the two of us. I do fear that it is a most tenuous treaty and that I could quite in error step over the line that would push him into despising me again. 

Therein lies the final piece to this troublesome situation, one I find difficult to commit to paper, even to you, who is one of the few who knows the particulars of my opinions on romance. Perhaps you have already surmised what I find myself afraid to say – your ability to read me has always been startlingly clear. All the same I will persevere. 

I confess I do not hate Mr Darvis in turn, nor do I dislike him. He is, to a word, handsome, with startlingly blue eyes that I find immensely captivating. But not only is he handsome, the glimpses I have received of his personality have been endearing as well – he speaks plainly, even when society would demand honeyed words, he has a sharp wit, though I have commonly found it turned upon myself. He is no stranger to hard work and pain either, which endears me to him more so than the society regulars who do precious little to improve themselves beyond the bounds of what is expected of them.

No offence of course, dearest brother, though I should imagine that now your life as a farmer is naught but hard work.

I digress. My point is that I fear that my interest and endearment could easily become more than simple desire for friendship, which, should he become aware of it, would likely ruin any chance I have of receiving his good opinion. 

I wish you nothing but the best of health and happiness.

Your brother, Xenk

Sometimes, Xenk wonders when he started writing letters that he knows he will never send. 

He thinks it's likely that it was when Alexander cut ties with Lord Rockingham and he had lost his only true confidant as a result. He doesn't recall writing so much in those months between Alexander's disinheritance and his instatement as the heir to Mornbryn's Shield, while Lord Rockingham stubbornly awaited Alexander's return after the novelty of a modest life wore off. But Xenk supposes he had no such turmoil then, his life in the church undisturbed but for the regret at how poorly his last interaction with his brother had ended. 

He folds the letter neatly, addresses and seals it, then places it in his writing desk next to the others, gathering the courage to open the stack of letters he had been brought with his morning tea.

To the office of Mr Xenk Yendar, 

Your presence is formally requested at the Silverhail ball on the 18th of the month for dancing and food. There will be plentiful young ladies in want of partners for the dances who would be most welcoming to a partner with grace such as yourself. 

With Regards,

Lady Silverhail.

~

Mr Yendar, 

My wife and I would be grateful if you would grace us with your presence at a rout at our home in Sotherby street on the 23rd of Marpenoth . 

Kind regards

Mr Lumière, esq.

p.s. Miss Darvis has assured us of her attendance should that sway your opinion!

~

Dear Mr Yendar, 

You are cordially invited to celebrate the beginning of Uktar at High Hall. Dancing to begin at moonrise and expected to run late.

From the offices of the Council of Four.

~

Mr Yendar,

I hope this letter finds you well and you do not consider it an imposition, as we are not yet introduced. The younger Mr Rockingham and I were friends when he would attend Baldur’s Gate for the season, and he always spoke highly of you and your skills with a sword. 

I am inviting a few friends to the Salon D’Armes at Eomane House this fourth day. I believe some of the gentlemen you have already been introduced to shall be there and in my experience such sports are greatly beneficial to improving relationships with our fellow nobles away from the fuss of parties and the necessity to look for a suitable wife. I hope you shall find the atmosphere of the place much more relaxed than the rest of society. 

I should hope to see you there.

Regards,

1. Ravengard

– – – – – – – –

Xenk did not realise how desperately he needed an outlet from the discomfort of the social season until it was offered. Merely the invitation to the Eomane private fencing salon was enough to loosen the coil of stress held in his back by a fraction, so naturally he had taken it up. Some two weeks into the season and he has done precious little other than attend to his duties to the council, bite his tongue and hold his manners at social functions, fret, and be insulted by Mr Darvis, so he is looking forward to a change of pace, to be in a space where he feels he can hold his own, where he might be able to belong. 

He is lacing himself into his fencing breeches when he hears the changing room door open, and a familiar voice drift through the door of the changing room, “...I am well aware of how strange a situation it is, but I don’t see much choice. Changing Kira’s mind when she has set it to something is no small feat.” Mr Darvis sounds frustrated, and Xenk freezes, ducking behind the privacy screen. 

“I fear it may be my fault.” Says another voice, one Xenk recognizes as Mr Aumar, “During our dance she told me that she was dancing with Mr Yendar later in the eve and I thought it fit to caution her that the man had no interest in marriage.”

“Sensible man,” Said a third voice cheerfully, accent clipped and vowels well rounded, “Marriage is a dreadful institution, designed to strip men of their freedoms.” 

Mr Aumar snorted with ungainly laughter, “The words of a libertine, Mr Fitzwilliam.” 

“Spoken,” Interjects Mr Darvis, “Like a man who married an evil cow on the merits of her purse. Forge dearly wishes he could be a womanising cad.”

“Mr Darvis, there is no need to so thoroughly condemn my life, simply because you married for 'love', whatever that means,” Mr Fitzwillaim sounds offended, but not overly serious, “Were we not examining your daughter’s questionable life choices?”

"I thought we were preparing for a few rounds of epée." Mr Darvis replies dryly.

"No, but really." Mr Fitzwilliam continues, "I thought you hated Thayans. And anyone associated with the Harpers for that matter."

Mr Darvis' responding sigh is immensely exasperated, "I do." He snips, a little too harshly, so that Xenk finds he needs to bite his tongue, " But , we have spoken enough that I am willing to withhold judgement while he is aiding Kira. Besides, if I cast him out now, what's to stop him from spreading the gossip that she propositioned him for such a scheme." 

Xenk frowns, resisting the urge to defend himself - it would not do to be caught eavesdropping on Mr Darvis again so soon after the encounter in his salon. But the idea that he might spread gossip about the young Miss Darvis is deplorable, something he would never consider.

Mr Aumar spoke up, "I have heard tell of him - my uncle recounted the tale of a Ilmatari of Thayan heritage who defended him from highwaymen on the road to Waterdeep, and Miss Emeris told me that not even two years ago that her village, beset by sickness, received alms from a branch of the Church of Ilmater lead by a Thayan. What is the likelihood that there are more than one of those?”

Mr Darvis made an irritated sound, followed by the heavy thud of a bag being placed down with more force than necessary, “I am well aware of what stories people have of him, thank you, Mr Aumar. Could we kindly drop the subject?” He says through gritted teeth. 

Xenk flinches at the viciousness in his tone. He is determined to have the man’s respect before the season is out, for reasons that even he himself cannot fathom, so the harshness cuts deeply. He will have to do better, he determines, to gain his trust. For the time being, he bites his tongue and finds the moment to exit into the salle without being seen. 

If the dance of society is something he is unaccustomed to, the piste is a place he feels at home. The clash of steel is a balm to his frayed nerves, and he finds himself pouring his frustration out onto his opponent, pressing any advantages, until the burn in his lungs and his muscles overtakes the clenching pain of inadequacy within his ribcage. There are no hidden rules of engagement here, they are laid out plain; appel, parry, riposte, touche, point left. How relieving it is to be in an arena whereupon there are no expectations on his shoulders beyond that of a fair match. 

The foil is an extension of his arm, his blood is singing as he lunges forward with a smooth, satisfying movement. The referee calls the match and he finds he has forgotten his discomfort and Mr Darvis' harsh words, pulling his mask away to grin at his opponent with all the openness that only adrenaline can bring forth, an older maestro who looks at him with a mixture of exhaustion and impress before shaking his hand. 

"Good match, sir," he is told, "I hope we shall see you again this season." 

Xenk feels better than he has in weeks, "Often, I hope." His mind is calmed but his body still vibrates with unspent energy, "Do you mind if I stay on?" 

The maestro nods, "By all means - undoubtedly tiring you is the only way any of us stand a chance." He laughs and claps Xenk on the back before stepping off the piste. 

Xenk turns to the gathered crowd, only to find his gaze drawn to Mr Darvis. He is in his own fencing whites, though his jacket is unbuttoned at the top, revealing the line of his throat and a glimpse of collarbone. The tips of his ears are pink, and he is fixing Xenk with an intense, inscrutable expression that causes the dread to sink low into Xenk's stomach once more. He ought to look away but he finds his gaze fixed, despite the memory of Mr Darvis' harsh words in his ears. 

"Darvis!" Someone jeers, breaking the silence that has sunk into the gathered men, “Are you here to fight or catch flies?” There’s a smattering of laughter. 

Mr Darvis goes redder, and he swallows nervously, “I actually, uh-” He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing above the open buttons of his duelling jacket, “I fear I may be taking ill. My apologies.” He does not bow as he takes his leave, simply turns tail and marches away. 

Somebody pats his shoulder, “Edgin Darvis is an odd fellow. Don’t take it personally.” But Xenk is privy to conversations he ought never to have heard, and as such he knows that it most certainly is personal in nature. Why else would Mr Darvis leave in such a rush upon seeing him if not because he despises him still?

Beneath his glove, his grip is white-knuckled on the pommel of his sword. He takes a deep, centering breath; he can overcome this. “I still intend to duel.” He insists. 

Mr Fitzwilliam nudges Mr Aumar, the latter of whom is looking back at where Mr Darvis just fled, “I think you ought to try your hand.”

Mr Aumar winces, “I consider myself more of a sabreur than foilist.” He mutters nervously. 

Xenk vibrates with the unspent nervousness in his muscles. The mask distances him from the rest of the room, hiding his face and cutting away his peripheral vision. Saying nothing, he stands at his mark, since words have done little to improve his standing thus far. 

Chapter Text

Mr Yendar,

I would like to formally apologise for my father’s behaviour when you called on us the other day. He has not been particularly forthcoming with what you and he spoke of after I left, but despite his chiding I have not been forbidden from conversing with you further, so I cannot imagine that the words spoken between the two of you were overly heated. 

I have been thoroughly reprimanded for my scheming and I sincerely apologise if I have coerced you in any way. In that light, were you to wish to end this agreement I would not argue. 

Although I must say I would consider it a sincere shame, I have enjoyed your company the few times we have conversed. Rarely do I meet someone who treats me as something other than the daughter of a gentleman or the future wife of one. I believe that having spoken so plainly of your intentions (or lack thereof) I never felt as if I had to guard myself from your attentions. Such a thing is quite rare in the sphere of you and I traverse. 

What you decide to do is your choice, naturally. Far be it from me to demand action from a fine gentleman such as yourself - I cannot imagine you allowing anyone to demand something of you, severe and stoic as you are. 

Your friend, 

Kira Darvis. 

– – – – – – – –

The next few social events Xenk is obliged to attend, Mr Darvis either doggedly avoids him or begs off, citing some vague failure of constitution. By all reasonable metrics, this isn’t a slight against Xenk – Mr Darvis acknowledges him when greeted and they aren’t Xenk’s invitations being refused. Perhaps he is being sensitive, however, the memory of harsh words he was not meant to hear and the image of Mr Darvis leaving at the sight of him are not easily shaken and he cannot help but believe that he is being ignored. 

However, he does not spend every moment of the social season mourning the loss of a potential camaraderie that he may have overstated in his head. Slowly, at a pace fit more for the growth of trees than interpersonal affairs, he begins to find himself amongst allies.

He spends time with Miss Darvis, as per their agreement, carefully toeing the line between hesitant, faux courting and accidentally declaring outright intention. To his relief, their pretend involvement does indeed act as a buffer to the interests of other, serious attempts at coaxing a suit from him. Why, the week before their arrangement began, no fewer than eight women had attempted some ploy to attract his attention; pretending to faint or some other such dramatic action, but now believing that his attentions are attracted elsewhere, he has been subject to far fewer variations on that theme. It’s fortunate, as he is not well versed in body language to know when a lady is faking or genuinely needs help, and as such he treats every incident as seriously.

Miss Darvis proves herself to be intelligent, and while her wit is nowhere near her father's, she makes a good enough conversationalist for one so young. Her chaperone, Miss Kilgore, is similarly pleasant to be around; he appreciates her plain speech, and while she clearly finds him strange she warms to him after discovering a mutual interest in weaponry. Mr Aumar, similarly, seems to be happy to keep his company, and continues to offer him short bouts of respite during dances. He makes other acquaintances, though none who he keeps too close to his breast, but persons whose presence is not unwelcome should he encounter them during an event. He learns his lesson and holds his cards closer to his chest, does not spill his heart the way he had to Mr Aumar and then to Mr Darvis, with all the consequences which have come from that.

He decides that he ought not to take it so much to heart. Mr Darvis is a prickly fellow to most, and his own misplaced fascination was never going to win the man over. He recognizes it for a brief flight of fancy, a whim that could never be indulged. He has always had a penchant for being drawn to souls who do not want his aid, a fancy that has resulted poorly for him as often as it has been rewarded, he must endeavour not get any more invested than he has already made himself. So he limits himself to casual enquires on Mr Darvis’ health to Miss Darvis if he has begged off an engagement, and politely ignores the vague look of guilt on her countenance that all but confirms that the man has been avoiding him in particular. 

– – – – – – – –

Ed’s a fool. If he spoke to me the way he has to you I would have taken his head from his shoulders. I don't know how he earned such loyalty but mark me; I have decided that he is in the wrong and he will apologise.

-H.

– – – – – – – –

Considering this, he is surprised when Mr Darvis approaches him during a party some weeks into the season, although his sidelong glance back at the stern-faced Misses Kilgore and Darvis suggests it was not a decision made without outside influence. 

“Mr Darvis, a pleasure.” He says politely. 

A glass of brandy is offered to him with a small, wry smile, “I have been coerced into promising to be less abrasive around others,” Mr Darvis informs him. 

He certainly is not suddenly strung with tension, emotions carefully buried finding their way back to the surface of his thoughts. “I can only imagine a hardship such as having to be pleasant,” he replies lightly, as if the sudden friendliness has no effect upon him. 

He receives a short laugh in response, “I did not expect you to be capable of such quips. When your name has come up in conversation, the impression I have been given is of a man who keeps to himself. I had rather assumed you were quite stuck up. I am not quite too proud to admit that it has informed my opinions on you." 

Xenk shakes his head, "I am merely unaccustomed to social situations and thus do not act most comfortably. Though I fear you overstate the extent of my wit, good sir – sharp, perhaps, but more in the way of a parade sword with how rarely it is used."

Mr Darvis raises an eyebrow thoughtfully, "But capable of cutting the same as any other blade, no?" 

"Ah, 'tis the sharpness that concerns me. A blade wielded by a novice is far more liable to injure than one in the hands of a man who knows how to apply it." 

"You consider yourself a poor swordsman?" 

"With steel perhaps not, but with words - certainly."

“Believe me, I have seen you with a sword, I do not underestimate your skill with steel.” There is a beat where Mr Darvis’ face suddenly crumbles before he snaps back to the polite mask, and Xenk knows that he is recalling how upset he was at seeing Xenk at the Salle D’Armes. 

“I still have a great deal to learn.” He says, trying to keep the conversation on a light note, but he cannot help himself. He sucks in a breath, “Did I offend you at the Salle?” he asks plainly.

Mr Darvis winces, “No, Mr Yendar. I reacted poorly, but the fault was my own.”

“But you have been avoiding me?” He asks, chest tight. His resolve to keep his distance is quickly crumbling against the weight of his need to know the truth, to understand what he has done, what he could have done better. Did Mr Darvis recognize some spark of Xenk’s interest in him which turned him away? 

Mr Darvis looks abashed, “You must understand that despite how it pains me not to give in to my inclination to lie, I owe better considering your honesty to me. I will admit - I was ashamed of my poor behaviour and deigned to avoid situations where I felt I might be reminded of it.” 

“Thank you for your honesty,” he replies as neutrally as he can muster, but it still seems to come out with warmth and affection enough to make discomfort flicker across Mr Darvis’ face. He bites the inside of his cheek, determined not to upset him further.

"Staying away was no difficulty for me, I've always hated this, anyway," he waves a hand around the space at large, "High society."

This is incongruous with the stories he's been told of the younger Edgin Darvis of years gone by; a man who had been by all accounts witty and charming, and a delight to have at a function. He cocks his head curiously, "But I have heard such high praise of your comportment."

He laughs humorlessly, "Do not confuse skill for enjoyment. Knowing the rules to a game does not preclude wanting to join.”

Xenk understands conceptually but finds it fascinating – his experience of life is that skill is something that needs to be cultivated and nurtured. To become skilled at something he doesn’t love is alien to him, which, perhaps, is why he struggles so much in this arena. “I regret I have neither.” 

“Which is why you’re currently cavorting with my daughter.” He says it in a way that is not entirely light-hearted nor disapproving, but some mix between the two. 

He worries the inside of his cheek with his teeth, “I would say ‘conspiring’ is a more accurate word.”

He is rewarded for his words with a flash of a white-toothed smile, “I do enjoy a good argument on semantics.” he says cheerfully, with only a tinge of sharpness around the edge.

He frowns, “Surely to call it a semantic argument would imply some sort of bad-faith on my part, would it not?” He argues, “I am merely attempting to protect myself from your attempted character assassination.” Mr Darvis does not appear angry, but rather there is a brightness to him, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes deepening with mirth in a dangerously charming manner. "Ah, you are teasing me," he surmises.

Mr Darvis responds with a grin that is positively roguish, "The situation is either comical or infuriating – my health cannot take more anger than strictly necessary these days, so I chose the former." 

"A wise decision, if only for the sake of your continued wellness." He replies dryly, attempting to will away the treacherous beating of his heart. 

I am starting to see that you can give as well as you take in such matters.” Mr Darvis replies, “So you shall not be successful in any attempt to persuade me to pull my punches.”

“So long as you speak in jest.”

Mr Darvis casts his eyes to the side in an admission of guilt, “I will endeavour not to be as unkind to you as I have in the past. Any brutish behaviour on my part has been my own failing, as has been emphatically impressed upon me.” His gaze drifts once more to Kira, who is presently huddled with a group of other debutantes, while Miss Kilgore hovers nearby.

“I would like to be your friend, should you permit me.” Xenk says, surprising even himself. 

The tips of Mr Darvis’ ears go pink once more, and he does not meet Xenk’s eyes, but he does smile, “You are by far too forgiving. I have not behaved in a manner befitting a friend – you would be well within your right to snub me.” 

Be that as it may, Xenk selfishly wanted his friendship. “I would find your insight into the rules of the social season invaluable,” He adds, “So that when the time comes I can make my own match without my sharp tongue getting in the way.”

Mr Darvis tilts his head, considering him, “Very well, Mr Yendar. I believe I owe you that much at least.” Xenk raises his glass in a toast, and Mr Darvis joins him. 

And with that, all conviction to refuse to allow himself to get too involved is lost. 

The Gatewatch Society Papers

Excellent news, dear readers, Miss Doric Emeris has at last agreed to Mr Aumar's proposal. To those who bet on their engagement in the pool, congratulations on selecting the safe bet. The pair intend to be married before the season's end, and we wish them all the best.

In other news, it is still unclear whether Mr Yendar has designs to propose to Miss Darvis, but the young lady appears to have competition for his hand! I jest, of course, but I doubt it has slipped the notice of any member of society that Mr Yendar spends more time in the company of Mr Darvis than his daughter. A ploy to get his blessing on their matrimony, or simply a loss of interest on Mr Yendar’s part? The ton awaits the answer with great interest.

– – – – – – – –

Things are distinctly better once Mr Darvis stops actively avoiding his company, tolerates it, even. When a turn around a park or garden is suggested, they walk together, at balls, Mr Darvis will offer comments and insights into the goings-on of the ton with a dry, sharp wit which requires Xenk to bite down on laughter before he makes a scene.

Autumn slowly loses its hold on the city to winter, covering Baldur’s Gate in a thin patina of frost and then eventually ice and snow. Mr Fitzwilliam complains about the temperature compared to Neverwinter’s eponymous weather, and the Darvises, hailing from Icewind Dale, merely roll their eyes at his complaints. Xenk arranges for winter blooms to be installed in his garden in a fit of romanticism after spending an afternoon at the Darvis’ home, then thoroughly bemuses his gardener by insisting on helping to plant them, despite the mess that the soil makes of his breeches and shirtsleeves. 

Xenk visits the temple of Ilmater most mornings, and plays cards at the gentleman's club on occasion. It transpires that Mr Darvis is an astoundingly good player who regularly fleeces his friends and then goodnaturedly uses the money to buy their drinks, Xenk, who has never been proficient in deception, tends to join for a round or so before retiring to watch the vicious smile on Mr Darvis' face as he trounces his friends. It is not the life he had chosen for himself, but he starts to think that he could be happy enough in it. 

– – – – – – – –

You are cordially invited to celebrate the engagement of 

Mister Simon Aumar 

and 

Miss Doric Emeris 

on the 6th day of Alturiak

At the Emerald Enclave in Manorborn

– – – – – – – –

Not long past midwinter, there is a party to celebrate the engagement between Mr Aumar and Miss Emeris. Xenk, having injured his ankle at the Salle D’armes earlier in the week and been told by the physician in no uncertain terms that he is to rest it, is for once merely watching the dancing rather than taking part. Mr Darvis, who does not dance, sits beside him.

As one dance finishes, Xenk leans towards Mr Darvis to ask, "Do you find it troublesome how young they all are?" 

Mr Darvis' shoulders sag in relief, “I am introduced to ladies as if they are prospects and the entire conversation I can think of nothing but how close in age they are to my daughter. Not once have I yet to meet an unmarried woman whose age is even half of my own.” 

“I cannot fathom how I am expected to wish to marry them. If you are willing to excuse my candour, I find the ease with which the ton has accepted my apparent suit of Miss Darvis alarming.”

Mr Darvis responds with a wry smile, “Similarly I ought not to admit to you how much relief that fact brings me. Though you have stated your intentions clearly, each time they are affirmed I find myself somewhat more at ease.” He fixes Xenk with a thoughtful expression, "If I may, Mr Yendar, while I understand the compulsion behind your actions, if age is your concern, delay will only exacerbate the issue. Next season you will be older and the debutantes will be just as young.” 

Xenk looked determinedly at the glass in his hand, well aware that Mr Darvis’ assertion was correct. “Mr Darvis, only a short few months ago I had lived in a world where I was not obligated to marry. I have never wished to do so, nor did I intend to do so, I was perfectly content in my life within the church. I simply need time, and- I have the veinest hope that I will find someone who is in much the same situation.” He’s considered it before; that there must be women amongst the ton who find they cannot love men the same way that he cannot love women. There is, however, no easy way to find them, not without putting all involved into a compromising position. 

“Marriage for convenience sake is not uncommon. Why, with a manor as large as Morbryn Shields, you may never need to see your good lady wife beyond your wedding.” He jokes. 

Xenk frowns, “However prevalent it may be, does not everyone deserve the opportunity to marry for love?” He cannot fathom the guilt he would feel if he kept a woman away from finding a satisfying relationship. 

Mr Darvis raises an eyebrow, “Except you, I suppose?” 

“It’s not possible.” Xenk insists, in a tone that brooks no argument. 

“Fine, far be it from me, a man who has been a widower for longer than he has been a husband to comment on the sensibility of your strategy for marriage.” He raises his hand in defeat, “Perhaps next year there will be some new widow for you to romance.” He says it teasingly, but Xenk feels horrified. 

“I would never wish harm upon another just to further my own agenda.” He insists, hand on his breast earnestly, “You must understand this.” 

Mr Darvis gives him a reassuring smile, “I assure you, I only meant it in jest, and with reference to the fact that a widow would have had her chance to marry for love.”

“I will not pretend it has not crossed my mind.” He says guiltily. He has spent many a night staring at his ceiling while ruminating on all of the options he has available to him; a widow, a woman left pregnant and alone after her lover has abandoned her, a woman much like him. There are options, but he needs time to process the concept. It all comes down to how deceitful it seems, and how much he despises lying. “A widow would be an older woman, whose age is closer to my own - perhaps with a child of her own, one not set to inherit. A practicality that could benefit both parties.” 

Mr Darvis ruminates on this for a moment, then lets out a short laugh. 

Xenk tilts his head, “Pray, what is so comical?” 

Mr Darvis bites his lip to attempt to curtail the smile curling at the edges of his mouth, “Nothing, Mr Yendar, do not trouble yourself.” 

Xenk indulges himself by nudging Mr Darvis’ foot with his own under the table as he needles, in the same way that he has seen the man do with his friends, “Come now, do tell what has you so amused.” 

“Very well. If you simply insist, it simply struck me as humorous that your ideal choice for a wife would have been me, were I not a man.” He did not laugh again, but shut his mouth quite suddenly, looking ashen. 

Xenk can very much sympathise, as he suddenly feels quite numb. “Yes,” he says hoarsely, his throat suddenly tight, “That is quite amusing, I suppose.” He lies, unable to look Mr Darvis in the face. 

Fortunately the sudden discomfort between them does not last long, as only a moment later Miss Darvis comes to accost her father, “Father, you simply must dance with me.” 

He and Mr Darvis both jump, Xenk hurrying to make some distance between them as if caught in something improper. To his credit, Mr Darvis recovers quickly, patting her hand, “Kira, you know perfectly well that if I dance with you I will be obliged to dance for the rest of the evening.” 

“Do not be so upstanding, Father!” She chides, “The job of a gentleman is to dance with the ladies so that her suitors might see how graceful she is. As Mr Yendar is injured, I now have no dance partner for the upcoming and penultimate dance. You would have your own daughter sit out? At our dear friends’ engagement?” 

Xenk attempts to give the impression that he is not still affected by their conversation as he says, “Indeed, Mr Darvis, I beg you to go as my second.” 

Miss Darvis grins, “See? You would not refuse another gentleman, would you?” 

If he is affected by this phrasing, Mr Darvis hides it well. He sighs dramatically, “Very well, I shall dance this one with you, but should the question of why I danced no other comes up later, I will insist that my bad knee is giving me trouble.” 

He stands, and his daughter drags him over to the dance floor. The atmosphere at the engagement party has been far more relaxed than other occasions he has been to in Baldur’s Gate, more akin to the country dances he had been to back at Morbryn’s Shield, so it does not raise an eyebrow when the band begins an upbeat track and Mr Darvis swings his daughter around wildly, ignoring the regiment steps to the dance.

Miss Darvis is laughing joyously, with a childishness oft not afforded to young ladies, and after a few beats Mr Darvis is infected with it as well, his smile wide and unguarded as he raises her in a lift. Xenk's heart seizes suddenly at the sight as if struck. To his horror, the knowledge he has been doggedly ignoring for weeks forms unbidden into a thought. 

He is in love with Edgin Darvis.

Chapter Text

Realising he is in love was not the revelation it may have been back when he was a younger man. In fact, very little changed at all; unrequited love is not without his pains, certainly, but the greatest part of him is merely pleased to have Mr Darvis’ company and regards. To want for more would be not only fruitless but greedy, liable to cause more injury than happiness. After all, even in the best case scenario, where his affections are returned (which Xenk considers highly doubtful) there would be no recourse for them to continue a relationship publicly. To acknowledge would be to lose, either to Mr Darvis’ disdain or the crushing weight of society. Mr Darvis’ friendship has been invaluable to him during the season and he will not ask for more than that. 

Overall, despite the ache gnawing within his chest he thinks he is content, if not happy. He has successfully made it almost all the way through the season, whereupon he can retire to the relative peace of the Evermoors, where he is expected to take on more of the Duke's responsibilities. This should keep him sufficiently occupied as to avoid most social gatherings over the summer months. 

Alas, the old adage of the best laid plans of mephits and men holds true. Xenk thinks he should be used to the course of his life being suddenly upheaved; just as Xenk’s peaceful life in the monastery did not last, neither it seems, could his tentative contentment with his new situation. 

– – – – – – – –

For delivery by express post

Enclosed is an urgent missive for Mr Xenk Yendar pertaining to affairs in the Evermoors. 

To be delivered directly to the Master’s hands in Baldur’s Gate for immediate action.

– – – – – – – –

The wedding of Mr Aumar and Miss Emeris is planned to take place close to the end of the season, after winter has softened to spring, the trees bright with new, yellow-green leaves and delicate pink blossoms which shed petals to create the effect of ersatz snow as they float down to the ground. The pair were to wed in the gardens of the vast Silvershield estate in accordance with the customs of Silvanus, the patron deity of Miss Emeris’ family. It was a fine day, perfectly suited to the occasion, the sun bright and warm, the weather promising to stay dry, which is all that could be asked during early Ches.

The groomsmen are breakfasting together at Mr Aumar's home to celebrate before travelling to the ceremony, and Xenk had been invited to join – an honour he hadn't expected, only having known Mr Aumar a short period of time comparatively to the rest of his party. They take breakfast in a parlour, where sunlight streams in through the large glass doors leading to the gardens. The mood is light and cheerful while Mr Darvis, sitting beside Xenk, leads a toast to the groom, the room filled with the merry jingling of glass. 

It seems only the time for a breath passes between this toast and the door opening to reveal a footman, who bows, “Pardon the intrusion, gentlemen. A messenger just arrived with a letter for Mr Yendar. He says it is urgent.”

Dread sinks low in his stomach, danger sense highly honed after a childhood growing up in The Empire, and he has to breathe deep to calm himself down, remind himself that it is important to avail himself of the facts before becoming emotive. The eyes of the room on him, he wills his face into a mask of calm and looks to Mr Aumar, “At your leave.” He says calmly, far more than he feels.

Mr Aumar’s brow furrows and he nods, “Of course, Mr Yendar, take all the time you need.” 

He stands and bows, “I will return presently.” 

He does not, in fact, return, but rather he sits upon the steps leading to the entrance of Mr Aumar’s home re-reading the page in front of him as he grows cold with horror, his fears confirmed. A hand is placed upon his shoulder, and he looks up to see Mr Darvis, looking at him with concern. 

“Are you well?” Mr Darvis asks, in a tender voice Xenk has noticed that he typically reserves for his daughter when she is upset. 

“Yes, I…” he looks at the letter, creased now where his hands have closed around it with his grief, “It is Duke Rockingham, he…” He swallows, “he has taken a turn for the worst.” May not hold for another tenday the letter had said, and he, so far away in Baldur’s Gate. 

“I am sorry, Mr Yendar.” Mr Darvis says, sounding genuine despite his open disavowing of the Harpers and Lord Rockingham, “Your grief is mine.”

Xenk looks up at him from his spot on the steps and manages a weak smile, “Thank you.” He feels calmer as he looks upon Mr Darvis and is party to his comfort. He takes a steadying breath, shuddering as it may be and stands, “I must send for a carriage urgently. Please extend my sincerest apologies to Mr Aumar and Miss Emeris."

“I will accompany you,” Mr Darvis says with no hesitation, “You should not have to undertake such a long journey alone at such a time.”

His heart seizes, love and yearning so strong he can feel it in his bones. “You are Mr Aumar's best man, you cannot abandon the wedding," he insists despite what his heart would wish, "I only ask you to extend my apologies to the pair." 

“Simon would understand,” Mr Darvis waves his concerns away with confidence and determination. 

“Mr Darvis I beseech you,” He grasps the man's forearms in his fit of passions, but he must imagine hearing Mr Darvis’ breath hitch, “Stay, support your friend. Enjoy the celebration of life where I cannot.” They are standing eye to eye, closer than Xenk thinks they have ever been, Mr Darvis’ pulse underneath his fingers. 

The flow of time seems to stop then, as if this moment, standing on the steps of the Aumar home as carriages pass by them on the street and petals from the blossoms settle in Mr Darvis’ hair has been caught, preserved in amber. He feels stuck, drawn into Mr Darvis, by his piercing blue eyes, he both desperately needs as much as he is also incapable of anything but staring, so he is left fruitlessly yearning. He cannot allow himself to give in; a core tenet of Ilmater is the subsuming of suffering on behalf of others. To share his grief – or his painful love – it would be wrong.

With that, the spell is broken, the sound of the busy town rushing back to the forefront of his perception. Mr Darvis casts his eyes down, “Very well,” He acquiesces, “But I do ask you to keep in mind the understanding that a friend is not burdened when you share with them your pain. Do not suffer alone because you believe you must.” 

Xenk cannot stand to touch Mr Darvis as he speaks, barely even able to look at him, so he withdraws. “Thank you. I am truly sorry to leave… your friendship has been invaluable to me these past few months.” He admits, too much and yet all the same insufficient.

“Safe travels.” Mr Darvis replies, his voice quiet and perhaps sad, though Xenk wonders if perhaps he is deluding himself once more. 

Within an hour he is boarding a ship out of Baldur’s Gate. It is a trade ship – not befitting for a noble, but it is moments like these that remind him that he is not truly a noble. He has no qualms with working his way to Neverwinter; it helps some, in fact. The pain and worry in his chest is easier to quiet when his hands are raw and cracked from hauling rope and harsh saltwater of the Sea of Swords, he cannot lie in the cabin arrested by the fear of what may wait for him in Mornbryn's Shield when he is incapable of staying awake after a long day's work. 

After the ship docks in Neverwinter, he takes a coach to Mornbryn's Shield. He changes coaches twice, electing to travel through the night rather than stop at the coach house, sleeping fitfully as the coach rattles over the uneven, winding roads through Neverwinter forest. 

He is greeted at the door to the manor by Mrs Childwall the housekeeper, who was, presumably, summoned as he was seen approaching in the carriage. "Oh Mr Yendar, it's good to see you again." She embraces him, never one for propriety with either of the boys she had helped to raise and certainly not at a time such as this. 

"Is he…?" Xenk swallows around the lump forming in his throat. 

"Duke Rockingham breathes yet, but he has been with us more so in body than soul. The doctor has done all that she can, but she says that his last fit of apoplexy has caused too much bleeding within the skull." 

"Take me to him." 

When Xenk thinks of Geoffery Rockingham, he recalls the image of the man who saved his life when he was a child; tall and strong, sat proud atop his horse in the uniform of the Harper division. The man who lies in this bed, some twenty years later, is a pale imitation of the same man – he is frail, slimmed down to skin stretched over bone, with the atrophy typical of those who have been long bedridden. His eyes are closed, his face gaunt, he looks nothing if not dead already save for the slight rise-fall of his chest with ragged breathing. 

Casting his coat to the side, he kneels beside the bed, untying the holy symbol of Ilmater from its place around his left wrist. He presses the symbol knotted in the middle of the red, leather cord into his adoptive father's palm and places his own hand overtop. His father's hand is cool to the touch, the holy symbol a startling contrast, warm as it is with Xenk's own body heat. "Father," he says quietly, throat constricted. 

As if woken from a dream the man's eyes open suddenly, and he regards Xenk with startling clarity. "Xenk," he says, voice small and reedy, "Did you travel the length of the Sword Coast for this old man? You ought not have troubled yourself." 

Xenk's chest constricts. As a devotee he had dedicated much time to relieving the suffering of the dying, easing their soul's passage from materia, he knows that moments of sudden vitality such as these do not typically indicate a recovery but rather something far more final. His hands close around his father's. "If you think I would not have traversed the entire continent on foot to do my duty then you have severely misunderstood my character." 

He sighs softly, eyes drifting half-closed as if keeping them open is too great a burden, "Duty…” He makes a disgusted noise, “Tis a pity that fools such as myself can only achieve such clarity on their deathbed. I fear I have asked too much from you. Are you happy, Xenk, with the life I have forced upon you?" 

His fingers flex, he squeezes his father's hand, "I do my duty to honour you." He says, "I owe you much more than that, but it is all I can offer." 

Rockingham lets out a groan of pain, "I fear I have been blind. Speak again, Xenk, tell me in truth, if you are happy." 

He swallows, "I- I could be." He argues, unable to lie. 

"But you are not." He surmises, "I have driven Alexander away with my obstinance and I realise now that it is only your own goodness that has prevented me losing you in the same way." 

"I can begrudge you nothing." 

"You ought to. I was fortunate that the way in which I was raised brought me happiness. It brought me a wife who I loved most ardently, and two children who I could not be prouder of. I was too stubborn to realise that those rules may not bring you two the same joy it brought me, rather it might… keep you from it." He takes a long, shaky breath then goes quiet for some time, as if he is too exhausted to continue speaking. 

"It is not a burden to me to do my duty to you." He argues. 

"There's that word again, 'duty', from now on, the only duty I ask of you is to your own happiness."

"But the land-" 

"Stuff the land. The manor can rot, the lords council can hang if such things make you unhappy." His father barks back, eyes opening once again to train on him, focused and determined, "I was wrong when I disinherited Alexander - love is more important than suitability. Promise me that if you find someone you love, you will not cast such feelings aside for the sake of your duty." 

Xenk's chest constricts so that he nearly cannot breathe, because it is so close to the heart of the problem, the one he has not ever intimated to his father. Suddenly, he feels too seen, too obvious, as if the love he tucks into his breast is bleeding out for everyone to see. 

He leans in, head nearly resting on his father's chest. "What if it is not returned?" He whispers, so low that he can barely hear it himself, a secret dragged from deep within him.

His hands are grasped like it is an embrace, Rockingham’s hands thin and bony. "My boy, requited or not, love is never something to discard." 

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, "Thank you." He draws back.

"Now, I think you know it's time." His father smiles weakly. "I'm tired, I need to sleep." 

His breath hitches, "Of course." 

He has performed death rites countless times as an acolyte - they never become easier. Even when he hasn't known the person he's performing them for, or when he's known them to be awful people, the grief still wells in his chest as he tries to ease their journey. This time he is drowning in it as he winds the cord in the correct pattern around his father’s wrists, his mouth feels raw around the prayer. 

“Ilmater, take this soul,” his tongue says, as his hands move on muscle memory alone, “Let the vessel rest, allow me to take its burdens.” He hooks his fingers over the bindings and draws the cord onto his own wrists. It’s a symbolic gesture, but he still feels the pain of it keenly. 

By the time he manages to compose himself, his father’s eyes have closed again, his breathing shallow but calm. Xenk stands slowly, and makes his way back out of the room, where Mrs Childwall has been waiting for him. 

He turns to her, “I don’t expect he will wake again.” His voice stays more even than he expects.

She squeezes his arm, “He was waiting to speak to you. He always was damnably stubborn.”

Duke Geoffery Rockingham is dead by morning.

The funeral is set for four days time, days that pass in a blur. The passing was not sudden, and as such, most of the arrangements are already in place, leaving Xenk with precious little to organise; the body is taken to the temple for purification and preparation, a notice is sent to the papers, mourning clothes which were prepared months ago finally laid out. He comports himself in a manner befitting the master of a noble seat; he mourns quietly with stoicism, handling matters as the need arises. 

– – – – – – – –

Dear Alexander,

I write to inform you of the tragic news that our father, Duke Geoffrey Rockingham has passed from this plane to the next. He passed peacefully in his bed. 

Kind regards,

Xenk Yendar, Duke of Rockingham

I would also wish to let you know that you are always welcome at Mornbryn’s Shield. I do not hold any ill will towards you, even father saw sense in the end. 

I wish you were here.

He looks at the letter, ashamed by the weakness of the sentiment he could not help but add. His last conversation with his brother had been an argument and he had regretted it immensely as soon as it had passed. Often, he ruminates on the fact that perhaps if he had not reacted so poorly to the rift between father and brother, perhaps he would still be in contact with Alexander. 

As it stands, the last thing his brother said to him was a command to never contact him again. Cowardly as it is, he will ask Mrs Childwall to send a missive to Alexander instead to inform him of their father’s passing. 

– – – – – – – –

He fits into the role of Duke like it’s an ill-fitting coat, feels swamped by it, self-conscious as if it's obvious that it wasn't made for him. It feels the same as those first few weeks in Baldur's Gate, alone and overwhelmed, but this time with no Mr Aumar pulling him aside for a moment's respite nor Miss Darvis' gentle faux courting, where he is able to spend a dance or two speaking plainly without needing to obfuscate his honest opinions. He does not dare to miss Mr Darvis, nor recall the feeling of his forearms beneath his palms, but missing and longing is something his heart does without his input all the same. 

He does not expect Mr Darvis to attend the funeral for myriad reasons, from his vocal disdain for the Harpers to the sheer pragmatism of the distance between Mornbryn's Shield and Baldur's Gate. It is this sheer determination of will to not hope that he blames for the extent of his surprise as their eyes meet across the church while Mr Darvis slips into the very back during the opening of the ceremony. 

He is in the middle of speaking, of thanking everyone for their attendance and the words die on his tongue. Mr Darvis is dressed in his Harper regiment dress uniform, a deep navy blue draped with gold brocade and epaulettes showing his rank, medals pinned to his breast. Suddenly, nothing else seems to matter, the rest of the congregation slipping away from his periphery until it’s just himself standing at the pulpit and Mr Darvis at the back of the church, tension in his back and shoulders as he stands up ram-rod straight in parade rest, looking uneasy but determined.

He does not know how long that moment stretches on for, where he is lost mid-sentence, staring at Mr Darvis, but the silence presses in, and Mr Darvis tilts his chin up as they look at each other, gives Xenk a small, encouraging smile, which is enough to break him from his reverie. He swallows, casts his eyes down and away from temptation before anyone can tell what he’s been looking at, “Excuse me.” He says softly, “Where was I?”

His tongue has become quite adept the past few days at continuing admirably without input from his mind, so he somehow manages to keep speaking while he feels in a daze, heart beating wildly in his chest. He says his piece and then the ceremony continues without need for his input, which is fortunate because he finds himself preoccupied by the relief unfurling in his chest at the sight of Mr Darvis and the guilt smothering the fire of it, trying to remind him that he ought to be feeling grief, not joy. 

He manages to hold on until it’s over, grave freshly filled, before giving in to the magnetic pull in his chest drawing him towards Mr Darvis, towards the comfort that he has been longing for since he let the man go on the steps of the Aumar home, even when trying not to allow himself to want it. 

There is a period of time after the funeral is over where they filter back to the church. It is where the mourners can share memories of the dead, give their condolences to the family, where it is Xenk’s duty to solemnly thank them for coming. Pragmatically, he should do this duty for the others first, because he has missed his friend’s company most acutely, and will not be easily parted from him after only a brief moment. But yet he is drawn to him all the same. “Mr Darvis, I did not expect to see you here but I cannot pretend to be anything other than gratified.” He stops short of taking hold of his hands, of grasping him and lacing their fingers together in a way that is entirely inappropriate and he reminds himself would be unwanted. He does, however, give in sufficiently to lean in close to his warmth, to speak privately.

“I am relieved to have made it on time.” Mr Darvis has a pink flush to his cheeks that enchants him at such close quarters, smiling reservedly at Xenk, “I know what it is like to grieve, I did not want you to have to go through that alone.”

He feels like the breath has been pulled from his lungs, “I cannot thank you enough.” He bites down on the comments he most certainly cannot make in public, if he would ever even consider saying them to Mr Darvis in confidence. “But I am unable to fathom how you arrived in time – why, you would have had to have left only a day or so after I.” 

Mr Darvis flushes pinker and the man’s eyes slide away from his shyly, “The day of. I stayed for the wedding, as you asked, but then as soon as I could make the necessary arrangements I left.”

His heart is beating a treacherous tattoo in his chest, so loud he thinks it must give him away, “I do not know what I’ve done to earn such loyalty from you, but I am glad to have it.” 

At his side, Mr Darvis’ hand twitches as if suppressing the urge to reach out, “Mr Yendar, I-” 

He does not get a chance to finish speaking as they are approached by another man in Harper regiment uniform who storms up with steel in his eyes as he regards Mr Darvis. “You have quite the nerve to show yourself here, coward.” He sneers. He’s younger than Mr Darvis, the insignia on his epaulettes are of lower rank, but instead of rounding on the man as Xenk expects him to - he knows the ire that he is capable of - Mr Darvis shrinks down and away. 

Protectiveness swells in his chest and Xenk steps between them, “Mr Darvis is a good friend of mine, and the late Duke Rockingham himself, may Ilmater keep him, intimated to me that he considers the man to be of good character. He is as welcome here as anyone else.” 

The gathered crowd has gone quiet, listening in on the altercation even if they don’t stare outright. “I should leave.” Mr Darvis says quietly, but Xenk turns to put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Stay,” he requests quietly, “You have as much right to this place as anyone else, any other Harper who fought alongside him.” 

Another Harper steps up, “Mr Darvis was not dishonourably discharged, Michaels, you have no grounds to call him a coward.” The defence by his former brother in arms does nothing for the nervousness in Mr Darvis’ countenance, if anything it seems he becomes more agitated by it. 

“Enough.” Mr Darvis says firmly, “My presence is derailing proceedings. I shall take my leave.” 

“It is not right that you should be forced from this place upon baseless accusations,” Xenk argues, sending an aggressive look towards Michaels. 

“Baseless? Every Harper knows the tale of how Edgin Darvis fled his post after he got his wife killed.” 

“Stand down, fool. You disrespect the memory of Duke Rockingham.” The second Harper snaps, a hand coming to land hard on the lieutenant’s shoulders. 

Mr Darvis is shaking, colour drained from his face. He looks at Xenk, eyes-wide, then turns upon his heels and flees from the church. Xenk sucks a breath in through his teeth and turns to look at the other Harper, who nods. “Take your leave, sir. It would be more of a dishonour to allow this slight to stand unchallenged.” 

He bows politely to the room, where everyone is quietly pretending that they aren’t watching, then leaves as quickly as he can without making a scene of himself by running in the hope that he might find Mr Darvis before he disappears from view. To his relief, Mr Darvis is still within the church graveyard, though he is upon the edge of it, knelt by a grave, looking at it with some intensity. His Harper coat is discarded upon the bough of an oak nearby, leaving him in just his linen shirt. Xenk approaches quietly, not wishing to break him from his reverie. 

Eventually, he speaks, “Did you know the young lady?” He asks. 

Mr Darvis startles before he can hide it, then turns to him, “Ah, Mr Yendar…” He stands, brushing soil from his knees, his face grim, eyes cast away, “No, I do not know her. But all the same, I could not help but notice she passed the same year as my Zia and the same age too.” 

Xenk looks to the grave and the smaller besides it, of a child less than a year old, “It is a terrible tragedy how oft good ladies are taken long before their time. I am sorry, truly, for the loss of your wife.” 

Mr Darvis looks stricken, and should circumstances be different, Xenk would find it impossible not to give in to the urge to place his hands upon his face, to use his thumbs to smooth the sadness from around his eyes. As it stands, Mr Darvis stands outside of arms reach, refusing to meet Xenk’s eye. 

“Lieutenant Michaels’ insinuations are not without merit.” He admits, the words like ground glass, as if they cause him physical pain to speak, “I… Zia’s death, I am to blame for it.” 

Xenk feels his heart is crushed within his chest, “Mr Darvis, though your guilt may tell you as such, I think I know your character well enough to say that such grievous accusations cannot be true.” 

Mr Darvis takes a step away, into the shade of the oak that towers above them, “You are so sure of the content of my character, sir, without merit.” He snaps and though Xenk flinches at the cruelty, he holds steadfast in his understanding that Mr Darvis speaks out of grief, not malice. 

Mr Darvis takes a long breath, then looks him in the eye, “I wished not to have to divulge this most grave of secrets to you for I know that it will ruin your opinion on my character. However I fear my hand has been forced.” He eyes Xenk, who is about to refute his insinuation but he is cut off firmly, “Please, allow me to speak, before I lose all nerve to do so.”

Xenk closes his mouth and inclines his head, offering as soft an expression free of judgement as he can muster. 

“You are aware of the true role of the Harpers, I presume - not so much a regiment of soldiers for the purpose of all-out war but for that of subterfuge. We were stationed close to the border of Thay, developing connections within the slave resistance. You… must understand, I was young and foolish. I had been recruited to the Harpers when Zia was still with child, I missed the birth of my daughter, and saw her precious little in those first few months of her life. I was– I was weak. I rented a house in a village in Thesk. I entreated Zia to travel to see me. She resided there for six months, in which time I took myself away to see them regularly. I knew of the danger, I knew that I was flaunting regulation, but it made me so unaccountably happy to be able to see my family.” 

He is silent for a long moment, face contorted with grief, mouth open though he manages no words. Xenk’s breath hitches, but he stays resolute, allowing neither judgement or sympathy to show on his face. 

“I was followed,” Mr Darvis eventually continues, voice breaking in the most devastating of ways, “If they chose to wait until I was not there to strike, or if it was simply misfortune that I was not present to protect my family, I will never know. Zia died in my arms, her last act on this plane was to show me the place where she had hidden our daughter. I… I took Kira, and returned directly to Ten Towns.” He chokes on his words, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, “so there you have it. Zia would ne’er have been there if I hadn’t asked it of her, if I had not flaunted regulations so and snuck away from the encampment to see her. Not only did my actions result in the loss of my wife and Kira’s mother, I abandoned my regiment. I do not know why I was not court martialled and sent away in disgrace but rather given a medal of valour and a generous military pension, but I know empirically that it is undeserved.”

Mr Darvis stands with his shoulders squared, defending himself against the expectation of Xenk’s ire. Xenk, for his part, is still as the grief sinks heavy within his lungs, profoundly saddened by both the tale and the misery on Mr Darvis’ countenance of a grief he has carried for so many long years. It is the duty of the Ilmatari to alleviate suffering where they can, and Xenk feels urged to take on the burden of Mr Darvis’ pain. He takes a breath and steps forward towards Mr Darvis, who flinches and steps away so his back is pressed against the trunk of the oak. 

“You loved her dearly.” He says gently, “That much is plain. I am devastated by the pain this loss has caused you, but… If I may ruin my own good favour in your eyes…” He takes a shuddering breath, “My skill with a blade was not cultivated by Duke Rockingham as I have allowed you to believe. Rather, the ability to kill is a skill expected of all boys of Thay from the age of five. All Thayan freemen must serve in the military after their marking and we are trained from birth for it; to expect it, to be proud of it. I know full well the cruelty expected of a soldier of Thay, had it encouraged in myself, even. In another life, if I had not been so brave in the face of my marking – or perhaps, so frightened – it would have been myself partaking in such atrocious acts as those you described.” 

Mr Darvis frowns, “Knowing what I do of your character, I cannot imagine that being so.” 

“And still I would most certainly have been able to justify such terrible acts. I knew many boys who were kind children but made cruel by military service and the atrocities expected of them there. I cannot pretend I am better than them.

“Yet you can hold such depth of reproach for your own actions, ones that were perhaps selfish, yes, but borne out of nothing so much as love. Love for your wife and your baby, of whose short life you had missed so much precious time. The acts you consider me incapable of are ones of cruelty and malice, for no good but that of the empire, and I know I would have succumbed to them.”

Xenk reaches up and takes the jacket from the bough of the tree, the fine wool heavy in his hands. “As for the reason you were not court-martialed, I believe I can shed some light on that decision. I have heard many tales of your heroism from the Harpers, ones whereupon you risked life for the mission or the sake of your fellow soldiers.” With deft fingers, he unpins the medal of valour from the coat and holds it out, “Do you deny that you have shown heroism above what was expected of you as a Harper? That your actions saved lives?” 

Mr Darvis swallows, staring at the medal, and he hesitates before he says quietly, “No, I do not deny it.”

“Very well then, the medal of valour is yours.” Xenk pins the medal against Mr Darvis’ breast, and his hand lingers overtop it. “I was recently told by someone I respect that love is not something to be discarded,” he says into Mr Darvis’ ear as if it is a secret, and perhaps it is. "I suspect your fellow Harpers understood this as well. That the love for your wife and your daughter, left with only one parent determined your decision. Perhaps they, as I do, recognized how much bravery it took to choose your daughter over your duty, despite knowing what it would likely cost you." He places his hand flat on Mr Darvis' chest overtop the medal, which grows hot between them. He can feel Mr Darvis' heartbeat through his palm, hard and quick. 

He hears the hitch in the man's breath, the sound in his throat as he swallows his emotion. "Thank you, Mr Yendar," he says quietly, his own hand coming to rest atop Xenk's, warm and rough. "I do not know if I can believe such sentiments for myself so easily, but I do find I trust that you believe it, and perhaps that is sufficient for the time being." 

"Your grief is a heavy burden, I ask that you allow me to shoulder it." 

"You do not want it." 

"It is my duty to Ilmater and my wish as your friend. Just as you came to help shoulder my grief, I would carry yours."

His answering sigh is a hot puff against his cheek. He does not recall getting quite so close, but little else had mattered besides soothing Mr Darvis' pain. "Take it, then." 

Xenk releases his hand reluctantly, "Your right hand, please," he says, holding his left palm-up in waiting. Gingerly a palm is laid atop it and he unwinds the cord from his wrist. "Ilmater, honour this man's grief, the suffering he has endured for sixteen years." He has said these words countless times before, bound his hand in such a manner to numerous others and each time he has meant it, but never so ardently as this. He would cut the grief into his skin if it would alleviate even a sliver of Mr Darvis’ suffering. 

“Ilmater, I beseech your aid. Inflict upon me these wounds so that he may heal, may his injuries scar, forever changed by the experience but never again pained by it.” He takes a breath, knotting the cord around their hands, wending it over his fingers until their palms are pressed. “May he suffer no longer.” His lips quiver as he whispers, “ please .” 

The knots are tied in a manner that means he is able to slip Mr Darvis’ hand from beneath them before tightening them on his own hand. Mr Darvis collapses backward with a shuddering gasp, emotion raw on his face, skin wet with it. 

Mr Darvis wipes a hand uneasily across his face, gasping as he grapples with the force of his feelings. He looks exhausted, “Thank you,” he mutters, and the relief in his tone is a balm to Xenk’s inner turmoil. “I should take my leave.” He opens his mouth to refute this, but Mr Darvis shakes his head, “I have taken up a sufficient amount of your time already and caused enough of a scene for the day. You have other guests to attend to.” 

Xenk nods reluctantly, “I shall not force my company upon you,” He holds out the coat, “This is yours – should you wish to take it back.”

Mr Darvis reaches out but stalls as their hands touch beneath the jacket, his breath hitching. They remain there for a long moment, “I do not wish to be rid of your company,” he whispers as if it is an admission of some crime, “Come visit our home in Targos, I ask you. I understand that you have a great number of duties at this time, but the invitation is open. Whenever you are free, you are welcome.” 

His little finger coils against Mr Darvis’ selfishly, but the man does not move his hand away, “I would like that very much. I will call on you as soon as I can,” he promises. 

Mr Darvis smiles, that smile that warms Xenk’s chest, and he takes the jacket for himself, holding it to his chest. “Until then.” 

Xenk bows, “Until then.”

Chapter Text

Dear Mr Darvis, 

I can only apologise for my actions in the churchyard. Know that I only meant to try to ease your pain, but that does not excuse the measure of joy I received from the sensation of taking your hand in mine. I feel as if I have taken liberties with your person that cannot be easily forgiven as the depth of my emotion for you is far deeper than I can put into words. In taking such intimacies from you, while you are unknowing of such feelings, I have betrayed your trust.  

With this in mind, I cannot accept your invitation to your home, much as it grieves me to do so. I will refrain from extending my presence towards you, both in the North and in Baldur’s Gate, much as it hurts me to do so. I care very deeply for you in ways that I know I ought not to, and I know I will not be able to control my emotions in your presence indefinitely so rather than burden you with them, I would rather take my leave. 

Know you will forever be in my heart and I will carry your pain with me as I have promised, so that you may be lighter for it, no matter if you despise me for this revelation or not. 

Yours forever,

Xenk Yendar. 

Xenk looks down at the ink, still wet enough to reflect the light of his candle, and already knows he will not send it. A better man would, but Xenk knows he cannot decline the invitation extended to him. The fact that he is unable to pull himself away from Mr Darvis's orbit despite how aware he is of the ways he is abusing such kind invitations for the nourishment of his own heart does nothing to assuage his guilt, yet he is weak to it all the same. 

It didn’t take long at all after Edgin left the church yard for the guilt to stick in Xenk’s throat. He is a tactile man by nature, though those instincts have been clipped by a society that sees touch as improper in those it considers no longer children. He has taken women's hands while dancing, the smallest points of feather-light of contact where it is necessary, glove to glove, separated from the warmth by fabric and a society that considers human touch to be uncouth. 

The rituals of Ilmater are similarly tactile, to be expected for a deity whose doctrine is one of holy suffering. When he had been in the church, he had held countless people's hands, touched them skin to skin and been proud of how his touch brought them a modicum of peace. But never had one of those people he had performed rites for were ones that he had his own feelings towards. It had been years since he had held someone he had desired. 

His motives for touching Mr Darvis had not been untoward, he had merely forgotten propriety in his desire to comfort. And Mr Darvis did not - could not - know the depth of emotion brought on by the heat of his hand upon Xenk's and how greedily he held onto the memory of it.

He takes the letter and the feelings that are folded up within it, seals and consigns it to the drawer of his writing desk, alongside all other emotions he finds too unruly to admit. 

Dear Mr Darvis, 

Thank you for your invitation to join you in Targos. I have a great number of responsibilities which hold my attention in the Evermoors for the time being, but hope to join you as soon as I am able. Once mine and my late father’s affairs are in order, I will travel forthwith. 

I expect this to be no more than two weeks from the date I write this letter, but I will let you know with more detail when I expect to arrive. I hope that I can organise circumstances in Mornbryn’s Shield sufficiently that the estate will be able to work autonomously through the rest of the summer and I will be able to stay for as long as you will tolerate my company. 

Your friend, 

Xenk Yendar 

– – – – – – – –

Dear Mr Yendar,

I am most grateful to hear that you will be joining me for the summer. Take your time, I will await you most patiently. 

I can only extend my thanks for your actions in the churchyard, how you soothed my aching heart when you were hurting yourself from a most acute loss. My invitation is extended by way of gratitude and to offer you a respite from your own hurt as you have offered me comfort from mine. 

Although I will confess that my motives have an element of selfishness – there is not a great wealth of good company for me here and I do so enjoy yours, please do not imply that your company is something I merely tolerate. Why, if I had my way, I suspect I would attempt to keep your company for myself in perpetuity. 

Yours,

Edgin Darvis. 

– – – – – – – –

Despite his hope, it takes nearly three tendays worth of hard work before Xenk feels he can leave Mornbryn’s Shield without guilt. It is a taxing time, spent travelling between the estate in the Evermoors and the solicitors in Neverwinter until Xenk is so fatigued that even his solicitor begins gently suggesting that any further enquires can be resolved by correspondence, and Mrs Childwall nearly packs his trunks and bodily removes him from the house herself, before he ‘sends himself to an early grave with stress’.  

Admittedly, when he does finally make it to the Darvis’ property, he feels as if a great weight has been lifted from upon his shoulders. The Darvis home is modestly sized for a gentleman’s manor, but a perfectly acceptable size for a family of three and surrounded by expansive grounds. Tentowns is sufficiently near to Icewind Dales that it is cold enough even in summer that the gardens do not bloom in the same way as those of more southern climbs but the grounds are well-maintained, verdant and lush with moss and clover as opposed to grass, landscaped with sloping rockeries, purple heather streaking colour throughout. 

Mr Darvis greets Xenk himself when he arrives, embracing him with hands grasped around his upper arms. “Mr Darvis,” He says with no measure of relief, “it is good to see a friendly face after such a taxing month.” 

His expression is easy and open as he waves a hand dismissively at Xenk. “Please, we do not stand on formality in this house. Ed is fine – I will insist on it if I must.”

Xenk cannot help the way his face goes dark. “Then you must call me Xenk in return,” he tells him, hoping his tone is even and calm as he does so. 

“Xenk,” Edgin parrots, as if trying the sound of it on his tongue. It is an unexpected pleasure, hearing his name in Edgin’s bright tenor, and he finds his face becoming warm. Fortunately it is unlikely that Edgin will be able to discern the difference in his colouring, and if he did, Xenk hopes it is easy enough to explain as a flush of exertion from riding. 

 He diverts himself from such dangerous thoughts, turning to his tack. There is not a servant nearby, so Xenk asks, “Shall I retrieve my trunk? And then you will have to direct me as to where I can stable my horse.” 

Edgin looks shamed, “Ah, yes, I am afraid that we only have a small household. I have a housekeeper here and a cook who lives in the village, but our two maids remain in Town with Holga and Kira. There is a stableboy who will care for the horses, allow me to aid in retrieving your things, and we can walk them down to the stables.” 

He waves Edgin’s embarrassment away easily, “Tis no matter to me. A gentleman I may be now, but before that I was an acolyte and the temple does not keep servants.” He leans in closer, conspiratorially, “And before that still, I was a common boy in Thay. Our family were free, but not of means.” 

Edgin reacts to this revelation with surprise, “Why, Mr Yendar, Xenk , I had not taken such into consideration. My apologies.” 

Xenk shakes his head, untacking his saddlebags from the horse, “I consider it no hardship to know how to light a fire or cook a good meal. Despite the oppressive society of Thay, I did not have a difficult life, we had enough food to eat, somewhere warm to sleep. I have never missed the presence of servants when I have not had access to them.”

“In which case, I shall imagine you shall enjoy your time here. I have never enjoyed an overabundance of servants – perhaps it is lingering paranoia but I believe that one should have the opportunity for privacy in his own home.”

If Xenk’s heart thumps at the concept of privacy, away from prying eyes of society and servants, with a man who calls him by his first name, he keeps it from his face. 

By the time that he has taken his belongings down, a woman wearing clothing typical to an upper servant has hurried down the steps to the front lawn, chiding Edgin on the fact that he did not alert her to the fact that their guest had arrived. She's middle-aged, slightly older than Edgin and introduces herself to Xenk with a much more pleasant tone than she addressed Edgin as Mrs Agnes, the housekeeper. She offers a perfunctory curtsey, to which he bows in response, and then she lifts his trunk to carry it up to the entryway.

"If you leave them in the entryway I am more than happy to carry them to my room." He offers. 

She scoffs, "No guest of this house will do such as long as I draw breath." 

Edgin pats him on the shoulder, "Best not to argue," he warns.

He raises his hands in defeat, "Duly noted. Shall we to the stables then?" He takes hold of the horse’s reins. 

Edgin looks mildly flushed about the face, but he nods, “I’ll lead, shall I?” 

Xenk follows a step or two behind as Edgin leads him round to the back of the house. “So Miss Darvis and Kilgore remain in Baldur’s Gate?” He asks.

It seems as if Edgin stiffens, his shoulders rise up and his gait becomes a little more rigid, “Yes, as Candlekeep is only a few days from Baldurs Gate, it was agreed that Kira would wait out the end of the season there, with Holga as her chaperone,” he says, voice tight. “Is that to be a problem?” 

“Not at all,” Xenk says, grateful that Edgin could not see the intensity of his gaze upon his back, watching him walk and following his mannerisms. “While I have enjoyed their company when I have had it, it was not an offer of their company that I accepted.” 

His shoulders seemed to relax again, and Xenk thought he heard him sigh, “Good, I would hate to have dragged you all the way to my humble home on a misunderstanding.”

“Please do not consider your own company to mean so little to me.” He said gently, and at that Edgin turned to look at him in shock, flushed and eyes wide for a second before he turns back to the path ahead, only a small hint that perhaps Edgin is no less affected by his company than Xenk is by his. 

“You are remarkably kind to me, Xenk. I do not know what I have done to earn it, but I value your friendship immensely.”

He cannot help but smile, “It is not something you ought to have to earn. I do not select my friends based on what they can offer me.” 

“Then you are a better man than I.” 

“And what, praytell, do I offer you?” He asks, teasing. 

“Your company is sufficient currency.” He says, slightly tightly, then, “The stable is just beyond this copse.” motioning towards the path and increasing his pace so the distance between them is increased. 

They hand off the reins of the horse to the stablehand, who seems excited to have a new charge to care for, then Edgin offers him a performative smile, "You must be exhausted after such a long journey. Why don't we retire to the house? I can ask for supper to be prepared." He suggests. 

"I have to say I would not refuse a bath." He concurs. 

"I'm sure that can be arranged."

The guest bedroom is nicely sized, probably the largest set of quarters in the house. It has an attached dressing room complete with a bath, a small stove for heating water and even a water pump, which Edgin is clearly very proud of. "Installed not five years ago." He explains, pleased, "Everyone agreed they were tired of having to carry bathwater upstairs." The warm water does a great deal for soothing his muscles which ache after three days' travel, cleaning the sweat and dust of the road from his skin. 

He meets Edgin in the drawing room an hour or so later feeling refreshed. "You have a lovely home." He says, settling into the armchair across from where Edgin is sitting.

"Ah, it's nothing." He dismisses, "I have only had reason to visit the manor at Mornbryn's Shield once, many years ago, but I do think I am able to accurately recall its size, and it certainly humbles this old place." 

"Size is by no measure an indicator of quality." Xenx tells him in no uncertain terms.

Edgin laughs, "I have heard many a woman say the same." Xenk fixes him with a blank look, recognizing a joke but not understanding it. Edgin, used to this expression by this point in their friendship, waves his hand, "Never mind, it was merely a crude joke, a reflex, nothing more. To put it more tactlessly, 'so exclaimed the maiden who graced your bed last night'." 

“Ah, I see. I should have guessed – if I cannot parse a comment made by yourself or one of your companions, it is likely to be vulgar in nature." He teases. 

Edgin mostly looks admonished, "It is a joke, nothing more, a habit formed from too much time spent around far less refined company. Not a true reflection of my actions. He looks away from him and bites his lip, flushing with embarrassment. He stands, "Drink?" 

"I wouldn't say no." 

He watches Edgin open a cabinet and retrieve two crystal glasses and a bottle of dark amber liquor. The drinks cabinet is off to the side of the grand fireplace in the centre of the room, made of exquisitely carved marble, it’s unlit being summer, but still makes a fine centrepiece.

The space above the mantle is dominated by a large painting of a man and a woman. The man is clearly a much younger Edgin, wearing the coat of a Harper officer with lower rank than he has on his coat now. The woman by his side has one hand on his shoulder, her brown skin and dark, curled hair contrast strikingly with the white gown she wears. He does not recognise her, but it is not difficult to inuit who she is, “Your wife?” he asks.

Edgin looks mournfully up at the painting, “The portrait was a wedding gift.”

“She is very beautiful.”

Edgin swallows as if his tongue has gone heavy in his mouth, “Yes, she was.” 

“I can see a great deal of her in your daughter.” 

Edgin sighs fondly, “More and more every day. It’s astounding how much Zia has made her mark.” 

Xenk nods, “Her nose and cheekbones particularly.” 

“And the eyes.” Edgin adds. 

“In colour, perhaps.” Xenk concedes, “But I believe the shape and expression is a gift from you.” 

Edgin glances at him, “Do you spend a great deal of time looking at my daughter's eyes?” he teases. 

“Come now, Edgin. You must know by now what everyone else has already noticed; I spend far more time in your company than Miss Darvis’. Any conclusion I draw is based far more on familiarity with your face than hers.” He argues with far more honesty than is sensible. 

Edgin makes a small noise of surprise, his face quickly going from a mixture of shock and something more unknowable to carefully schooled, “Good to hear. For a few moments I was concerned you had reneged on your assurances that you would not fall for her.” 

“Miss Darvis is a lovely girl but I never had designs upon her in the first place. Besides, having come to know her I would say I think of her more as one might a daughter,” then, panicking, he hurriedly adds, “Or as a sibling. Beloved, but in a way that is distinctly platonic.” 

Xenk has far too much tension of his own held in his chest to notice overmuch how Edgin trembles as he says this, how his hand twitches as if wishing to reach out. “Ah.” he says, voice tight, “That is gratifying to hear.” 

Fortunately, the tension is cut by the dinner bell ringing not a moment later and they both scatter from the situation. 

– – – – – – – –

Dear Alexander,

Against all rational judgement, I have chosen to visit Mr Darvis in Tentowns, led by the wants of my heart. 

If I am perfectly honest I find it almost terrifying, the concept of being in such close quarters with someone I feel so deeply for. Love for me has always been something fleeting, quickly repressed for fear of being uncovered. 

I do not rightly know why I cannot rid myself of this one – is it that my commitment to aid Miss Darvis has forced me to spend so much time in his company? Or the nature of society, which means we are often in overlapping circles? Is it the occasional glimpses of softness I think I see mirrored in his face, providing me with false hope?

I regret that I was not more present at the manor while you were courting your Matilda. I find myself wondering if you felt such an undeniable pull as this; the knowledge that it cannot be but in the same breath you cannot stop. Did you wonder if she liked you or was it a case of immediate attraction? I wish I had been there to give you counsel and to celebrate your love with you, but I was too caught up with my duties as an acolyte.

No, that is not the truth in its entirety. The truth is that I saw Father pushing you to marry after many long years of allowing you to play the game of society as you saw fit and became frightened for my own freedoms. I admit this anxiety as irrational now, but it was not so easy to dismiss at the time. 

I am sorry for this weakness on my part. My refusal to involve myself certainly did not protect me in the end. 

Your brother,

Xenk Yendar. 

– – – – – – – –

Despite the tension earlier, dinner is a pleasant affair then he retires early afterwards, the ardour of a long day’s travel finally setting in. The next day, Edgin offers to show him the gardens. They fall instep as they walk the garden paths, Xenk stopping at times to admire a feature or an interesting plant which is native only to the northernmost regions. “The grounds are quite honestly stunning.” He compliments. 

Edgin looks sad, “They were Zia’s doing, she loved flowers and took great pride in the gardens, designed them herself. What I have done since is merely upkeep them.” 

“She had excellent taste.” 

He laughs, “Except, perhaps, in her choice of husband?” 

Xenk shakes his head, “In such avenues too, I should think.” He says firmly, then, quite hurriedly adds, “Was she also responsible for the gardens in your house in Baldur’s Gate?” In the hopes that Edgin will not think too long on the first sentiment.

“Ah, she did, indeed. Spent a great deal of time fussing over them, ensuring they were perfect.” He frowns, “She had very little chance to enjoy either, I’m sorry to say.” 

“But you have ensured it remains – a testament to her vision.” Xenk says softly. 

“I could not bring myself to change it should I want to.” Edgin admits, then pauses upon the path, turning to Xenk, “I have not spoken on it yet, but do not think I haven’t noticed that you have kept it.” He motions to Xenk’s hand. 

Xenk holds up the hand which is bound in cord, “You grieved alone for too long, it seemed only right to hold onto it.” The traditional length of time for a priest of Ilmater to hold onto a token of grief is a tenday, a marker which has long since passed, but Edgin had grieved for years, he felt it deserved more than a brief tenday to honour. 

“I should have had faith in your earnesty, but… I had assumed you removed it after I left.” 

“Do you wish I had?” 

Edgin shakes his head, “I am touched, merely too cynical to allow myself to expect kindness in others.” 

Xenk offers his hand as delicately as he can, hoping that the sentiment appears less affectionate than he feels it is. “It is yours to do with as you wish.” He says. 

Edgin takes his hand between his own, holds it there for long enough that Xenk can feel the minute tremble in his fingers, as if he is holding something delicate and breakable. “You are immeasurably kind, Xenk.” He says above a whisper, “I would like… perhaps it is foolish…” he trails off.

“Edgin,” he whispers, the first time he has said his given name out loud, “Do with it as you wish. I will not judge how you choose to grieve.” 

He took a quiet breath, “Perhaps we could bury it here. In her garden.” 

A warmth, sad and raw, burns within his chest, and he allows his other hand to close over Edgin’s, “I think that would be most appropriate. Perhaps you could show me where her favourite part of the garden was.”

Edgin’s touch lingers upon his hand, not quite holding but neither removing the contact entirely, as he leads him through the garden to a small creek that wound between mounds and rocks. There, nestled amongst a bed of snapdragons with pale white flowers that were tipped with vibrant blue, is a stone bench. 

“Here. She would walk here most days in the summer, take a book or her needlework and bask in the sun.” His voice is tight, thick with grief, as he sits down on the bench. 

Xenk kneels in front of him, hand out in offerance, and in spite of himself, he feels his breath taken away, “I think I understand why,” he whispers with reverence, quite unintentionally aloud. 

Edgin tilts his head curiously, “How so?”

His face goes warm and he looks away, unable to speak the words directly to him, “These flowers, they are the same colour as your eyes.” 

Edgin’s breath hitches and his fingers stop where he is reaching out to Xenk, scant millimetres away from him, and for a second, Xenk thinks he has at last said too much, played his hand too plainly. “Oh,” he says quietly, and then his hands shake as he takes the offering from Xenk, deft, careful fingers unwinding the cord, each brush of his fingertips gentle and light, oh so delicate, as if each brush of bare skin served a purpose.

The earth is loose and damp, Xenk turns it with his fingers, revelling in the tactile sensation and disregarding the effect on his hands and his shirtsleeves. He has always believed in the holiness of imperfection, of physical work, and there is nothing more holy than this, kneeling in front of Edgin and using his hands to help him bury the grief he has lived with for too long. 

When they are done, Xenk stands slowly, knees stiff from kneeling on the cool ground. There are tear tracks dried onto Edgin’s face, and he does not reach out to dry them, but does place a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “Perhaps we should head back to the house.” He suggests quietly. 

Edgin nods, “Thank you, Xenk.” His voice is raw, vulnerable, “Just… thank you.” 

They walk to the house in silence, sad but not uncomfortable, and Xenk feels the well of emotion in his chest growing, taking up his entire heart. He has, he knows, ruined himself for want of Edgin, but he would not change any moment of it, not the brush of their shoulders as they walk astride nor the small smile Edgin offers him as they part at the staircase.

When Xenk returns to his room before dinner to wash up, he stains the water in the basin dark with mud as he cleanses his hands of the grief. That night, lying in the dark, he places a hand on his chest, his heartbeat a constant rhythm and attempts to ground himself. Kneeling beside Edgin, the colour of the snapdragons, the touch of their hands, it is all building to something that Xenk is not sure that he should reach for. 

Can he do what his father asked of him? Can he reach out for love, even knowing he may be rejected? He is unsure.

Chapter Text

The tangled web of Xenk's feelings proves to be less of a stumbling block than he initially feared. In fact, the pair fall into a comfortable routine with remarkable ease.

Each day they breakfast together in the morning, then Edgin retires to his study to attend to any business on running the household or managing complaints from the tenants of his land. Xenk does similar; while the Mornbryn's Shield estate is larger and more complex, there are already systems in place from when his father was away with his squadron or, later, after he fell ill. Xenk's duty to his new seat is mostly limited to receiving and responding to the occasional missive. This carries on until luncheon, after which they take advantage of the warm weather for an early afternoon constitutional, enjoying the gardens surrounding the manor, the untamed woodland nearby or taking the road up to Targos. Edgin is remarkably easy to talk to during these excursions, discussing the business he was involved with over the morning or regaling Xenk with well-dramaticized tales of a childhood filled with mischief spent in these lands. 

The evenings are usually spent quietly reading or listening to Edgin play music. He's quite an accomplished musician, especially on the harp-lute, and Xenk thinks it's a pity he isn't able to play more in the company of others, with amateur music being considered a more appropriate passtime for ladies. 

"Do not relay my words to her, but Kira is not much of a musician. I think she inherited that trait from Holga, who thinks that 'singing is a passtime best left to birds'." He explains cheerfully, leaning into Xenk as if relaying some secret, “Someone has to keep the household from getting too quiet.” 

Xenk responds with a look that is probably too obvious, "I'd say you play well enough to make up for the both of them." Which had made Edgin blush pleasingly red with the compliment. 

Despite being no longer a fully fledged acolyte of Ilmater, Xenk remains dutybound by his faith to attend the temple every tenth day. He did so both in Baldur's Gate and after returning to Mornbryn's Shield to organise his father's funeral and sees no reason for to falter he while in Targos, travelling to Bryn Shandar each week to tend the House of the Triad. Edgin does not join him at the House but does accompany Xenk in the carriage to Bryn Shandar to avail himself of the commerce. The carriage ride is always a pleasant experience, sometimes they participate in light chatter, other times Edgin will complain about the early hour before falling asleep against the side of the carriage, giving Xenk ample opportunity to admire the softness of his face without fear of reprisal. Edgin doesn't fast as he does, but still joins him for the evening meal at the temple, the final act of the day's worship – Xenk suspects that while Edgin does not partake in faith himself, he finds Xenk's devotion to his to be in some way comforting, a role he is more than happy to fulfil – after which they return to the carriage to begin the journey back to the manor. 

Occasionally, very occasionally, they receive visitors. It is more common early on in the first tenday or so, after the other noble families of Ten Towns find out that Mr Darvis has the new Duke of Evermoors summering with him, but interest peters out again thanks to a combination of Xenk's reserved, stilted conversation and the carefully weaponized hostility Mr Darvis levys at his guests. It is masterful to watch as Egin slips thinly veiled insults into conversations, disguised enough that they cannot be called out, but cutting enough that their caller quickly takes their leave and does not call again once Mr Darvis and Xenk have taken their perfunctory courtesy return visit. When Xenk questions Mr Darvis on his hard work alienating his neighbours, Edgin merely offers him a shrug and a sly smile. "I have never much liked the Remintons. Besides," he schools his expression into a casual one that doesn't quite cover the gentleness in his blue eyes, "I know you do not like the attention." It fills Xenk with such affection that he almost cannot contain the urge to kiss Edgin then and there. 

Overall, he manages to mostly keep his feelings in check; manages to not kiss Edgin or compliment him too tenderly. He does not listen too closely to the part of his soul which settles comfortably into the domesticity of their existence side-by-side, which wants to stay forever, nor does he attend the gnawing anxiety which reminds him that his days here are dwindling like sand in an hourglass. But he knows he must keep his heart to himself or he will cut short their time together even further. Even still, the weight of his feelings grows heavier, and he knows he will not be able to keep himself in check indefinitely. 

He lasts until Midsummer, which is longer than he had expected.

It begins on the 29th of Hammer. They are on an early afternoon walk round the lake which borders one side of the Darvis estate, and Xenk steps onto a small pier that leads into the deeper parts of the water, presumably for the purposes of fishing. He pauses there to look out over the water to the rocky wilderness on the far bank, the ancient wood creaks merrily below their feet, water lapping at the supports. The day is quiet and warm, and a feeling of serenity comes over Xenk as he is reminded of playing in the Laughingflow as a child. 

“It's nice in summer but the lake is quite something in winter. With how far north we are, it tends to freeze before Uktar ends and doesn’t thaw until we are comfortably back into Ches." Edgin says, coming to stand next to him. "Traditionally our family has always held a fête on the ice after the first proper freeze of the year.” He frowns, “I assume it was the same last year while we were in Baldur’s Gate, it’s usually organised with very little input from the family.” Xenk can almost see the moment that he takes a mental note to check in with his foreman.

Having lived his life between the arid volcanic regions of Thay and the relatively temperate parts of the Sword Coast below The Spine, Xenk could not imagine a lake freezing so thoroughly that a town would put tents up and walk upon it in their hundreds. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Extremely,” Edgin laughs, “But cut ice is one of the Dale’s biggest exports, we know how to move on it safely. The fair doesn’t happen until there’s a foot’s worth of good ice – it’s sort of part of the celebration, honestly, that the ice is ready to harvest, I suppose. Nobody’s died, not in my memory. We’ve had a few falls, but even our littlest know what to do when they fall through the ice, so nothing ever happens that a blanket and a warm drink can’t solve.”

Xenk eyes the lake, which is glittering blue and rippling gently with the light wind and tries to imagine it frozen over so thick that he’d be willing to walk on it, a soft frown on his features. 

Edgin claps him on the back, amusement at his expression, “We get two or three weeks of good weather like this each year. You can’t really swim in it any other time, because the water is abominably cold, but it is wonderful this time of year. Perhaps we should take a dip at some point.” 

Xenk’s throat goes tight as he imagines Edgin emerging from the lake, linen shirt clinging to his chest, rivulets of water running down the curves of his face. He swallows. “Perhaps.” He says as mildly as he can, "I have no clothes suitable for bathing." 

"I'm sure I have something you can use." Edgin replies easily. He glances at Xenk appraisingly, "Your build is slightly broader than mine, but our dimensions are not so different that we could not share."

The thought of wearing Edgin's shirt sends an unexpected frisson of want into his abdomen, subsumed with unearned possessiveness. Rationally speaking, the sharing of clothing is trivial, a laundered shirt should have no significance, would not have Edgin's scent lingering on it, but that does not stop Xenk from flushing with such heat he imagines it radiating from him. Blushing furiously, he turns away from Edgin with a sharp twist to try and hide his face.

"Ah, it is merely a suggestion, we do not need to swim if you have some such aversion to it." Edgin says, sounding perplexed, "There is plentiful fishing, or we could take a rowboat from the boathouse on the eastern bank." 

Xenk looks out upon the water and breathes deeply, trying to calm his traitorous heart. He cannot react so poorly when Edgin offers him what is nothing more than good hospitality. He attempts to bite back the emotions, "I have no specific disagreement with the activity," he says cautiously.

"Well that's good, I was beginning to worry that I'd offended you–" Edgin begins, but he is unable to finish the words before things go badly very quickly.

It happens thus; Edgin reaches out to grasp Xenk's shoulder congenially. Xenk, still tense from attempting to repress his emotions, startles and flinches, sending Edgin off-balance. Xenk whirls around to steady Edgin but as he only manages to get one hand around Edgin’s arm before the whole affair proves to be too much for the old pier beneath them and a board bows beneath Xenk’s foot. Before he has time to even realise what’s happened, he’s falling backwards into the water, still grasping at Edgin. He lands with an almighty crash of water against his back, narrowly avoiding being pushed underneath by Edgin who lands beside him instead with enough force to rock them both. 

The lake is frigid cold, like being plunged into the Sea of Moving Ice which feeds it, pulling breath from his lungs despite how warm the day is. He catches his breath as quickly as he can, kicking his legs to stay upright in the water, and finds Edgin doing the same beside him, scraping the hair back from where it has plastered itself over his face.

“Well,” Edgin gasps, teeth chattering, “Just because you said you didn’t mind swimming, I didn’t expect you to prove it so soon.” 

“I- it was not my intention.” Xenk replies, “We should not linger.”

Edgin kicks out, “It’s not far to the shallows.” 

Xenk is grateful to note that Edgin is an accomplished swimmer, and they both make it back to shore safely.

"I cannot apologise enough for my carelessness." Xenk says, shaking his hair dry, “You are not injured, are you?” 

“No, no.” Edgin shakes his head, “If anyone is to blame, it’s the idiot master of the house who didn’t hire someone to maintain the pier.” He says derisively, “This thing’s as old as the house itself, I’ll get someone to look at it tomorrow.” He removes one boot, tipping it upside-down so water pours out of it and makes a disgusted face. 

"Do not speak so derisively of yourself. If I had not succumbed to such dramatics, the structure would have held." 

" Xenk ,” Edgin near-snaps, “While I understand the urge to self-flagellate, I strongly believe our first priority should be ridding ourselves of these wet clothes.” He throws his doublet to the ground with a wet thud to illustrate his point, but it doesn’t have the intended effect as when Xenk looks up at him he instantly loses all ability for coherent thought. Edgin’s shirt, a plain summer cotton which Xenk had paid little to no attention to previously clings to his skin, turned near see-through by the water, accentuating the contours of his chest and giving him a glimpse of the colour of the skin below; the sparse thatch of hair, the dark points of his nipples, it’s quite frankly too much. 

As quick as his feet can carry him, he’s striding back to the manor, feet squelching in his boots with every step. “I will ask Mrs Agnes to start the stove, we will both want warm water for a bath.” He says, as if the activity requires immediate attention. 

“Xenk?” Edgin calls after him, confused, but Xenk cannot turn around, because another look at Edgin in such a state might well cause his death. 

Perhaps it was foolish of him, but Xenk had not anticipated a problem of this ilk would arise. He has been in Edgin's company for half a year and while his affections have run rampant, he has kept the more carnal aspects of his attraction well checked. He and lust are not strangers but neither are they regular bedfellows; desire is too obvious a sign of his strange attractions, and thus he endeavours to suppress it well as he can lest he ostracise himself further from his peers. Yet with Edgin so close it now seems as if his thoughts are consumed by it, irascible sexuality that cannot be easily sated. 

It is too much to cope with, ensconced in the privacy of his bedroom, waiting for the water to heat. He is still soaked from their impromptu introduction to the lake, peeling sodden clothing from his skin and yet his whole body feels overwarm as if he has plunged himself directly into the boiling water presently being prepared for his bath. 

He feels compelled, as if by external forces and not just his own mind, to take himself in hand to try and quell the flame, the memory of Edgin's form underneath the clothing clinging to his body shamefully at the forefront of his mind. 

The act leaves him shaking and shaken, an inexcusable lack of control, a betrayal of the hospitality he has been so kindly offered. He must overcome, by whatever means he has at his disposal – or, well, most of them. The most effective way, he knows, would be to end his stay at the Darvis' home as soon as he reasonably can without causing offence, but he cannot bring himself to entertain that as an option. As such he is left to manage himself using only his conviction, which has been waning and frail these past tendays in Targos. His resolve lasts through the most uncomfortably quiet dinner they have that evening and into the next day, but it holds out little longer than that. 

The next day is the tenth day, which is a great relief as he is in need of the stability of the temple today more than anything. He always looks forward to it, but he hopes that in this particular instance it will prove to lend him some greater perspective on how small and inconsequential his own anxieties are and thus give him the tools to wrest control over his emotions. 

Edgin sleeps through the journey to Bryn Shandar and while Xenk is relieved that they do not have to talk at this moment, he still worries himself that Edgin is not napping but rather pretending in order to avoid the awkwardness of Xenk’s company after he threw them both into the lake the day prior. Although no matter whether he is truly asleep or not, it gives him ample excuse to avoid his own embarrassment at the situation and his subsequent actions afterwards. Once the journey is over he won't see Edgin again until the evening, allowing him time at the temple to reflect and regather before he has to see the object of his affections once more. 

It is late by the time they board the carriage back to Targos, although the setting sun is still casting a blue glow of dusk over the land being, as they are, so far north and almost at midsummer. In the carriage, Edgin's composure is unusually tense, his face set in a grimace that Xenk thinks he isn't meant to notice. He doesn't make eye contact with Xenk and when they talk it's stiff and stilted. Worry overtakes Xenk's misgivings and he reaches out and gently touches Edgin's knee to get his attention, which makes Edgin jump. "Are you quite well? You have been acting strangely." He asks. 

Edgin goes a little pink around the ears, "You noticed that, did you?" 

"I like to think I can read you moderately well by now." He offers a lilting smile and receives a small one in return. 

"Ah… it's foolish. I bought you something but I've lost my nerve now it's time to give it to you." He laughs nervously, "It didn't cross my mind at the time but I suddenly find myself worrying that you might consider it insulting." 

"I would never be so cruel about a gift. Besides, if I know your intentions are good, I will not be offended, as I know any offence was not intentional." He offers an encouraging smile, "But I cannot know if you do not tell me what it is."

Edgin swallows nervously and produces a small bottle from his doublet. "There was a trader with goods from Chult at the market today. They had this, argan tree oil with almond blossom – for your hair. Zia used to swear by it." 

Something in Xenk's chest becomes very tight as he holds his hand out for the bottle. He holds it up to the dim light through the carriage window, inspecting it. It appears to be good quality; clear and fluid. 

"I… thank you. It must have been very expensive." 

Edgin shakes his head, "Think nothing of it, please," then added, "I'm very good at haggling." 

"I do not know why you thought I might be offended at such a thoughtful gift." 

Edgin rubs the back of his neck, "I'm certain you have your own routine, I wasn't sure if it would be seen as an imposition. That and… I noticed that your hair had gone a little dry after we ended up in the water. Not much, just that it could perhaps benefit from a moisturising." 

"Ah, I must have forgotten." He had been so preoccupied by how viscerally he had reacted to the situation that it had barely crossed his mind. "I understand why you were worried but no, I am not offended." 

"Do you want me to sort it for you? We have another forty minutes or so before we're home." 

Xenk should say no. He should be stronger than this. Instead, he swallows around the lump in his throat and says, barely above a whisper, "Alright." 

Edgin pats the seat beside him and Xenk moves into it, passing the bottle back to him before turning so his back is to Edgin. He hears Edgin uncap the bottle and warm the oil between his palms, then try to turn head-on to Xenk to apply it to his scalp. In the close quarters this proves quickly to be nigh-on impossible, he tries to place a foot up on the bench, then places it back down again, leans his elbows against Xenk's shoulders, but can't get his hands in the right place that way. 

Xenk takes pity on him, "I think it would be easier if I sat on the floor." He suggests. 

Edgin makes a frustrated noise, then gives a defeated sigh, "Most likely." 

With very little grace Xenk sinks to the floor, leaning back against the seat, cradled between Edgin's knees. Xenk feels his heart rattle in his chest, and as fingers brush against his scalp there is a sharp intake of breath from one of them, he's unclear which, before his hands begin their task in earnest. Edgin's fingers are firm against Xenk’s scalp, massaging the oil into the roots and then down the length of the hair. As he suspected, Edgin has deft, confident fingers, touching him the same way that he plays music, assured, confident, dexterous. 

"I used to do Kira's hair when she was little," Edgin tells him in a quiet, intimate tone, "I tried to take her to a woman in Targos to get it cared for by someone who actually knew what they were doing, but she pitched a fit if anyone tried to touch her hair but me. I was the only one who she would let do her hair until she was thirteen and ‘too old to have her dad braid her hair’ all of a sudden.” He scoffs affectionately. 

“Thayans place a great deal of symbolism on hair. Slaves and children are not allowed to cut their hair, once freemen are branded, they cut their hair and keep it short. The Zulkhirs and generals of Thay shave their heads. It has made my feelings on the matter… complicated. I have lived outside of Thay for longer than I was in it, yet I still do not feel as though I can allow my hair to grow long.”

“Would you like to wear it long?” Edgin asks gently, fingers at the base of his skull rubbing a circular motion that makes it hard for Xenk not to make appreciative sounds. 

“I do not know.” He says honestly. 

“For what it's worth, I think you would look very fetching with long hair.”

He blushes at the compliment, glad that it’s hidden as his head is tilted downward for Edgin to get his hands onto the back of his head. “It is difficult for me sometimes. I despise the Empire, but I cannot say the same for my countrymen. Yet they are not two separate entities; the Empire is part of Thayan culture, branding and slavery have been in our tradition for centuries, long before Szass Tam. The Empire is not a handful of evil generals making decisions, but countrymen who believe in the merit of those evil deeds. And yet still, my homeland is also the songs my mother would sing that I can only half-remember, or the food I have not tasted since I left, the language I still think in sometimes.” 

Edgin’s fingers never leave his scalp, never falter, but he sighs, long and sad. “I am sorry.” He pauses to brush his thumb over the scars on his forehead, Xenk’s eyes shuttering closed at the contact, “You have lost so much.” 

“I have gained much more.” He swallows around his pride, “This is good. Keep going.” He can’t remember the last time someone else did his hair for him, his mother, he thinks, when it was cut in preparation for his marking ceremony. After he had been taken in by Lord Rockingham he had been too wary to let anyone else handle what was both a sacred and traumatic task, then too old to need or want to ask for it. 

“I will.” Edgin promises gently. Edgin doesn't stop after the oil is fully worked in, and Xenk doesn't remark upon it. Massaging turns to petting, soft and repetitive, and between the rocking of the carriage on the road beneath him and the gentle touch to his head he drifts into a peaceful sleep. 

He wakes with the gentle rap of the coach driver tapping on the door, head leaned on Edgin's knee and Edgin's hand resting on top of his head. "Thank you," he calls out in a sleep-thick voice, "One moment." 

Edgin wakes with a yawn and the regrettable loss of his touch, "T'was unexpected." He mumbles, "Makes the journey go quick I s'pose." Sleep slurs his words together and Xenk is endeared immediately. 

"It is very late," Xenk replies, standing and rubbing the ache from his knees, "It is the second longest day of the year, after all." 

"Hm, very inconvenient of you to ascribe to a religion which mandates that you fast until sundown on temple days." Edgin responds dryly, "Even on the longest days of the year." 

"Unfortunately, suffering does not stop for summer." He quips in reply, opening the door and holding it for Edgin to climb out of the carriage. 

"Terribly impolite of it." Once alighted, Edgin holds out his hand to help Xenk down, in the way usually reserved for young ladies, and Xenk, heartsick as he is, takes it. "Come, let us retire. I suspect we have… oh, shall we say an hour or so before dawn, let us make the most of it." 

As Xenk falls asleep, the smell of fragrant oil and Edgin's hands pressing affection into his head, he comes to a sickening realisation. He cannot keep deceiving Edgin by obscuring his desires and allowing him to carry on unaware of how his actions affect Xenx, even if it spells the end of their friendship. Still, he tells himself that Edgin has proven himself to be reasonable and kind, he will likely lose his friendship, or at least the closeness they have cultivated, but he doesn't believe Edgin will out his secret to the rest of society.

Chapter Text

Midsummer, traditionally, is a day off for the servants, so they are entirely alone in the house. 

After they rise, Xenk makes breakfast – it has been years since he’s been responsible for making a meal independently but it’s difficult to fail at scrambled eggs so completely that they are inedible. Beyond that, he has no more difficult task than slicing bread and boiling water for their tea. The mood is light, Edgin is in his usual high spirits, delighting Xenk with dramatics about how little sleep he has had and claiming to be a martyr for staying in Bryn Shandar to wait for Xenk all day. 

Xenk smiles at him in response and places both hands on his shoulders, “You are welcome to return to bed for the remainder of the morning should you so wish. I shall not judge you.” It is fortunate that Edgin goodnaturedly rolls his eyes as it breaks the intimacy of the eye contact he unintentionally initiated. 

However, he does not abscond for bed as when Xenk turns to clear the dishes from breakfast and clean the accoutrements, he waves a hand and says, “Oh, the cook can sort that tomorrow.” 

Which Xenk ignores, explaining, “It is hardly a day of rest if the chores are merely delayed. It is no hardship for me to do – I have precious little other work for the day.” 

“You are quite something. So virtuous as to make the rest of us sinners look poor,” Edgin shakes his head in a way that Xenk has learned is most fond, despite how accusatory his words are. Edgin groans in an overly dramatised manner, “Very well, I shall forgo sleep for the time being in order to attend to my duties for the day. Shall I see you for luncheon?”

“I would not dream of missing it.” He promises. It feels weightier than it ought to, but if Edgin is phased he does not show it outwardly. 

“Wonderful. Perhaps we should take our meal on the lawn?” Edgin suggests, “The cook has left us with an array of foods that make a fine picnic and the weather is good for it.” 

He nods, chest so warm that he forgets any instinct of self preservation, “Sounds a delight.” 

It is, Xenk notes as he follows Edgin through the gardens later for their picnic, vastly more difficult to hold to his convictions when faced with Edgin than it was while blanketed with shame in his bed. It is so easy, while the rays of the sun highlight the distinguished grey in Edgin's hair, to simply forget that he cannot allow this deception to carry on. Besides, it seems such a terrible time to ruin a pleasant day. 

This evening, he swears to himself. He can explain and then be away before morning rises once more, causing as little fuss as possible. Then, at least, he can have the memory of this day to tender himself through his heartbreak. 

They stop at a wooded copse near the stables, sheltered from the harshest of the midday sun. Edgin places the basket of food down amongst the roots of a tree, but does not immediately settle down to eat and instead bounces on the balls of his heels, stretching as he looks out at the landscape with nostalgia softening his face. "I went through a phase when I was seven or so where I was obsessed with picnics and the only way my nursemaid could get me to eat was if we packed it into a basket and ate on the lawn,” he pauses, lips quirking upwards in amusement, “or the gazebo if the weather was bad." 

Xenk laughs, "Oh? And what possessed you to pick up such a hobby?" 

"I do recall a set of adventure books I was reading about that time, where a group of dangerously unsupervised children would go hiking in the Dalelands and happen upon mysteries that they would put upon themselves to solve. Mostly I recall that they had a great number of picnics and made them sound awfully glamorous. I suspect I grew out of my picnic obsession when I realised that the mere act of eating food on the lawn would not summon a smuggling ring for me to thwart.”

“Well, let us hope such trends continue. I imagine dismantling a smuggling operation passing through your grounds would be a significant time commitment.”

“Rather.” Edgin agrees, “Besides, I’d say I had my fill of such things while a Harper.” Xenk immediately recognizes the tension set at the edge of his jaw, the way his eyes narrow. Edgin rarely talks about his time with the Harpers, even in such passing terms, but when he does it sets him on edge in this way.

Wishing to diffuse that feeling on what is otherwise a good day – perhaps the only good day left – Xenk quickly steers the conversation to other things, “It is remarkable how curiously the minds of children work.” 

Edgin jumps on the way out quickly, his eyes bright. "Indeed, children are prone to a sort of intense fascination. When Kira was small there was a good two weeks where she was so entrenched in a game of knights and dragons that she wouldn't respond unless you addressed her as 'Princess Kira'." He laughs, looking wonderfully fond as he recalls the memory.

“And what were you in these games?” He asks lightly, “King Darvis?”

He scoffs, “Certainly not. Her father I may be, but that does not mean she likes me so much as to offer me reign over her kingdom. Besides, I believe that despite the typical connotations of the term ‘princess’, Her Royal Highness Princess Kira was the sole autocratic ruler.”

“Ah, how very enlightened of her, I’m sure she was a very kind and just sovereign. But if the role of head of state was already firmly occupied, what role did you take up?”

“Well, typically I was her court jester, or, if I was particularly lucky, the brave knight sent to rescue her from the dragon.” 

“The dragon?” He asks. 

“Holga.” 

He can’t help but smile, “Ah, of course. That makes perfect sense to me.” 

“Now who would you have been?” Edgin looks him over thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes, “Ah, I know! Kira likes you, you’re good with a sword, you would have been dubbed the brave Ser Yendar, champion of the princess’s court.” He strikes a dramatic pose, placing his foot up upon a tree root, “Holy knight, protector of all that is good, the light that blocks out the darkness!”

Xenk frowns and looks at Edgin very seriously, “And take away your one heroic role? I could never.”

“Being the court jester isn’t so bad. Or I could play a villain – an evil advisor or… a dark knight come to challenge the princess’s champion to battle.” He takes on a more aggressive stance towards Xenk, lunging at him with an invisible sword. 

Xenk snorts with laughter, grabbing Edgin by the wrist and holding his hand up, pointing the imaginary sword away from himself, “That is no way to hold a longsword. They’re slashing, not piercing weapons.” 

Edgin raises an eyebrow, “That may be true,” He says lowly, as if he’s telling Xenk a secret, “but perhaps it was merely a ploy to get close enough to attack with my poisoned dagger.” He raises his left hand and pokes it into Xenk’s side.

“Oh, cursed knight, you may have wounded me grievously, but I shall use the remains of my strength to ensure that you are defeated.” He grips Edgin’s other hand, swept up by the game and Edgin’s dramatisation, and pushes him into a retreat.

“Curses, I have been foiled.” Edgin cries out as he lets himself be pushed backward with no resistance, “Good defeats evil once more.” 

His back hits the trunk of a tree, and suddenly they are much closer than Xenk intended, Edgin’s wrists pinned above his head as Xenk leans over him. Light through the leafy canopy illuminates golden strands amongst Edgin’s dark brown hair which suggest he may once have been blond. He is so beautiful and the love that swells in Xenk’s chest feels threatened to crush him, suddenly swallowed by shame. He had sought to set aside his feelings for just a few more hours and in doing so he has foolishly placed Edgin in a most compromising position. And Edgin does not know. 

Edgin, ever perceptive, furrows his brow, “Xenk? Is something wrong?”

He draws back, releases Edgin’s wrists and steps away from him, two large steps back to put a respectable distance between them once more. "Edgin  I-" he cuts himself off, "I cannot lie to you, it is unspeakably cruel of me to take advantage of your kindness. I am not so confident you would offer me such affection if you knew…" He does not know when it became so frightening to speak truthfully. He is not afraid of a great many things, but he is beset by terror at the prospect of unburdening his shame onto Edgin.

The man's eyes are soft and understanding, he has yet to turn away but Xenk fears the moment he does. "Speak plainly, I know you to be capable." Edgin requests, voice soft and sure. 

He looks at Xenk for a long moment, with blue eyes which feel as if they are seeing deeper into his heart than before and takes a step back towards him, closing the distance between them once more. "In fact, perhaps you have been speaking such all along and been misunderstood by us all, wilfully, even. So I shall lay it out if you swear to speak true: is the reason you will not marry your vow to the church, or have you merely been allowing the two facts to be conflated?" 

Xenk lets out a short puff of air, his mouth open but not yet speaking. He does not miss the way Edgin’s gaze shifts downward to his mouth as he licks his lips, preparing to speak, and it bolsters his resolve. “I took no such vow to the church. I have said before, I will not marry someone I do not love, and I find I could not love any woman.”

“But you…You could love…” he allows the word to trail off breathlessly, not because he’s frightened, but because he needs to hear Xenk say it, and he is suddenly filled with bravery.

“You.” He says, then clarifies, “I do love you. Most devotedly.” 

Edgins eyes finally close and he lets out a low, relieved sigh, leaning in so his forehead is resting against Xenk's. "I had forgotten," he says, so close that Xenk can feel the shape of the words on his lips. Edgin's hand comes to rest, firm and warm, on the back of his neck, "I've spent so much time mired in grief that I had forgotten how it feels to fall in love."

"I… Edgin." He whispers his name reverently, tilting his head forward so their lips are parallel, almost touching, so he can feel his breath on his mouth, shifting closer and closer until Edgin's hand pulls him in that last millimetre so that their lips touch. 

His lips are soft and warm, the kiss sweet and lingering, cautious, as if either pressing into it or moving away from it will have irretrievable consequences. Edgin’s hand holds fast around his neck, and Xenk moves in to wrap his arms around his waist so they are pulled flush. They are hip to hip, almost skin-to-skin if not for the thin weave of their cotton summer clothes. Edgin is the one who deepens the kiss, tilting his head upwards to invite Xenk into his mouth, tongue darting at his lips in invitation. His mouth is divine, it makes Xenk feel sanctified and holy to offer his affection to Edgin and receive devotion in return in the touch of lips on lips and hand on body. 

Eventually they are forced to part in the interest of drawing breath. Edgin leans against him, and Xenk cannot help but pepper feather-light kisses across his jaw, underneath his ear and into his neck, into those small spaces he has long since secretly admired while watching Edgin talk, now free for him to explore. "I have been entranced by you since nearly the first moment I met you." He confesses, "You despised me but I was enthralled by you." 

Edgin makes a soft gasping sound in response to his touch which is sweeter than any music, "Surely not. I was awful." His free hand touches Xenk's waist, strokes at the skin through his shirt. 

"But you were honest and real in a way that society does not encourage, I envied your ability to say as you wished with both full knowledge of how your words cut and the bravery to say them all the same." Stubble grazes against his face as he nuzzles into his neck indulgently, taking in the scent of his skin; the faint smell of fresh sweat from the heat of the day, lye soap and fragrant herbs, "And I found you very handsome indeed, with the finest eyes I have ever set mine upon. I am not vapid, but I do not think it is necessary to like a person's comportment in order to appreciate their form." 

Edgin huffs a short breath, "You say I am all style, no substance?" He asks teasingly, tugging Xenk's shirt free from his trousers so that he can press fingers against Xenk's skin. 

Xenk tenses with the delight of it, wholly unused to being touched so intimately after so long without, a staccato gasp forced from between his lips. "By no means. Merely that if you had turned out to have no substance, it would have had no ill-effect on my opinion of your appearance. Fortunately, you have both." 

He scoffs, “You speak to me of appearance, as if you aren’t the most beautiful man who has ever graced Baldur’s Gate. As if I did not come close to making a fool of myself at the sight of you.” He huffs as if offended, “Gods above, the sight of you…” his fingers dig into Xenk’s skin, the first sign of real heat in their encounter, “At the fencing salon, when you removed your mask, flushed and sweating from the fight, having fought with such terrifying precision. I found myself wanting you terribly.”

"In faith I thought I had angered you." He admits. 

"I would not have disabused you of the notion. There was I, furiously impassioned, burnt with feelings I could not allow myself to fully comprehend, even I believed I hated you. Every time I saw you afterwards, I could not help but feel that same want once more. It is why I so shamefully avoided you." 

"You could have had me any moment you wished," Xenk murmurs. Gods above, he doesn’t have the strength to resist Edgin’s hands upon his body or the heat in his gaze. He lets his lips find Edgin’s pulse point, feels his fluttering heartbeat against his tongue, teeth gently grazing his skin. 

Edgin shudders against him, hand moving downward, fingertips grazing at the waist of his trousers, dipping down just below the fabric before halting. "I know you have explained to me your preferences, but I feel I must ask before I move further; have you ever acted upon them?"

Xenk nods, "Not for many years now, but I am familiar with the practice." The courage of a youth not yet five-and-twenty; stolen kisses amongst the warm, dry hay of the stables; discrete hot springs in Neverwinter where admiration is not only accepted but encouraged. Edgin appears relieved when he confirms this, so Xenk feels it is pertinent to ask in turn, "And yourself? You have expressed your wanting, yes, but is this a unique circumstance or a pattern of behaviour?" 

Edgin's fingers hook over the waist of the trouser. "Before Zia, when I was sent to college, there were… opportunities. To some boys it was merely a means to an end, but I cannot profess that it was unimportant to me. But I have not… I have not shared any intimacy since Zia died, with neither women nor men." 

Something slides into place in Xenk’s understanding; how desperate his need to touch is, the way he finds he cannot be content with merely holding and kissing. They are both starving for intimacy having deprived themselves of it for too long. Xenk's eyelids feel heavy, he leans into Edgin and allows himself to give in to his unrestrainable wanting.

"I could re-acquaint you with the concept, should it so please you." 

The hand on Xenk's neck grasps him tightly, and Edgin says something that sounds remarkably like 'Selûne preserve me'. He pulls Xenk in for another kiss, more forceful than the last, licking hungrily into his mouth. Xenk pushes him backwards until he is flush against the trunk of the oak tree, placing one last kiss against Edgin's jaw before folding purposefully to his knees. 

Part of him wishes to undress Edgin slowly, to press his hands and mouth on every inch of his skin, but this is not the place and time for such desires. There will be a time, of that he is certain, but for now they are subsumed by a desperate wanting that needs to be heeded, months’ worth of suppressed desire boiling forth. From his place on his knees he looks up, Edgin’s eyes are shuttered, watching him through dark eyelashes. He places a hand on Xenk’s head, over the tight coils of his hair, thumb brushing the soft spot at his temple lovingly. “Look at you,” he sighs, voice quiet, “How are you so beautiful?” 

Xenk unbuttons his trousers with remarkably calm fingers for how overwhelming his desire is. Edgin tilts his hips upwards, stretching like a cat to help Xenk in his task of easing down his clothing. He cannot breathe for the force of lust as he takes in the sight of Edgin’s body exposed to him, the hard length that springs free from beneath his underwear, red and dripping already. Xenk places a hand on his thigh not to brace himself but rather for the sake of being close to him as he takes hold of Edgin with his other hand and leans in to taste the bead of clear fluid gathering at the tip.

He devotes himself to the task with a singular focus that is nothing less than a communion; he immerses himself in the sensuality of the act, of the cool earth beneath him and Edgin’s hand on his head, the weight of him as he takes him in hand, the soft velvet of the intimate skin as he places his lips upon it. It is a heady feeling, one he savours in much the same way as he does the taste of Edgin when he takes him into his mouth, jaw satisfyingly stretched to accommodate, lost in the gratification of desire that he had long since forgotten that he was able to want.

The touch of Edgin’s hand on his head spurs him on – he is not pulling but simply petting, holding as if he needs grounding, his quiet gasps and whispered words of praise stoking the fire in Xenk’s stomach like tinder thrown upon a hearth. Xenk is consumed with passion, the desire to hear more of those praises, to make Edgin’s quiet gasps that little louder. “Xenk, Xenk ,” Edgin says his name as if it’s a prayer, like he is something worthy of worship. It is enough to make him want to give Edgin everything he has to offer, drives him to take him as close to the root as he can, until his throat twitches with the effort of not gagging around him.

The moment Xenk looks up at Edgin coincides with his climax, although whether these two are linked by coincidence or causation he does not know. Edgin's face is rapturous, head tilted up, eyes rolled to the whites, chest shuddering as he cries out his pleasure. Xenk's mouth is heat and salt and satisfaction as Edgin pulses against his tongue and throat. His mouth and face is slick and swollen, a picture of obscenity of the highest order but Xenk cannot bring himself to feel shame, or anything besides bone-deep satisfaction. To want and find yourself wanted in return is an intoxicant like no other.

Edgin falls to his knees in front of him, takes his face between both hands and kisses him hungrily, tasting himself out of Xenk's mouth. "You could ruin me," he mutters against Xenk's skin, "I think I would let you." He pulls open the collar of Xenk's shirt, sucks into the hollow above his collarbone and Xenk gasps at the feeling, at the pricks of pain amongst the pleasure of his mouth and at the sheer possessiveness of the act. Edgin pushes Xenk backwards gently so he's lying in the grass, then seats himself upon his hips. 

Xenk is no fool, he knows that he is considered handsome by many standards, though he tends not to concern himself with thoughts of his looks on a day-to-day basis. To him, being an object of desire is at worst unpleasant and crowding; society ladies crowding his space, fluttering eyelashes and subtle language he cannot decipher, and at best it is a boon, where he knows he can make certain situations easier for himself if he is to smile in a particular way, or – when he frequented them – catch the attention of another gentleman at the bathhouse. The way Edgin looks at him, however, is magnitudes more wonderful than any experience of being desired he has had before. Edgin looks at him intently as his hands roam over Xenk's chest, undoing his shirt and pushing it open to touch the skin, greedy, explorative movements along the lines of his body. 

Edgin lingers only briefly on exploring his body before he is pushing down Xenk’s trousers and taking him in hand, eyes lidded, the blue of his irises still spellbinding despite how small the rim of them are with his pupils blown out from lust. His skin is rough; the pads of his fingers calloused from playing music, the joints of his right hand where once he gripped the pommel of a sword, but his touch is gentle, wringing the pleasure from his body.

Xenk falls apart underneath him, hands grasping against the cool grass beneath him to keep him centred while Edgin’s wrist flicks and plays him like an instrument, all the while whispering to him with the silver tongue that drew Xenk to him in the first place. Edgin is caging him in, leaning over him in a manner which is nothing short of possessive while he watches Xenk’s face intently. Xenk cannot hold onto his decorum knowing that Edgin is so hungry to watch him fall apart and so he does not, mouth going slack as he stares back up at Edgin with unfocused eyes, the unrestrained satisfaction in Edgin’s face stoking the fire in his belly almost as much as the hand upon him. 

“Look at you,” Edgin breathes in wonder, “What a privilege it is to see you like this, to know that it is by my hand. Your face, that look, what a wonder to know that it is mine.” His tongue has that same silvered edge that initially attracted Xenk so much, the force of his way with words entirely focused on causing Xenk to unravel, and so unravel he does, white spots in front of his eyes as he is wracked with pleasure.

Edgin does not stop until he is completely done, no longer twitching with the aftershocks, then he leans back on his heels above Xenk and licks his fingers clean from where Xenk spilled over him. 

Xenk, exhausted, merely watches with a deep sense of affection. “Gods, how did I get so fortunate as to have my affections returned by you?” He says besotted, reaching up to pull Edgin down atop him and embracing him. 

Edgin laughs warmly, burying his face into the crook of Xenk’s neck, “I did nothing but have a pair of functioning eyes and people around me who were more easily able to see the good in you than I was and were stubborn enough to force me to see it too.”

“I must send Miss Darvis and Miss Kilgore a thank you note some day.”

Edgin groans dramatically, rolling away to lie in the grass beside him, tangling their fingers together, “I implore you not to. Holga will be most insufferable if she learns that you desired me after I spent many long months complaining to her about your beauty.”

Xenk laughs and squeezes his hand, “Very well, I shall keep my gratitude private,” he says warmly, “For you only.” 

They lie in the mid-afternoon sun, basking in post-coital bliss for some time until Edgin remembers the picnic they brought – and the blanket he had folded in the top of the basket for them to lie upon. He laughs good naturedly as he brushes the grass stains from his clothes and Xenk cannot help but laugh along with him. Picking a strand of grass from Edgin’s hair, Xenk feels blissfully content in a way that he cannot recall having felt before in his life, as if all burdens have been lifted from his shoulders.

Chapter Text

When night falls, Edgin and Xenk fall into the routine they have cultivated these past few weeks, parting at the upstairs entryway to their own rooms. Xenk goes through his routine without much conscious thought; washes his face and wraps his hair, he changes into his sleep clothes. He folds his day clothes neatly and places them on the shelf in the corner of the room to ensure that they do not crease, but not before inspecting each piece for unsightly stains that would require laundering. 

He cannot help the blush on his face when his fingers brush over the grass stains upon the knees of his trousers, vibrant green obvious against the caramel buckskin, still fresh enough that he can smell the sunshine and earth upon them. It is far too obvious not to launder, but he cannot help but feel some regret at the prospect of losing the memento of such a significant afternoon. In a fit of sentimentality, he folds them and places them in his travel trunk, to wash only once the smell of summer is no longer present in the leather. 

Then, though there are no more tasks to keep him from sleep, he finds himself hovering, staring at the large, comfortable bed, the one that has served him perfectly well for the past weeks. He finds it wanting, his mind set on a foolish notion. The nascent connection between him and Edgin is still tentative and while they have spoken of feelings they have not yet discussed any practicalities – Xenk does not even know if Edgin would want him in his bed. Such intimacies could be an overstep, he reminds himself; affection and desire do not preclude an interest in romance. 

And yet all the same, Xenk finds himself pulling his banyan on overtop his bedclothes and collecting the candle from his bedside, making his way into the dark hallway of the Darvis house. He does not yet know how he will proceed; he knows Edgin’s bedroom is in the western wing of the home, but he does not know which, having never allowed himself to linger upon Edgin’s retreating form after they have bid one another goodnight.

He has no need to search, however, as before he has even reached the grand staircase he sees the yellow of an oil lamp, highlighting a portion of Edgin's face across the hall. The man huffs in seemingly faux indignance, “It seems as if our thoughts may have aligned. You have ruined my endeavour to sneak into your room in the dead of night and ravage you senseless.”

Xenk responds with a wry smirk, any anxiety at the prospect of seeing Edgin in the dark of night suddenly melted away, “Then it is fortuitous that I have caught you, else my honour would be in shreds on the floor alongside my bedclothes.” It is remarkable how easy it is to speak to him when Xenk is not constantly feeling the threat of saying something foolish which could expose him. Edgin has already heard the most damning thing he could admit, his affection, and it did not turn him away, so there is nothing Xenk could potentially say which would strike such fear into him. 

Edgin takes a step closer, eyes dark in the firelight, “Where was such honour as this when you knelt before me not yet ten hours ago?” He asks teasingly. 

Xenk’s face warms, something he hopes isn’t visible in the dim light, “A prayer, no more.” He replies coolly, privately delighting in this teasing game between them.

“One quite unlike any other prayer I have seen before.” Edgin drawls in response. 

They are drifting closer as they speak, until there is barely a few steps between them. "Perhaps another demonstration is in order." 

Edgin responds with a heated look, then he cools, placing his lamp down on a nearby console. He steps closer to Xenk before raising his index finger and thumb to his mouth, licking them with a languid, obscene motion, and bringing them around the flame of the candle which extinguishes with a soft hiss and trail of smoke. Satisfied, he grasps at Xenk’s dressing gown with both hands, pulling him in for a searing kiss. The still-smouldering candle falls from Xenk’s grasp in his hurry to grope at Edgin in return, candlestick hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Edgin takes his hand and pulls him, “My room.” he requests, “Come.” Xenk kisses him again before letting Edgin lead him, blindly stumbling as they attempt to maintain as much contact as possible, back to his room. It is dark, but Edgin opens the curtains and they are bathed in silver moonlight as if blessed by Selûne herself. 

By this light Xenk is at last able to undress Edgin at his leisure, run his hands over every new piece of skin revealed, hands on his face, hooking his thumb behind his ear to caress, down to the nape of his neck, throat and collar, each of his arms and the rough fingers that had played him so beautifully earlier. 

Their touches are languid and gentle. There is no tinderbox of repressed desire setting them alight, this time they are smouldering in their passion, unhurried and savouring. Neither are rushing towards climax, instead, the moment that Edgin finally lowers himself onto Xenk with a soft sigh feels more like an inevitability, as predestined as the swallowing of the shore by the tide or the waxing of the moon. Edgin's pale skin is nearly luminescent in the moonlight, casting artful shadows across his front that set the contours of his body into contrast while his spine is arched in pleasure, head tilted back and eyes shuttered. 

Edgin is slow, rocking Xenk deep inside him, his hands braced against his ankles. Xenk tilts his hips to meet him in this roiling, heady communion, but otherwise lets Edgin set the pace, content to watch and to touch; feel the tension in his thighs, the jut of his hips, the hard, hot length of him that juts out between them. He recalls Edgin's whispered invocation to the Lady of the Moon earlier that day, and for this moment Xenk believes he could very well be an aspect of the Goddess herself, set against moonlight above Xenk while seated deep in the very heart of him. 

His climax is slow and drawn out, starting warm through his extremities and burning hotter and hotter as it travels to his very core, Edgin's name on his lips as he marks Edgin from the inside. Edgin whimpers, a sound as surprising coming from his mouth as it is attractive, "Stay," he begs, "Don't move yet, I want to be able to feel you through it." 

Xenk strokes him, hand gentle but firm, "I am here, love," he promises, "I could not leave you of my own will, you would have to bid it of me." 

"Never," the words spill from his lips, desperate and vulnerable "I could not, would not- '' his words are choked off as he reaches the peak, coming in hot stripes against Xenk’s stomach. 

Despite the mess they have caused, Xenk does not feel inclined to move just yet, although fortunately neither does Edgin, judging by the way he collapses into Xenk’s side, gasping for breath. They lie there contentedly for a good long while, despite the evidence of sex cooling on their skin, until Xenk realises he’s starting to drift to sleep and forces himself to move, albeit regretfully, to the hand basin. 

“You’re too sensible,” Edgin grouses without spirit behind it, allowing Xenk to clean him with a damp cloth, “makes me look bad in comparison.” 

“Hush,” Xenk tells him fondly, “do not speak so ill of someone I hold in such high regard.” Edgin responds with a derisive snort which is more fond than anything else.

He circles Xenk’s wrist with a hand, pulling at him lightly, “Stay?” he asks, “The house is empty until the morning.”  

Xenk is honestly nearly tempted, but he frightens himself with how much, considering the danger of the action and declines with a soft shake of the head. “I cannot. Last time I took such a risk I…” He winces, “I’m glad that it was Alexander who found me and no other.” 

Edgin looks disappointed but nods, “If it is a matter of your ability to sleep restfully then I shall not bind you to my bed against your will.”

“I will come back tomorrow night, if you will have me,” he promises. 

Edgin reaches up and kisses him, “For as long as you will have me.”

After that Xenk returns to his own room and falls asleep on cold sheets, thinking of the warmth of Edgin’s body wrapped around his own. 

– – – – – – – –

This conviction, naturally, lasts all of five days. 

It’s as simple as falling asleep quite by accident in Edgin’s bed after he’s crept in for the evening and waking up with the sun on their faces no worse off for the experience. After that he barely even pays lip service to the fiction of retiring to his own room, eventually he even stops messing his bed covers up for the night to make them appear slept in, having come to the conclusion that they have reached a point where either Mrs Agnes knows that they are sleeping together and has yet to confront them on their actions, or has missed so many indications that she will never figure it out. 

Xenk is not accustomed to sleeping alongside a lover – he has not shared a bed at all since he was a child, in fact. He finds it to be a welcome addition to his life; the weight of Edgin’s body resting against his chest, the ways that their bodies slot together, points of skin on skin contact as they embrace for the mere sake of touching. It is enough to make Xenk experience a sort of mourning for all the nights he has spent alone. 

He had long since accepted that he would not have the opportunity to experience the same simple pleasures as his peers who are not so particular in their affections, but this taste of domesticity unearths a long-buried want from deep within his heart. He compensates by holding Edgin in a tight embrace as they sleep, while Edgin’s hands press into his back with a similar urgency, face buried in his neck, as if they can make up for lost time by supplementing it with intensity. 

On a day to day level nothing really seems to change between them. They still breakfast together, still take walks and spend their evenings in conversation. Except now, when Edgin plays the harp-lute, Xenk does not have to hide his admiration. Even if, when Edgin does open his eyes after the piece is done, he sees the besotted look on Xenk's face and blushes, nudging him none too gently and telling him that his face will be stuck like that if he isn't careful. Xenk still goes to Bryn Shander every tenth day and Edgin still accompanies him, but they sit besides one another in the carriage. Instead of allowing Edgin to sleep, he now prefers to occupy him with kisses and gentle caresses and in turn allows Edgin, with wicked hands and an even wickeder mouth to tempt him into some kind of debauchery.

In fact, how little their relationship seems to change is perhaps testament to how poorly they had defended themselves against their growing closeness. With the benefit of hindsight, it appears their affections had seemingly only remained hidden from one another by mutual panic at the prospect of rejection. What fools they have been – how fortunate that they have been isolated from polite society for this time, else there would surely have been scandal before they had even managed to confess their mutual regard.

Eleasis is a heady month of indulgence, the world narrowed down to just the pair of them, the remoteness of Edgin's home allowing them to be brazen with their affections. Nobody is likely to come across them in the expanse of the grounds, and the only other full time occupant of the house is the housekeeper, who mostly kept out of their way even before their relationship took such a change. 

Xenk does not know if he has ever felt so relaxed in his life as he has the past few tendays at the Darvis home – once a child escaping from a dictatorship, then a youth constantly marked out as other by his peers for a combination of the marks he beas and his less-than-perfect grip on common, his strange, unsocial demeanour, and a man, overwhelmed by the society he had been forced to enter, one obsessed with a form of affection that is alien to him, where he cannot mould himself into the shape that would be required for him to assimilate. Never before can he recall existing in a place where he hasn't had to restrain some aspect of himself, press down one of the myriad of things which makes him different. It is utterly freeing.

Xenk is well aware that their peace cannot last, he is almost too aware of it at times, to the point where he fears that the knowledge might choke him, weighed on his chest. Edgin feels it too, he suspects, though they speak not of what might happen once they are required to face their wider responsibilities once more. Still, there are moments when the romantic haze seems to slip, reality bleeding in at the edges – when they notice the night drawing in sooner, or the wind whips cold around them, reminding them that time is moving inexorably on. In such moments their touches get rougher, more desperate, as if hoping that gripping tight enough might stop them from slipping apart. 

On the first of Eleint, they take advantage of one of the last truly warm days that the Icewind Dale has left to give in order to go swimming. They lay out a blanket on the bank of the lake, with the sun warm upon them and birdsong bright in the air, from summer swallows not yet ready to fly south to warmer climes, assuring them that they still have time, that summer is not over just yet.

"It was Alexander who taught me how to swim." Xenk says apropos of nothing, merely because he wishes to talk about his brother. "When Father brought me to his home in the Evermoors, I spoke very little Common and I was so terrified of being sent back to Thay that I was afraid of nearly everything. But despite the barriers, and despite the fact that I was a stranger whom he would have to share his home with, he did not act cruelly towards me. Instead, he insisted on showing me his favourite swimming spots and teaching me to swim – mostly through gestures." 

Edgin stops to listen to him, his face desperately soft, "You miss him a great deal, don't you?" 

Hearing someone else say the words to him is relieving, as if releasing pressure from an infected wound. He sighs, long and melancholic, "Very much. We are not related by blood but I consider him my brother in every other sense." 

"I understand the sentiment keenly. Holga did not know me when she hoisted me out of the bottom of a bottle after Zia's death, but she saved both myself and Kira when she did. I consider her akin to a sister and she is the only mother Kira has ever known." 

"I'm glad you have her." He replies earnestly.

"Me too. I'm glad you have your brother as well," then, frowning at the face Xenk makes, he adds, "Or had?" 

"We argued last time we spoke. I presume you are aware that Father did not approve of his taking a common woman for a wife – it is hardly a secret. I did not disapprove personally, but we disagreed on how to handle the situation. I have not seen him since.” 

"That sounds painful.” Edgin says sympathetically, “I’m sorry.” 

Xenk gives him a small smile, “Perhaps we can turn to more cheerful things?” He suggests gently. 

Edgin nods. “Shall we get on to the business of bathing then?” He says with a lilting smile, “I hear open water swimming is all the rage down in Daggerford – they claim that freshwater is good for the constitution.” He divests himself of his jacket, letting it fall haphazardly upon the ground. 

"Well, far be it from me to dispute the claims of our learned friends in Daggerford. If they suggest they have discovered some new benefit in the passtime our forefathers have taken part in for generations, who am I to argue?" He deadpans in the tone he knows will elicit a laugh from Edgin. He unbuttons his coat and folds it neatly besides Edgin's. 

"I do admit, I found our last encounter with the lake to be, if anything, quite detrimental to my constitution." He jokes, "I should hope that this time will be at least a modicum less tense and, hopefully, involve less fleeing." 

“Ah, yes, well, I was so enamoured with the idea of you emerging from the lake that I was terrified by it. I was so ashamed by my response that I could not bear to look at you.” Xenk admits shyly, stripping down to his smallclothes. 

Edgin laughs, “You were so overcome with lust you threw me into the lake?” He undresses easily; he does everything easily, it seems, with a casual confidence to his movements.

Xenk’s nose wrinkles in admonishment, “I did not nearly drown us both for the sake of lust.” he argues, then admits, “I was merely… distracted by it.” 

The water is still frigid cold when they wade in, enough to make them both yelp in surprise, but Edgin throws himself underneath the surface and re-emerges grinning brightly, hair stuck to his face. “It’s much better if you just get it over with, trust me.” Xenk gives him a wary look, but then Edgin is upon him, pulling him down so he’s submerged with a quick splash. He emerges gasping for breath against the ice water, frowning at an utterly unrepentant Edgin. 

“See?” Edgin says, “Much better.” Xenk retaliates by licking rivulets of water from his face, curling a hand around his neck and kissing him. 

Edgin grins, “One way to warm up.” He mutters, bringing Xenk in for another kiss. 

They are immediately distracted from the notion of bathing, cold water evaporating off their skin as they fall back onto the sun-warmed bank, locked in an embrace. Edgin devotes himself to Xenk, holds him down and presses affection into all the parts he can touch, places him on his stomach and licks him open until Xenk is overcome, reduced to raw, unrestrained sensation, writhing and begging. It is one of those times where the need to be close to one another becomes almost pathological, Edgin's hands are possessive as they grasp and take, Xenk is pushing up against him, needing, demanding more, closer, deeper, frantic to have as much as he can before the time slips away. 

When it is done and they are both spent, collapsed in a boneless heap, Xenk threads his hands through Edgin's hair, presses his face into the crook of his neck and breathes, as if he can etch the moment into his memory. 

What will happen when summer ends? How will we comport ourselves under the scrutiny of Baldur's Gate? The questions are bitter in his mouth like strychnine, but he swallows them rather than poison Edgin. What can we do to keep this? Besides, there is no need to ask when they both know the answer, both know that there is only one answer. It doesn't bear thinking about, not when they already know. 

He tastes questions between Edgin's lips. How can I fix this? Why isn't there another way? They don't need to ask, because the answers will find them soon enough. Best to just enjoy the moments they have, while summer drip drip drips away like ice left in the sun. 

– – – – – – – –

Lord Xenk Yendar, Duke of Evermoors and company

are cordially invited to celebrate the beginning of the social season

With the Council of Four at High Hall Estate On Highharvestide

– – – – – – – –

The first inkling he has that they have finally reached the tipping point is one morning not even a Tenday later. As customary, they part for the morning while they both deal with any responsibilities they must, but when midday comes around, Edgin does not join him in the dining room for luncheon. 

"I believe Mr Darvis is occupied in his study." Mrs Agnes takes pity on him as he waits, his own plate already clean.

"I shall go fetch him." He says, attempting to ignore the coil of concern in his chest. Edgin had never missed a meal while he's been in residence and on the occasion he has been waylaid he has always made sure to send word to Xenk.

When he enters the study, he finds Edgin staring blankly down at a letter in his hands, desolate. He steps further into the room, worry settling in his chest. "My darling, what troubles you?" He asks, concerned.

Edgin just hands him the letter, greyfaced, and Xenk feels the breath leave his lungs. The first invitation of the season. It's still weeks away, but it's a sickening reminder of the outside world. 

Edgin sharply sucks in a breath, and Xenk knows what's coming before it's said. "Given the circumstances and your sudden change of rank, you could not be blamed for re-evaluating your options for a wife. Neither yourself nor Kira would be at fault for failing to pursue your courtship. But it does mean that you can't be seen in Kira's company, or- or-" 

"Don't say it." He implores. He doesn't think he would be able to handle it. 

"It would ruin her reputation if anyone was to start a rumour that you were going to get engaged this season." Edgin argues, words rushing out in one breath like a speech rehearsed, turned over in his mind hundreds of times, "I cannot allow anyone reason to start such a rumour." 

"I know," he insists, much more forcefully than he intends, "I know, and I understand. So I beg of you, please do not say the words aloud, knowing what pain they would cause me." 

Edgin looks desperate, "It would not be indefinite. Just… until Kira is married. Or you are." 

Xenk already knows that he would not bring himself to break the vow of matrimony, even with the consent of his partner, even if she had her own lovers. Marriage, in his mind, is a vow made not just to a single person but to the pantheon and he would no sooner break a vow to Ilmater than fall upon his own sword. But given what he knows now, even this is complicated by the knowledge of how it feels to love Edgin and be loved in return. He cannot even consider the prospect of marrying someone else when the memory of happiness is still sweet in his mouth. 

"I swore to you that I would never act in a way which might bring her into disrepute." He keeps his voice as measured as he can while feeling as if he is bleeding out, "I would never have done so, even before I had the pleasure of knowing you both."

"I know." Edgin sounds mournful, and in a sickening way he is grateful to know he is not the only one torn asunder, "I always knew, even when I refused to do anything besides loathe you, I could tell you would be everything I wished you weren't, that you would be kind and gentlemanly, as good and kind as the sun is bright. You would never allow harm to come to Kira, nor to me, and yet I have hurt you grievously." He buries his head in his hands, spiralling.

"Stop." Xenk commands as firmly as he can, prying Edgin’s hands away and holding them tightly, "Your choice is the right one. It is a choice I too am making, for it is what we must." 

“It’s not fair.” Edgin whispers, leaning into him, “I have opted for the selfish choice most of my life, why must I find myself doing the right thing now?”

“You are a good man who loves his daughter.” Xenk tells him, “Things that made me fall for you in the first place.” And suddenly Edgin is kissing him, all desperation and sorrow, salt from tears half-shed. He returns it, just as sharp, just as desperate, until there is no air left in his lungs to breathe with. Xenk falls to his knees, frenzied in his need to prove his love. 

If he could do things over, he would not allow himself to say goodbye like this, the knowledge of a kiss that is to be the last. It is bitter and painful, the pleasure is wrung from him like a bloodletting, an attempt to get the poison out, as if desperately pressing their regret and love into each other's skin will exorcise it. A letter is crushed in his fist as he lets himself be laid back over the desk, claws his fingers into Edgin's back, begs him with his body and wordless gasps not to let go, not to stop, because after they part they may never converge again. 

But no moment lasts forever, so with a strangled cry it ends, then there is no more skin, no more contact, just creased clothing, cooling sweat cooling and the sensation of being wrung out. 

It takes long minutes of unpleasant silence before he says, "I will depart this afternoon." And Edgin makes no moves to stop him or argue, he just bobs his head in agreement and looks ill. 

He half expects Edgin to stay away until after he has left, but instead he is waiting by the gates having retrieved Xenk's horse. He helps him to tack up his pack in uncomfortable silence, standing in his space, hands nearly touching as they buckle the straps on the saddle, it is agony. When they are done, Edgin does not step away.

"Anything you could not carry I will send back to Mornbryn’s Shield in the coming days." He says quietly, much more intimately and miserably than the words themselves would warrant. 

"Thank you." He tightens his fist on the reigns, his breath shuddering. He pauses, "You ought to know, I set up a trust in Kira's name," the words rush out of him like a confession, "A very good dowry, should she have need of it or a good living if she does not wish to marry. It is stored in Neverwinter’s Goldcliff bank." 

Edgin looks entirely devastated, "You don't have to-" he says, but Xenk shakes his head. 

"I know. This was before I came to Targos. I was arranging a trust for Alexander's family, as he was written out of the will and I put one in Kira's name at the same time. I care for her, just as I told you." 

"Xenk, please do not make this more difficult than it already is," he begs, "This is not easy for me, you must know this." 

He never wants to cause Edgin pain, his words are not meant to hurt. Once more, painfully, he restrains his desire to reach out to him, to cup his face and run his thumbs along the cheeks, grazing against his stubble. Instead, his hand tightens around the leather strap of the saddle. "I know." He says as gently as he can, "I, too, want what's best for Kira – my absence is what is best at this juncture." 

"I love you." 

It is Xenk's turn to feel as if he is crumbling. "And I, you." 

Always sits at the tip of his tongue, never anyone the same as you . But the words are fruitless, they cannot change anything. Not while they both have their own duties to attend to.

– – – – – – – –

Dear Mrs Childwall, 

Please find this letter as notice that I will be returning to Mornbryn’s Shield until the equinox, whereupon I will be returning to Baldur’s Gate for the season. 

I write this letter from the coach house at Blackford Crossing, where I will remain for one further day in order to allow time for the house to be prepared. Many a time do I recall my father, may Ilmater keep him, returning from a Harper campaign or society event at such short notice and causing a great deal of distress, which I sincerely hope to avoid. 

I apologise for being away so long, rest assured that I will ensure my duties are performed with utmost conviction once I return. 

Xenk Yendar, Duke of the Evermoors.

– – – – – – – –

When Xenk arrives home to the manor at Mornbryn’s Shield he is greeted by a welcome party; a footman instantly takes his bags, another his horse and the senior servants await to welcome him. He finds it instantly claustrophobic to be surrounded by so many people, all waiting upon him, having grown accustomed to the relative peace of the Darvis home. If his distress is obvious, however, fortunately, there is no immediate comment upon it. 

He only knows they have found his sudden return notable after his housekeeper corners him in his study one morning. She places his tea set upon his desk then pauses to hover beside him until he has no choice but to look up from his work, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Yes, Mrs Childwall?” 

"If I may speak freely, sire, not as your employee, but as someone who has known you since you were a boy,” She says carefully.

He lilts his head to the side, feeling a distinct sense of anxiety come upon him, though he still nods, "Always." 

The thought comes to him then, unbidden, that if he were more suited to his duty, he should not allow her such comments as she is undoubtedly intending to make. But he has never been wholly comfortable with the concept that he ought to treat his staff as if they are lesser. If anything he considers himself their kin, certainly more so than the men with whom he is now peered. 

Mrs Childwall sighs, "Not that I don't consider you pleasant company, it's just… I didn't expect to see you return from the north before you had to return to Baldur's Gate."

He looks down at the papers on his desk rather than towards her, "There is work enough for me here. I would not abandon you in such a way." 

"The affairs of the Dukedom have been moving along well enough with the input you have been able to provide. You made sure of this before you left." She lays a hand on his shoulder, and despite all attempts to save face, he still slumps down, "Your mood seemed greatly improved while in the Dales, based on the correspondence we received. But now you have returned just as melancholic as in the throes of grief before you left.” She pauses, debating what to say, or how to say it before carefully continuing, “Now, it is not my place to pry into your private affairs, but… whatever happened up north I am gratified it made you happy." 

“Well, ‘whatever happened’ is now done with. I have my duties to attend to.” He insists with the intent of convincing himself as much as anyone else. 

The hand on his shoulder tightens, not believing his lies. “You are allowed to be happy. It’s what Geoffrey wanted for you.” 

He grimaces, unable to look at her, “Not when it comes at the expense of someone else’s happiness.” First, it was Alexander’s, taking up the mantle of next in line to the dukedom despite his anxieties for the sake of his brother being happy with his new wife, now it is Kira’s. Taking on the suffering of others is both his duty and privilege as an Ilmatari.

She sighs, audibly frustrated, “Very well then, my lord. I shall not pester you further.” The hand on his shoulder withdraws, and his brow furrows with the weight of his guilt. 

He will not burden anyone else with this responsibility. He has offered to carry it, and shall do so for as long as he must. 

Rather than attempt to heal from the heartbreak, he deigns instead to ignore it, by throwing himself into the work required of him as a Duke. Indeed, he goes beyond it, quite alarming his tenants when arrives on their land himself to question them on their health and the state of their land. He learns the names of their children, helps them in the day to day tasks of the farm, feeding their animals, weeding and repairing damaged fence posts. He enquires on the state of their equipment and their homes, organises repairs if they are required at no cost to the tenants. 

The experience is both rewarding and wracks him with such guilt, only now meeting the people whom he has been responsible for months after his ascendance to the title of Duke. He cannot bring himself to regret the time he spent in the Icewind Dales, but neither can he allow himself to repeat such a grave lapse in judgement. He has been duke for a scant few months, yet between the time spent dallying in Targos and his upcoming political and social duties in Baldur's Gate he will be seldom seen in the Evermoors for the first year of his appointment, which is a state most shameful. 

By the time he is leaving for Baldur's Gate he has managed to whip himself into quite the fervour, set in his determination to see out the season properly. He will do what he must, no matter how much he wishes he could do otherwise. 

He has his duty. To the dukedom. To his brother. To Miss Darvis. To his father. However burdensome it may be, he is bound to his honour to continue to carry it. Too many people rely on him for him to break now. 

– – – – – – – –

Dear Mr Yendar, 

My experience in Candlekeep has been an enlightening one, providing me with extremely fascinating insight into the laws of science and its study. I have found the experience entirely invaluable and it has made me entirely determined on the way I will shape my life. This is, I feel, entirely due to your aid over the past season which allowed me to protect myself from advances.

I understand that you have spent part of the summer months in residence at our home in Targos. This pleases me greatly, for I was immensely unhappy that my father took so ill to you when I knew you to be pleasant and far more than the sum of your heritage. What's more, it gratifies me to know that he was not on his own the entire summer, wallowing in his own sorrows. 

I will be travelling directly from Candlekeep to Baldur's Gate in anticipation of the season. I hope I will see you there – as a dear friend whose company has become very important to me and my family. Perhaps I can help you to find a wife you consider suitable?

Yours faithfully, 

Kira Darvis

Chapter Text

Dearest Alexander 

Somehow a year has passed since I first wrote a letter from Baldur's Gate. It feels, somehow, as if it has been an age since then, and yet still as if time has not moved at all. 

While I had hoped that one season would acclimatise me to the ways of society, I feel no less trepidation than I did writing to you last year. Yet again I have put aside a life I have grown attached to in the interest of responsibility and to protect those I hold dear. If you would permit me the dramatics, I feel fear that without a severe change to my behaviour, I shall be doomed to the same once more, to write to you of my distress from the same carriage, heart freshly broken. 

I must devote myself then, to this path. No more can I dedicate myself partway, unwilling to do as I must. I will marry this season, I will not allow my own petty feelings divert me from the path I have been set upon.

With Resolve,

Xenk

At least, he consoles himself, he is more prepared for the onslaught of sensory information that constitutes a society event. It is fortunate that he feels steeled by it this year, as when he is announced he feels the eyes of the collected crowd turn to him with renewed curiosity for the newly appointed Duke of the Evermoors. 

He is not very expressive by nature, which helps him in keeping up the regal, dispassionate air expected of his new title. He is greeted by Duke Adrian of the Council, to whom he bows lowly to. “Duke Yendar, welcome back to Baldur’s Gate. If I may extend my condolences on behalf of the whole Council of Four at the death of Duke Rockingham. He was a good man.”

Months have passed since the funeral and he still does not know how to respond to such things – it is not particularly pleasant to be reminded of the cavern that grief has left in his heart, particularly not when the sentiments being offered seem to him like no more than lip service. Certainly Edgin would know how, with his way with words, he thinks with a jolt of a different sort of grief.  

He offers a reserved smile and inclines his head, “Thank you,” he says, meaninglessly, “it has been difficult but I am adjusting.”

“It is such a pity that you are not yet married, my wife was my pillar after my father’s death.” 

“Such as it is, I have made do with the support of my friends.” He replies mildly, doing his best not to recall how Edgin had handled his grief, had known what he needed more than he did. 

“Do you have your eye on anyone yet? Opinion last year is that you were very warm on the Darvis girl.” 

Therein lies the first test of his duty to Miss Darvis, to navigate such topics without slandering her name, but not implying some remaining interest on his part. “Miss Darvis is a lovely girl, yes, but after such upheaval I need to consider my options anew to ensure the Duchy is appropriately helmed. Although, it is not that I believe that she would be a poor fit for the role, merely that my interests last season were not concerned with such things.”

The duke gives him a knowing nod, “Young men rarely keep sense when it comes to interacting with pretty women, you would not be the first. Still, do not tarry if your interest is genuine, a handsome woman such as Miss Darvis is unlikely to remain unattached for long.”

His hand tightens to a fist in barely concealed irritation at having the young woman he has privately come to think of akin to a daughter spoken about in such vulgar terms. “Should it come to that I shall defer to the lady's preference.” 

This would be the moment, were they still in Targos, that Edgin would have stepped in to deflect the conversation elsewhere with a quick, sharp quip – or perhaps even prior to that, his brother, sensing his discomfort, would have placed a hand on his shoulder and claimed a reason to draw him from the conversation. Instead, alone, he has to make do with the little social acumen he is capable of. 

“Thank you again for the invite, your Grace.” He says a little more abruptly than idea, inclining in a slight bow, “I ought to avail myself of the festivities and leave such talk for later in the season, I think.” 

Fortunately, Duke Adrian seems to take this in good spirits, clapping him amiably on the shoulder, “Quite so,” He says with a tone that suggests he finds some level of amusement in the concept that Xenk cannot grasp, “Ought to take the revelry while you can, my boy.”

A moment later he is approached by Duke Ravegard's son, who greets him jovially, “Mr Yendar, good to see you. I trust we will see you at the salon in the coming weeks.” 

“I hope so,” he replies, strongly suspecting he will need the stress relief, “Are you well?” 

“Quite, thank you. Now, I will admit I have not approached you without an agenda. I have been entreated to introduce you to my cousin,” he motions across the room to a tall woman with dark red hair, “I think you would get on quite well.” 

He gives in to the inevitable, “By all means, lead the way,” he says, and the process begins over again.

The timing of the Darvises’ inevitable entrance is unfortunate, he has just finished conversing and his partner has been engaged elsewhere, so he has no distraction as they are announced. His heart skips, unable to help but glance over to Edgin, looking particularly fine in his favourite blue velvet jacket, which, Xenk notices, has been retailored to fit the latest silhouette of the day, accentuating his slim waist very finely. 

Their eyes meet just fleetingly, and Xenk nearly forgets all the resolve he has built over the past Tendays, but as Miss Darvis moves to wave at him familiarly Edgin puts a hand on her shoulder to keep her back and he is brought back to himself. Reminded of the need for distance he bites back his feelings and offers Edgin a polite, perfunctory nod, only lingering long enough to see it returned before he forces himself to draw back his gaze away once more. 

Fortunately it is not difficult for a Duke to find someone interested in a conversation, and almost immediately he is pulled into another version of the exchange he’s repeated all evening, where his conversation partner offers their condolences for Duke Rockingham’s death and he politely thanks them for their sympathies. 

Internally, however, he is shaken. He knew, intellectually, that he would have to see Edgin again. He had not anticipated how affected he would be once he laid eyes on him once more. He experiences a sudden spike of anxiety, unsure if he is capable of keeping his feelings well enough hidden after allowing himself the space to love so easily.

Nonetheless, he must persevere. 

Fortunately, not long after this point the first round of dances commence and Xenk finds himself mostly occupied, as per his expectations and experience from the season past. Ideally, the need to focus on a dance partner would help him to put Edgin out of his mind, but instead he finds he has to devote a concerted amount of effort to not noticing him. This, counterproductively, means that  the extent of his thoughts which are taken up by him increases dramatically. He overcompensates by becoming single-minded in his goal of finding a wife.

"What do you wish from a marriage?" He asks his dance partner.

The girl looks up at him with large doe-eyes, "Mr Yendar, such questions are usually asked with more tact." Her name is Elena Moonrise, second daughter of a prominent Waterdeep family. Her sister was married only a year prior making her the eldest of the debutantes at 20, if still nearly young enough to be his daughter.

"I am not a man of much tact, my lady." He spins her away in the steps of the dance, then continues when they are back face to face, "It is best that any potential partner know this as it is not likely to change after marriage." 

She looks at him quite nonplussed, "That is… logical, I suppose, sir," she says slowly, "I suppose I wish for the same as most women – someone kind, someone who could look after me." 

"What of love?" He asks. 

Her expression shifts from mild confusion to something quite close to alarm, "W-well, I suppose I do not expect it, but I would find it preferable?" 

"I see." He says flatly, doubt building as he realises that he does not know what answer he wants to hear.

The song ends and she looks visibly relieved as she curtseys to him, before fleeing off to a group of other young ladies, who look over at him while they whisper in a way that he assumes they believe is subtle. It is of no matter to him if they gossip – let them talk, it is better to be spoken of for true actions than baseless rumours, or so he tells himself. And it is certainly better than the gossip that would occur should anyone discover the nature of his companionship with Edgin over the summer. 

“Well,” huffs a familiar voice behind him, sounding distinctly amused, “It's almost as if you are frightening them away on purpose.”

He whips around to see Sumon Aumar smiling genially. “Mr Aumar,” he returns warmly, grasping his shoulder, “how is married life treating you?”

He reacts with a wide grin, "It has been wonderful. We spent the summer at my family's summer home in Cormyr, it was wonderfully peaceful." 

"I am gratified to hear that. I am deeply sorry that I missed your wedding." 

"Oh, no, no, do not apologise. My deepest condolences." It sounds different coming from the mouth of someone he considers a friend and he feels soothed by it after so many empty platitudes. 

"Thank you. I was able to reach home just in time to ease his passing from this world, for which I am most grateful." 

"Then I am even happier to hear that you left when you did.” He gives Xenk a bright smile, then tilts his head, “You know, when Edgin told me of what you'd spoken of that morning, I thought he would have been upon your heels to follow by the way he acted. As it stands he barely made it to the end of the ceremony before he disappeared. It caused quite the stir." 

"Mr Darvis merely attended the funeral in his office as a former Harper." Xenk replies as blandly as possible, trying to rid his mind of the image of the softness in Edgin's face as he explained that he came to support Xenk, no matter the discomfort it might cause him.

“If that's what he told you, he was most certainly lying. Ed has always despised the Harpers, vocally so.” Mr Aumar glanced away, and Xenk fought the urge to follow his gaze, knowing he was undoubtedly looking towards Edgin, “But I do know he will sacrifice most anything for those who he is close to.” 

Xenk swallows around the lump forming in his throat. “Indeed, I am aware of the depth of his loyalty.” 

“Good, I would hate for his affections to be squandered on someone who doesn't know how rare his friendship is. He does not make friends easily, you know, it's really just Holga, myself and, unfortunately, Mr Fitzwilliam. He may pretend otherwise, but trust when I say he is quite fond of you.” 

Xenk feels his heart drop in his chest. “I am quite partial to him myself,” he admits. 

It is quite suddenly all too much, his ability to manage the crowds and conversation sapped. 

Mr Aumar notices this, the way his face pales and crumbles, “Are you quite well?” He asks, frowning with concern. 

He ought to push through, allay Mr Aumar's concerns, but he simply cannot bring himself to. He grips Mr Aumar's arm, weary, “My apologies, I seem to be taking a turn. It has been a long day.” 

“You need not stay if you are ailing, grief can be quite difficult on the body, you know. If you wish I shall make your apologies on your behalf.” 

He manages a small nod of his head, “That is most kind Mr Aumar. You and your wife should call on me this week, whenever you are free.” 

Mr Aumar clasps his hand briefly, “We will do so at our earliest convenience.” 

– – – – – – – –

Dear Mr Yendar, 

I hear you were taken unwell during the opening ball at High Hall and I regret that as a result we were unable to organise a dance. 

When you are feeling well will you call upon us?

Kind regards,

Kira Darvis

– – – – – – – –

Miss Darvis, 

Thank you for your missive. Fortunately, my ailment seems to have been only brief and I am much more hale today. 

Unfortunately I have too many engagements to call upon the Darvis household in the coming days. I hope that you find yourself busy enough that you will not notice my absence.

Regards,

Xenk Yendar, Duke of the Evermoors.

– – – – – – – –

Xenk spends the first tenday of the season doggedly avoiding the Darvises, which is on one hand made easier by Mr Darvis, who is similarly keeping away from him and on the other made more challenging by Miss Darvis, whose determination to keep his companionship is much more difficult to evade, particularly if he wants to avoid openly spurning her. He feels unaccountably guilty that she is caught in this, that he has to reject the friendship she so kindly offered him, after professing that she found it satisfying to talk to someone who was genuinely interested when she spoke but did not have ulterior motives. 

As it stands, he is certain that a rumour is spreading of some rift between himself and Mr Darvis, considering the difference between their closeness at the end of the last season to their ignorance of each other this year. However, as they had hoped, it seems that for the most part the society within Baldur’s Gate attributed it to a reaction to the death of his father rather than any real disagreement between the pair or any stain on the Darvis name. Nobody, it seems, suspects that they were intimately connected and no unpleasantness has yet fallen upon Miss Darvis as a result of his actions. All he must do to maintain this is to stay away from Edgin and to resist the longing whose hold has yet to weaken despite the time spent apart. 

Though it is foolish in hindsight, Xenk had not anticipated that he might encounter Edgin at the fencing salon. After all they had not been at the salon at the same time after their first disastrous meeting there, where Edgin had quite abruptly walked out. What Xenk had failed to remember, however, stretched thin as he was after a trying start to the season, was that this had only been possible due to his own careful planning.

When he is invited to the salon again, he does not consider that he ought to check if anyone else had been invited to the same outing. Thus he is entirely blindsided only moments after having entered the hall when the match playing out on the piste finishes and in a twist eerily similar to one of their earlier meetings the year prior, Edgin appears beneath the mask, smile sharp and eyes bright with adrenaline as he shakes his opponent's hand. 

That is the moment that the maestro claps Xenk on the back, "Mr Yendar, it is good to see you back. Hopefully we can find some fresh blood for you, after you trounced all of my star pupils last year." 

Xenk has yet to take his eyes off Edgin, manages to nod, Edgin hasn't quite noticed him yet, talking to his opponent and pronating his wrist as he demonstrates a move of some kind. 

The maestro notices his gaze, "You and Mr Darvis are acquainted, are you not?" 

There is no use in denying it, not when their friendship had been so prominent last season, "We were," he confirms, "For a time." 

"Well whatever disagreement is between you, do not concern yourself with it here, we ought not to let the petty squabbles of the bon ton get in the way of sport. Have you and Edgin ever sparred?"

Xenk's heart beats so fast that he thinks it might give him away, "No, our paths have not crossed here."

"Then you are in for a good match. Mr Darvis has military training, so he's proficient with rapiers as weapons, not just for sparring. He's a bit of a blunt instrument, but that's not a bad thing for an epéeist." Xenk is rooted to the spot like a deer caught in the path of a wolf as the maestro calls out, "Ed, why don't you stay on?" 

That is the moment their eyes meet, and he watches Edgin's widen in surprise, almost reeling back before steadying himself. The mask is put back on quickly, for which Xenk cannot blame him, fortunate for his own natural lack of expression. "Why not?" Edgin says with a casual tone that Xenk immediately knows is fake, "Try not to thrash me too terribly." 

To refuse at this juncture would be more noteworthy, so he just nods, pulls his duelling glove on and steps up to the piste.

The wirework of the mask obscures, but is not so fine that Edgin is hidden entirely when Xenk faces him head on. He catches shadow-darkened glimpses of the panic in his eyes which is not reflected in the way he holds himself with casual ease, saluting Xenk with a sharp flick of his sword. 

"Now, don't hold back on my account," he says softly, finding his mark. 

Edgin's face lightens at this and he snorts, " Please , I will have to give it my all not to end up trounced within a minute." 

"I highly doubt that. How shall we score this then? To twenty?” He suggests, surprising himself – first to twenty will make this a long match and he knows he should not be dragging this out. 

The maestro steps up to referee, and makes it so Xenk's error cannot be corrected. "Sounds excellent. Gentlemen, en garde ." 

Epée is a brutal weapon, at least in contrast to Xenk's preference for foil. First contact is a point, anywhere is a target, it suits Edgin the way foil's restrictive rules of engagement suit Xenk. Xenk is a creature of habit; he appels , taps his foot, beats Edgin's sword even though there are no rules of right of way, nothing else matters but first hit. Edgin, meanwhile, is wild, he strikes out aggressively at Xenk, doesn’t go for the easy hit but the impressive one - catches the tip of Xenk’s foot when he lunges, flicks his sword around Xenk’s guard and onto his wrist. Between them both, Xenk is clearly the more technically capable dueller but Edgin is the smarter one. He takes advantage of Xenk’s lack of familiarity with the weapon and his strict adherence to the rules of engagement to stay toe to toe with him, baiting him out with clever little tricks.

Eventually Xenk scrapes a victory, barely parrying as Edgin rushes towards and then past him in a fleche – how very Edgin, finishing the match with such a dramatic and technically difficult move. Xenk swings his sword around behind him and barely touches the back of Edgin's shoulder as they cross. 

Edgin slows to a stop, stooped to catch his breath, “Touché,” he confirms and the crowd claps as Xenk is declared the winner. 

Xenk is gasping for breath as he pulls his mask off, grinning as the endorphins rush through him. But then he makes the mistake of turning to look at Edgin – his face is flushed, chest heaving for air, damp with perspiration. Xenk’s mouth goes dry, his vision blurs at the edges as his pupils dilate, associating his state with another, more intimate exercise that they had become immensely familiar with over the summer. 

He knows he is not the only one, because Edgin looks at him with barely disguised hunger. ‘I found myself wanting you terribly ’ Edgin once said about the first time they encountered one other in the salon. He feels wanted, certainly, he aches with the sensation of it. 

And he still has to shake Edgin’s hand. 

He steps forward, off-hand outstretched for Edgin to take, a firm grasp of skin on skin which lasts for a fraction too long, grips a little too tightly. It takes all of his willpower not to keep hold and pull him in, press them body to body. Instead, he lets Edgin’s hand slip out of his. 

“Mr Darvis, a word?” His mouth says, quite without his consent. 

“Certainly, Mr Yendar.” Edgin says, still panting delightfully, lips wet from the touch of his clever tongue, “The changing room? I ought to head out soon in any case.” 

Xenk just finds himself nodding, limbs moved by baser instincts. He is overheating, he is desperate to be touched and to touch. He wants those clever hands, the ones that were so dexterous as they duelled. He wants to see him gasp for breath again, to lick the fresh sweat from his neck. As the door clicks shut behind them, he isn't sure who moves first. All he knows is that he's surging forward, throwing himself at Edgin, and is almost knocked back by Edgin colliding with him face first. His mouth is familiar, lips rough and warm, tasting sweet as Xenk licks into his mouth. As kisses go it is consuming and desperate, teeth knocking against one another, punctuated by short, quick gasps for air as neither wishes to part. His one hand fists into Edgin's hair, pulling taut so that the long line of his throat is exposed while the other wraps possessively around Edgin's upper arm, over the spot he scored his last hit, and Edgin whines low in his throat.

His hands are pulling at the fastenings of Xenk's jacket, then his breeches, then shoved down his underclothes with such sense of purpose that Xenk chokes out a gasp, hips stuttering up into Edgin's touch. How he has missed Edgin's hands, has privately recalled the feel of them; the rough callouses on the tips of his fingers from music, the soft warm palms which he uses masterfully, knows just how to touch him, just when to twist to have him shaking with want. 

“Gods above you were magnificent,” Xenk says, words spilling from his mouth, more than a month's worth of irrepressible devotion released in one fell swoop. “As deft and clever as I knew you would be, you moved with such grace and clarity of purpose, I am alight, love- ah… ” 

He is cut off as Edgin pushes him backwards against the wall, pinning his hips in place as he drops to his knees, “I have to taste you,” he whispers in a rushed, desperate tone, “Need to have you inside of me, somehow, please,” he sucks Xenk straight in to the root and he cries out. There are many words he wishes to say, more sentiments at the tip of his tongue but he is incapable of anything but threading a hand through Edgin's hair and whispering, ‘love, oh, love,’ in an incoherent litany. 

The sound of laughter suddenly tears through the quiet room as the door to the changing room is pulled open. They both freeze, Edgin's mouth still stretched around him, looking up at him with wide, panicked eyes. The quiet chatter and smatterings of bright of the pair of men who have entered the changing room continues, and Xenk looks around to note that at some point they managed to stumble behind one of the privacy screens, the same way Xenk had eavesdropped on Edgin and his friends the last time they had both been at the salon. 

He presses a finger to his lips to communicate to Edgin that nobody can see them, reaching over to extend the screen more to try and reduce the risk further. They have more than enough time to stop, to smooth down the ruffles in Edgin's hair and straighten their clothes, to be certain they won't be caught in their compromising position. But Edgin is looking up at Xenk, not making a move, and Xenk is looking back down at Edgin, hand still laced in his hair. 

Slowly, Edgin begins to move, small, cautious movements, hollowing his cheeks out for suction as Xenk's fingers flex in his hair. He can hear clothing rustling nearby and voices clear as day on what must be only the other side of the screen, something about recommendations for a tailor. They are so close to being caught, but Edgin isn't stopping and neither is he, instead he's biting down on his fist to keep quiet, pulling gently on Edgin's hair, the only warning that he can give that he's close. Edgin looks up, seemingly acknowledging his silent warning and as if challenging him, draws him in as far as he can go, straining as if he might be able to kiss Xenk's pubic bone, the tip of him fluttering at the entrance to his throat which twitches tight as he forces back his gag reflex. 

Nearby he hears one of the men ask if he can borrow a duelling glove and that happens to be the moment he reaches his peak, holding back the sound building in the back of his throat by biting so hard on his own hand that pain shoots up his arm, tooth marks imprinted into the knuckle. He falls back against the wall, trying to moderate his breathing as he gasps for air. 

They remain like that, unmoving but for heaving chests for what seems like a great long while but can be no more than a handful of moments, until the door clicks shut once more, and then some time longer in the silence to confirm that they are alone. Then Edgin looks up at Xenk, his face not flush pink with arousal but gaunt white in horror. “That was… foolish, even for me.” 

Xenk nods in agreement, mortification sinking into his very bones as he realises how reckless he had been, and how he had jeopardised Edgin's reputation. They remained hidden through what could only describe as divine providence as Xenk had been so careless as to not even check the room was unoccupied, his attention so focused on his desire for Edgin. Foolhardy, selfish, he almost destroyed everything they'd worked for in a scant few moments for something as fleeting as pleasure 

Edgin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, drawing Xenk's eye to his swollen lips, still shiny with saliva despite his attempts to set himself to rights. If anything the efforts serve to smear the wetness, making his appearance seem more debauched, and despite his shame Xenk finds desire stir within him once more, until he forces himself to break his gaze, incapable of looking at him any longer. 

. “I am deeply sorry. I should have-”

“Don't apologise,” Edgin says firmly then, with a grimace adds, “We are nothing if not equally culpable.” 

Xenk does not agree, after all, it was he who made the first play, who asked Edgin to speak with him in private, but he senses this argument will not be received well so he merely nods. 

In front of him, he hears Edgin get to his feet though he still cannot bear to look at him directly. “I didn’t expect it to be so difficult to stay away from you,” Edgin admits, “It pains me greatly, but I do not think I can trust myself around you.” 

“Perhaps it would be best if we were to increase the distance between us,” Xenk concurrs, despite how it pains him. 

“It brings me no joy to be parted from you.” A thumb brushes against the back of his hand, so feather light that it could almost be considered accidental.

“Nor I,” he turns into the touch, pressing Edgin's thumb into the centre of his palm, “But it is necessary. At least for as long as it takes to overcome this compulsion when I am near you.” Xenk is unsure when that will be – a cynical part of him doesn’t believe it is at all possible for him to regain control from this.

The touch withdraws and he fights the urge to chase it. “I'd rather not say goodbye this time, if that's alright with you .” 

“I would prefer we didn't.” Xenk agrees. He's not certain how much more heartbreak he can inflict upon himself before something ends up irreparably damaged. 

There are footsteps, Edgin walking away from him, and he listens to the sounds of him changing back into his everyday clothes and packing away his things for distinctly too long, unable to move until the noise has stopped, until Edgin is most assuredly gone. When he sees himself in the looking glass he is disquieted by how little the incident appears to have affected him, face calm and neutral, barely a hair out of place and without a crease to his whites. Internally he is not so easily settled and a keen frustration washes over him at the discrepancy between his internal and external state, almost overcome with a need to wreck the external so that it reflects his heart. 

But he must keep up appearances. For Edgin. For Kira. For Alexander. For his Father. For the tenants of the Evermoors.

With a deep, fortifying breath he returns to the hall.