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Chapter Text

The rescue attempt failed. Hitomi, at the time, did not quite understand why and how; her perceptions were blurred by contradictory flashes of precognition, as though destiny itself was not sure how things were going to turn out, as though the fates were arguing in her head. Something shifted. Something that was to be suddenly was not. The impression of danger suddenly came from a different direction, but by now all her impressions were so muddled and diffuse that it was impossible to determine its nature.

The dark figure of Van's brother was above them on the catwalk; he held Van's sword in his hand. He held it out as though to drop it and then did not move. Something shifted, or switched, that was all she could think. There was a moment of suspension amid the chaotic noise of the raid; she had a sense of silence even while she could hear Gaddes bellowing at the men of the Crusade.

The moment stretched out like the soap-skin of a bubble, and Van broke it.

'Are you taunting me?' he cried out, glaring up at the black-cloaked man. 'What the hell do you want?'

'Van, we have to go,' Hitomi began, but he was turning away and did not hear her, heading impetuously towards a staircase that would bring him up to his brother's perch. The noise was increasing, echoing everywhere in this metallic hangar space. She started forward after him, but her arm was caught by a strong hand. She looked back with a gasp of alarm and saw Allen, dishevelled and with a high colour in his face.

'It's no good, we have to go,' he told her, raising his voice to be heard over the din.

'What? But Van - '

'Van's alive. We'll have other chances. Hitomi, come with me right now, it isn't safe to wait a moment longer.'

Mentally battered by those unstable images, she didn't have the confidence or presence of mind to refuse. In any case, he was already pulling her along by main force. She stumbled but kept running, the metal floor jarring her legs with every footfall. A few heartbeats later they were back on the Crusade and fleeing; she was leaning against the wall and staring back at the floating fortress; Merle was loudly asking where Van-sama was; men were shouting, steam was hissing, and all she could think was that this was all wrong… that something had gone wrong in the way things were meant to have been.

'We had run out of time,' Allen said later. 'A strike like that, with a smaller number of men, only works if you can take the enemy by surprise and get in and out quickly. It was a calculated risk. We could stay no longer. In a few more seconds their reinforcements would have arrived and we would all have been taken. Would you have wanted that? We could hear them coming. I had to try to get you out safely. Van can look after himself - although I can't imagine why he would run back like that. He's very rash.' He looked as though he felt guilty and was trying to talk himself out of it.

'We left him,' Hitomi said softly. 'He was distracted because he saw his brother. His brother works for Zaibach. I don't know how or why that is. I didn't know he had a brother.'

'Then he's probably in no immediate danger,' Allen said. 'We'll watch for our next opportunity and try again. I am not abandoning the King. We simply couldn't pull it off this time.' He tried to look into Hitomi's eyes, to convince her of his good intentions, but she looked stonily at her hands, folded in her lap. They were marked with thin red scratches, matching the three angry lines scored across her cheekbone. Merle had become hysterical when she realised Van had not been rescued and had attacked those who tried to comfort her. She was in a cabin now, sobbing passionately into a pillow, enveloped in her grief to the exclusion of human contact.

'It's all gone wrong,' Hitomi murmured. 'Something has been set in motion that wasn't meant to be.'

'I did my best for you,' Allen said helplessly, holding out his white-gloved hands like a testimony of innocence.

'It wasn't for me,' said Hitomi, and she rose from her chair and left the room without a word more for the knight she had idealised.

Van woke with a feeling of suffocation. As he gulped air the sensation was replaced by incredulous indignation; Folken had done it to him again, knocked him out with the sting of one stainless-steel claw as soon as he got close enough. Whatever drug it was, it made him afraid to think what two doses in such quick succession might do to him. His mind felt blurry and hectic, and the feverish feeling did not diminish within a few moments of waking, as he would have expected. A bright cold white light was shining down onto him from not very far above, and it was already giving him a headache as he squinted through his eyelashes.

He took stock of his situation. He was lying on a bed - no, a sort of pallet or slab, because it was not soft enough to be a mattress. His clothes and boots were gone and he had been put into some kind of nightshirt, made of some odd fabric that felt more like thin paper than cloth. There were gaps in the back of it and he could feel cold metal against his skin. He felt too giddy to raise his head, and his mazed senses were getting around to informing him that there were firm restraints holding his arms and legs flat against the slab. Apart from the light pinning him down, the room seemed mostly dark, with huge shadowy shapes against the walls. His eyes got a little more used to the dazzle and he determined that the light came from a globe on the end of a jointed metal arm extending from the wall behind his head. Part of the darkness at the periphery of vision moved and became his brother, approaching the bed almost soundlessly. He looked down at Van with an expression of remote concern.

'What are you doing?' Van asked. He sounded drunk, he thought; co-ordinating his lips and tongue to speak the short sentence was an unaccustomed effort. 'What's going on here?'

'I didn't expect you to wake,' Folken said. He tipped his head to one side and smiled a little as though he were somewhat proud of Van's feistiness, but deprecating it at the same time. 'You'll sleep again soon. I see that I can't persuade you to join me freely. But I can't help believing that there is something in you that responds to what I say. I don't believe you would come back to me just for a sword. You'd probably object to what I propose to do, except that you won't be able to. When it's complete you won't even remember this conversation, so it means very little to explain it to you now. I'm just giving you… medicine… that will temporarily overcome your resistance to my ideas.' He reached out with his good hand and gently touched Van's right arm, left bare by the short sleeve of the flimsy gown. Turning his head, with difficulty, Van saw that a needle had been inserted into the soft inner bend of his elbow, and attached to it was a transparent tube filled with a greyish pale liquid. The liquid was moving, being fed into his veins. His arm's muscles tightened involuntarily at the sight, and he felt a twinge of dull pain, but it seemed distant. The room seemed to be rushing away from him in all directions, leaving an emptiness in the centre of his head.

'I knew… knew it,' he managed to say, fighting for self-mastery. 'Your puppet…' His fear and anger should give him the strength to struggle, but the adrenaline did not seem to be making its way through his veins. He imagined it as vivid spring green being swamped and diluted by the null grey of the drug.

'Nothing so unpleasant,' Folken said. His voice was both soothing and alarming to Van, the voice that had read him bedtime stories now leading him into a nightmare. 'I can't control you like that. But we do have drugs that can alter or limit memory. Carefully administered, and accompanied by the right stimuli and suggestions - you'll soon be in something like a hypnotic state, free of pain - they can… adjust the way a person thinks and feels. You will think and act freely, but you will base your thoughts and actions upon the principles we will introduce. And Van… I really believe you will be happier. I'm doing all this for your own good. You can't see that this is right because you are so hemmed in by the beliefs you were brought up with. If I free you from those, and give you an opportunity to experience the truth as I know it… dearest brother, you'll see the hope that sustains me. Once you understand that, there'll be no need for artifice, for drugs like this… and we can move towards our bright destiny together.'

His good hand, the hand that was still human, moved up to stroke Van's forehead, brushing back the soft, tousled hair that fell into his eyes, smoothing the tense frown that knit Van's dark brows. He was losing even the power to control his facial muscles.

'You'll sleep again soon,' he whispered, and bending forward, gave Van the same goodnight kiss that had assured him sweet dreams as a child.

With his last strength, Van spat at him. It could not have gone far, but with his brother so close it did not need to; it spattered weakly on the side of Folken's neck. His final conscious thought was one of irritation that it had not been more dramatic than that. Then the pale greyness spreading out in his head reached the furthest edges, and he sank into nullity.

Not a muscle of Dilandau's face moved. His normal eerie animation had quite deserted him, and he seemed to be wearing a pretty, smooth mask. He listened with perfect composure to what Folken had to say. Then he appeared to consider his words, and spoke.

'You are fucking joking.'

'I am perfectly in earnest. And if I hear such repulsive language from you again, Dilandau, you will be severely punished. I chose to tell you first and apart because I wished to impress upon you that you may not show any such objection to Van's presence before the Dragonslayers. You must set a good example and include him completely in the normal routine.' Folken regarded the boy levelly over steepled hands. They both sat in low black chairs; that Folken had not required his subordinate to stand before him to receive orders had been intended as a subtle pandering to Dilandau's arrogance, suggesting he was being taken into confidence as an equal. He had thought it might make things easier. Unfortunately, subtlety did not really work on Dilandau. He was as direct as the thrust of a blade. In that case, he must be firmly blocked.

Dilandau's mouth worked as though he were biting his lips from the inside. 'Permission to speak freely,' he said.

'Permission denied. Make your tone less surly.'

'It's ridiculous! He's the target! It makes as much sense as putting a fox into a pack of hounds!' Dilandau burst out, slapping the arm of his chair with one black-gloved hand. That he did not thump it with a fist was a sign that he was trying to restrain himself when talking to a superior officer, Folken thought with some amusement.

'Since I did not give you permission to say that, I am forced to disregard it. I knew how you would feel, Dilandau. And this is the decision I made. You can accept it with a good grace, or you can accept punishment. Your objection is irrational, in any case. My brother has never done anything to you.'

'He fought me!' Dilandau was quite exasperated at Folken's failure to see the logic.

'You attacked him.'

'And you told me to! I don't understand.'

'You don't need to. I'm Strategos, remember?' He raised one eyebrow sardonically.

'Yes, Folken-sama.'

Both their heads turned as the sliding door to the next room was opened. Amber light from an oil lamp spilled out and competed with the softly hissing blue flare of the gas mantle mounted on the table between the chairs. It also outlined the shadow of Van Fanel, dressed in the uniform of the Dragonslayers.

'Brother,' he said, with a preoccupied air, 'I can't do up my collar. These gloves are too thick.'

'I'll help you,' Folken said, rising and moving towards him. 'Why don't you take the gloves off?' he asked as he fastened the hook and eye inside the high collar of the leather tunic.

'They're part of the sleeves,' Van complained. 'They're not what I'm used to. Everything's leather. I squeak when I walk.' He stood calmly with his chin tilted up to let his brother work, although he was frowning with discontent. His eyes flicked in Dilandau's direction. 'Who's that?' he asked, with a corresponding jerk of his head.

Dilandau was sitting with his mouth slightly open, momentarily speechless with rage. Firstly, he was insulted by the way they had both ignored him. When Van entered he should have been introduced immediately, and in a suitably impressive fashion. Secondly… he found his voice.

'He's got red armour!' he sputtered.

'So?' said Van, turning as Folken released his collar, and looking at Dilandau as though he did not impress him at all. 'So have you.'

'Because I am the captain. Only the captain wears red!' Dilandau stamped to his feet and glared at the brothers, his garnet eyes blazing.

'And now so does Van.' Folken looked at Dilandau warningly, and he subsided with a mutinous glower on his face. 'Van,' Folken went on smoothly, 'this is Dilandau Albatou, the captain of the Dragonslayers unit. You have already met, but not, I think, been introduced. And Dilandau, this is Van Slanzar de Fanel, my younger brother, now assigned to the Dragonslayers.'

Van stepped forward, right hand extended in front of him. Dilandau looked at it with ill-concealed scorn.

'Don't you know about shaking hands?' Van asked, with much the same manner. Dilandau offered his right hand very grudgingly, and the small ceremony was performed.

'We seem to be on the same side now,' Van commented.

'That's how it seems,' Dilandau agreed with the wording of the phrase.

'I hope we can work together without unnecessary unpleasantness.'

'Quite.' Dilandau had his own views on what was necessary. They stood there, each still gripping the other's hand, gazes locked. Dilandau was confident in his ability to unnerve anyone by staring them down.

Van smiled, a light, arrogant smile of conscious superiority. Although Dilandau would have died rather than show any visible reaction, even in the depths of his eyes, it shocked him to be so defied. How dare a prisoner of war look at him that way? He felt angry blood rising in his face and cursed himself for appearing to blush.

'I'm sure you two will soon be as thick as thieves,' Folken said dryly. 'Come with us, Dilandau. I think Van should see where the Dragonslayers live and train. You can point everything out for him.'

They moved down the sterile corridors three abreast, Folken walking in the middle. Dilandau was glad of the barrier, not as protection, but because it meant he did not have to look at that insufferable crow in borrowed plumage. Just as a precaution, he stole a look beyond Folken's broad chest and found that Van was looking at him. And still smiling. Eyes front, Dilandau commanded himself. He glared ahead, humiliated by the feeling of flame in his cheeks. They reached the exercise hall.

'This is where we train,' he said ungraciously, avoiding addressing Van by name. 'Sword racks are over there, weights are over there, rings and bars are over there and that's the door to the locker room and showers.'

'This looks like quite a good facility,' Van said. Dilandau, perhaps, found his tone more patronising than he meant it to be. 'Do you always use those practice swords?' He nodded at the wooden mock-blades resting in the racks.

'We don't have to,' said Dilandau, casting a glance at the sword on Van's belt. That was another thing that got on his nerves. It wasn't standard issue. It had a blue scabbard and a fancy gold hilt. He put his hand on the hilt of his own sword and felt a little reassured. He glanced up at Folken for direction, but the Strategos appeared to feel he could give Dilandau his head in this matter.

'I'll show you the lockers,' he went on briskly. There was not much to show. They were functional and simple, blue-painted metal cupboards, each personalised only by a small nameplate on the door. The exception was Dilandau's, painted glossy red. He noticed Van's eyes flick to its place in the row and gritted his teeth at the look of amusement on the boy's face. Dilandau was finding this very stressful. He was unused to suppressing hostile feelings for so long at a time. It was making the back of his neck ache. Van walked along the row of lockers reading the nameplates aloud.

'Biore, Gatti, Guimel…' He paused at the red door. 'Oh, here's yours, Dilandau.'

You know bloody well it's mine. What are you commenting for? Dilandau bit his lip on the inside.

'But where’s mine?' Van asked his brother.

'One will be added for you,' Folken assured him. 'It's a modular design so that's easily done.'

It had better not be painted red or I shall do something desperate, Dilandau mentally added.

'Here are the showers,' he said, a touch loudly. 'We all have to share so you needn't bother making a fuss about it being communal. No-one gets much privacy and there's no room for silly modesty.'

'Silly modesty has never been a problem with you, Dilandau,' said Folken. 'I hope you'll follow his example, Van.'

Dilandau strongly suspected that the Strategos was making fun of him. This gave weight to his private theory that Folken was in some ways quite subnormal. There was a word for people like that, idiot savant. They could be technically brilliant in some specialised areas and understand nothing in others. Making fun of Dilandau was ridiculous in itself.

'Where does that door lead to?' Van asked, pointing at the far wall.

'The dorm,' said Dilandau. He led the way, and found to his dismay that the Dragonslayers were in residence, all fifteen of them. He had not heard them from inside the locker room because this was one of the few rest periods they were allowed in a day, and they were all quietly occupied, some reading, some writing careful letters home, mindful of what they could say without crossing the security censor, and four playing cards on and around Gatti's bed. They all looked up as he entered; they always did, having learned to recognise his tread. In a rest period, it was tacitly understood, he did not require them to stand to attention or to salute, but a failure to respectfully acknowledge his entrance would merit a thick ear.

'Good afternoon, Dilandau-sama,' they chorused, and 'Good afternoon, Folken-sama,' as the tall figure behind him came into sight. The arrival of the Strategos seemed to throw them into something of a quandary; did the rules about informality during rest period still apply, or did his unwonted presence in the dormitory mean they had to pull their socks up? Gatti quickly gathered up the cards and slipped them into his pillowcase, just in case.

Then Van entered and they all simply stared. Miserably conscious of their questioning gaze, Dilandau muttered 'And this is where we all sleep.'

Van looked up and down the long room, at the two rows of eight beds each. They stood with their heads against the wall, and running down the centre of the room was a sort of gangway of clear space. Everything was neat and trim, from the hospital corners on the blue quilts covering the beds, to the small white-painted chests of drawers containing shirts, socks and underwear between the beds, to the large grey footlockers containing outer clothes and footwear at the ends of the beds. In the dormitory the Dragonslayers were permitted a few personal items, so the tops of the drawers sported small framed pictures of loved ones. (On Dilandau's drawers stood a small mirror.) The standard official portrait of Lord Dornkirk at the end of the room had been decorated, with red and blue crepe-paper streamers and rosettes, by Guimel and Chesta in a fit of patriotism on the eve of the invasion.

'It's cosy,' he remarked, 'in a Spartan sort of way.'

'You'll notice, however, that there's no bed for you,' Dilandau said. He felt a need to claim control of the conversation. He had had enough of Van looking around and making comments in that lordly way. And that remark seemed like a good way to make him feel unwelcome, while allowing him to protest to Folken that he had simply been making an observation, the same as Van had in the locker-room.

'Of course not,' said Folken, to Dilandau's great surprise.

'Then where will I sleep?' Van asked. 'Am I still going to be on the cot in your room?'

'I'll show you,' Folken said, and walked towards the other door out of the dormitory. Van followed him, and after a moment's stymied hesitation, Dilandau did too, hissing 'Later!' over his shoulder to Biore's whispered enquiry as to what was going on. Technically, he had not been invited to join the brothers and he supposed he might get into trouble, but he had also not been told to remain with the others, and he was damned if he was going to hang meekly back and not know anything.

Folken led them down the outer corridor a little way and opened a door.

'Here you are, Van,' he said, waving his brother into the room beyond. Dilandau followed, causing Folken to raise his eyebrows, but he felt prepared to take the consequences of that.

It looked like an officer's quarters. Dilandau stood there with shock and rage hissing off him like steam while Folken pointed out the features of the room to Van.

'You have a bed, a desk, a wardrobe there, and in the alcove a small bathroom. Do you remember how to operate the shower?'

'You showed me in yours,' Van said, looking into the slate-tiled shower recess with interest.

'I'm sorry it's so small,' Folken said, 'but you can make yourself comfortable. As you said, Spartan.'

'It looks like bloody luxury to me,' Dilandau said, forgetting himself. The other two appeared to have forgotten him until then. They both turned and looked at him, and Van had that damn' smile on again.

'I suppose it is rather better than what you're used to,' said Van.

Dilandau's fists itched. He ground his teeth together so hard that his jaw ached. 'It's no better than I deserve,' he said coldly. Folken gave him another Look. He then directed a more normal glance at the clock on the wall.

'I have to go,' he said. 'I have a meeting with General Adelfos. I'll leave you to settle in, Van - and of course, if there is anything you need you can ask Dilandau. I know he'll be co-operative.' He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Dilandau watched to make sure he was really gone, and then turned and pounced, shoving Van back against the desk with a forearm across his throat. Unfortunately for Dilandau they both stumbled against the chair that went with the desk, and Van improved the opportunity to shove back. Dilandau found himself flat on his face on the bed, the edge of the bedstead digging painfully into his stomach, with one arm twisted up behind him. Van put a knee in the middle of his back and gave it a dig.

'Don't do that,' Van said. 'I don't have to take it.'

'If you're a Dragonslayer you do. You're under me, goddamn it, no matter who your brother is!'

'I'm under you?' Van bounced gently on that knee, making Dilandau wince. 'You're going to have to get used to some changes. You don't tell me what to do. You don't raise your hand to me. And I advise you not to turn your back on me. I was willing to be nice but since you showed you weren't, that's absolutely fine with me. I've got no reason to like you.'

'Get off me, you bastard,' Dilandau hissed.

'Not yet.' Bounce, bounce. It was hard to breathe under his weight, and the twisted arm was painfully strained. 'Say, Van is King.'

'Fuck off.'

'I can wait as long as you can. I'm not tired.' Bounce. Harder.

All Dilandau wanted now was to get out of this humiliating situation. He was desperate to be back in the dormitory, where people feared and idolised him and he could figure out exactly how he would take his revenge. It would be something painful and public. With all the others there. With them to back Dilandau up Van wouldn't be so cocky. He swallowed hard and took a preparatory breath.

'Van is King,' he said, his voice low and harsh.

'That would sound even better a bit louder.'

'Van is King. I said it, let me go.'

'I'd like them to be able to hear you in the next room,' Van said wistfully. 'But it'd be no fun to have everything in one go, would it? I've got to save something for later.' He released the pressure on Dilandau's arm and stepped back. Dilandau got to his feet, doing his damnedest to move smoothly. He would not rub his aching back or wrist until he was well out of Van's sight. He waited till he was halfway through the door and poised to move fast before he spoke again.

'Van is King of an ash-heap.' He followed that up with his most predatory grin.

Van regarded him coldly. 'Uh-huh. Don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass on the way out.'

Dilandau slammed the door as hard as he could.

When he returned to the dorm, the boys were standing in an anxious huddle in the gangway, making a buzz of conjecture about what they had just seen. Dilandau made a point of walking in calmly. He had waited a few moments in the corridor outside, which he felt were long enough for his colour to get back to normal, while he ran his fingers through his hair to restore it to something like its proper style.

Everyone fell quiet as Dilandau entered, but they were unsure of how to greet him. The boys nearest the door stepped back quickly as he approached, and they all gradually parted to let him stalk down the centre of the room, wordlessly.

After some electoral shoving, Chesta was selected as spokesman for the group. 'D-dilandau-sama?' he stammered. 'Is something wrong? What's going on?' He flinched as Dilandau wheeled round to face him, but stood ready to take the blow. It didn't come. He opened one eye, cautiously, and found Dilandau's face looking livid with tension. He was fighting a battle with himself, and for once he felt he could not throw the match. If he didn't follow Folken's orders, the Strategos would find out, somehow, and there would be penalties. He could even be forbidden to fly and to fight. Especially, he thought with a sick, falling feeling, now that there was an extra Dragonslayer to fill his position. Don't worry, he counselled himself. The boys will be on your side no matter what happens. You don't need to win them over.

'That was Van Fanel with me and Folken-sama,' he said. 'Did you know they're brothers? Folken-sama has apparently convinced his brother to join us. He has his own sleeping arrangements but otherwise he will be a member of this unit. So get used to it.'

The boys exchanged disquieted glances. This was thoroughly weird; Dilandau-sama was transparently very angry, and yet he wasn't cuffing people, biting himself or even yelling. It was the biting that upset them most. He could hurt himself that way.

'Dilandau-sama, are you feeling all right?' Gatti asked, honest concern in his eyes.

'I feel fan-fucking-tastic, Gatti, thank you for asking. Why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I indeed? How much rest period have we got left?

'Until dinner,' Gatti said, glancing at the alarm clock by the nearest bed. 'About twenty-five minutes.'

'Well, no reason to be lazy. We could get some good sparring practice in between now and then. I'm up for it. Any volunteers?'

Although a few people at the back, who had less chance of being seen, exchanged pained glances, there was no question of anyone not volunteering.

Folken watched the screen replaying the events of the last few minutes in Van's room. He had wondered what would happen when the two were left alone, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. Dilandau should really be disciplined for such flagrant disobedience, but perhaps he had been punished enough. The bashing his ego had taken would probably smart more than anything Folken could inflict.

So Van was holding his own. Something like this was not unforeseen; the literature on this drug made note of the fact that the range of side-effects observed in test subjects had included lowered inhibitions and increased aggression. After weighing his options Folken had concluded that this was no obstacle. It might even be helpful. He decided it was about time he gave his brother some privacy. The screen went dark.

Chapter Text

They did not see Van until breakfast time the next day. Dilandau supposed he must have made his own arrangements about dinner. In fact that had made him hope that he would also not have to endure Van's presence during meals. But there he was in the mess, ready to get in line with a tray. His uniform was, of course, brand new, but it still seemed remarkably shiny, as though he had given it an extra polish. The curved and spiked shoulder-plates were such a brilliant cherry-red that Dilandau was afraid his own looked dull by comparison. He resolved to make Biore buff them to a mirror finish (it was his day to look after Dilandau's armour, just as it was Guimel's day to give him a towel after exercise and Dalet's day to make his bed).

Dilandau squared his shoulders and took a tray over to the serving hatch. The server there, a pale young woman with bronzy-blonde hair, gave him a nervous grin. He favoured her with a crooked smile of his own. That was another comforting thought. Van was most certainly not as attractive as he was. Dilandau was not especially interested in girls, seeing them as rather inferior, if useful creatures, but he took it for granted that they were intensely, breathlessly interested in him. This one definitely was. A simple smile made her eyes dilate darkly and her cheeks bloom pink; she looked away, flustered, and Dilandau smugly thought That's got her wet for the rest of the day, then. If he ever got around to bestowing sexual favours on any of the female staff, it would not be this one; pretty, but not on his level. It was just knowing that he could have her that was so gratifying.

Her hands trembling slightly, she ladled porridge, scrambled egg and stewed apple into the compartments of his tray. Powdered egg again, Dilandau observed with disgust. Surely the Empire could do better than that to feed its finest soldiers. He would have to have a word with someone. He was not keen on eggs in any case; most of the food they were given was entirely too stodgy. Yoghurt and fresh fruit would have pleased him better at this time of day. He nodded to the girl and slid his tray further down the line to take some honey from the jar on the benchtop to add to his porridge. Van was the next in line behind him and he found himself watching to see how the serving girl reacted to Mr Shiny Armour.

Then he found his attention more caught by how Van reacted to her. He was looking down at his tray with an expression somewhere between shy and mulish, letting his long bangs hang down and mask his eyes. He looked like nothing special at all when he did that; he looked like a round-shouldered rural hick, in Dilandau's opinion. The girl, curse her for a fickle bitch, was smiling flirtatiously at him.

'Good morning!' she said. She was too much in awe of Dilandau to actually talk to him. 'You're new, aren't you?'

Van muttered something that might have been an affirmative and blushed. Dilandau caught himself just before he would have broken out in a delighted chuckle. He's shy around pretty girls! What a loser! This improved his mood to no end. He proceeded to the table with a spring in his step. He heard Van follow, and the serving girl, bless her for a lamb, giggle mockingly as he left.

It was nice to start his morning on a high note like that. Last night had not been a happy time at all. He had felt slightly better after the exertion of the sparring, but the source of his irritation was not gone when it was over, and so the resentment and fury had gradually welled up again to fill and drown his mind. He could not stop thinking about it and there was nothing he could do. In bed that night his usual fantasies of future glory had been small comfort; they seemed threatened by unforeseen possibilities. Even masturbation had not made him feel much better, which was really saying something.

Dilandau had been a very devoted and increasingly skilful lover to himself for some years now; he excited himself as the thought of no-one else could, which made perfect sense to him. If you are the most beautiful person around, he reasoned, no-one else can have quite the same effect on you. No-one else was worthy to touch him that way. His only rule about masturbation was that it should not disturb others sleeping in the dorm, and so night after night he had filled his body with the most exquisite sensation without a trace of self-reproach. It sometimes really felt as though 'himself' was a separate entity, a sort of demon-lover possessing his hands so that he did not know what would happen next; he pressed his sweating face into the pillow to muffle his rapid breathing and the irrepressible little sounds that rose in his throat as he rode the waves of pleasure all the way down to sweet swirling crimson darkness.

That was the joy that never became stale to him, that he had been born into such an unutterably strong, beautiful body. Perfect all over. Every mirror showed him, every admiring look. He was capable of absolutely anything he set his heart upon because of this body. That was how he had always felt. He was a special being, elect, and when he struck and humiliated others it was all a part of this natural dominance. It was the divine order of things. To be physically humiliated himself, as he had been in Van's room, felt like more of a violation to him than most people would have realised. His champion, his lover, had fallen, had failed him; a splinter had been driven between them, rupturing their perfect union. Last night, although he had really tried hard - in fact, he had taken care to give himself the works, as he did not always have the patience to do - he had not been perfectly happy. Frustration of any kind was not a familiar emotion to Dilandau and suddenly it beset him on all sides. He felt strongly that he would not be perfectly happy until the source of his disquiet was not only gone, but completely purged from his world.

The source of his disquiet currently sat two seats over from him at the breakfast table, pushing scrambled egg around with his fork and looking bored. Although there were boys sitting on either side of Van, they were not talking to him. Dilandau felt that the Dragonslayers had sensed his feelings about the interloper and were accordingly ostracising him out of loyalty. That was excellent. You may have had the advantage yesterday, he thought, but you just caught me by surprise. I've marshalled my forces now and by day's end you will be very sorry you crossed me.

Van tore himself away from the contemplation of rubbery egg and turned to Migel, who happened to be sitting at his left. 'Do you happen to know what we're doing today?' he asked. 'No-one has told me.'

'That's because it's my job to tell you,' Dilandau said, cutting across Migel before he had time to reply. 'I announce the training schedule day by day when we aren't called into action.'

'You didn't tell me where or when dinner was yesterday,' Van said, frowning. 'I expected to be sent for. In the end I went hunting for the kitchens by myself and had to ask the staff cleaning up if they could heat me up some leftovers. You aren't very well organised.'

'I naturally assumed that Folken-sama would have told you about something as basic as mealtimes,' Dilandau snapped back. 'For your future benefit, we have dinner here every evening at eighteen hundred hours.'

'That's no good,' Van said. 'I'm not ready for dinner by six in the evening.'

'Well, six is when we have dinner.' Dilandau realised belatedly that he was gripping his fork so tightly that the metal was bending a little under his thumb. He kept thinking how nice it would be to pop the tines into Van's eye. He imagined it bursting like the slit yolk of a fried egg. Thick blood and vitreous humour weeping down Van's brown cheek. Yes please.

'I'm not used to people telling me when to take my meals,' Van said slowly.

'Yeah, well, you're in the army now.'

'I'll speak to my brother,' Van said, with an air of finality, as if this would sort everything out in a satisfactory manner.

The head of the fork was now almost at right-angles to the handle. 'You're saying you're telling on me?'

'Don't be so childish.'

'I could tell him that you're insubordinate.'

Van smiled. 'I really don't think he's going to care. Work it out, Dilandau. Putting me in the Dragonslayers is just convenient, finding a place for me in the structure of the Empire. You're not going to train me in anything, and since you take your orders from him in the first place I'm simply cutting out the middleman when I deal with him directly.'

Migel and Dalet, who was sitting on Van's other side, both leaned away from him in their chairs, rather in the manner of people who find themselves near a tall tree in thundery weather. Any second now Dilandau-sama was going to lose it, and it was always nicer to be out of range when that happened. But, they realised as they watched him, he was still in that weird dangerously-calm mode. The light in his eyes was blazing and snapping, a conflagration of fury, but his face was stony.

'I am a middleman,' he repeated softly. 'And I can't teach you anything. Is this your view?'

'Yes,' said Van equably, 'but don't feel bad about it. You can't help what you are.' He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, staring Dilandau down cat-fashion, lazily, as though he had nothing better to do.

The head of the fork snapped off and tinkled onto the tabletop. The boys stared at it, unnerved.

'Piece of crap,' Dilandau muttered, throwing what was left of it to the floor without sparing it a glance. His eyes were locked on Van. 'You're going to learn, believe me, you arrogant little shit. Do you think what you were in Fanelia means jack here? We're your natural masters! Hell, Chesta could beat you!'

'Um, thank you,' said Chesta uncertainly.

'Shut up, Chesta.' Dilandau threw his table-knife at him without looking. It hit the wall perhaps three millimetres above Chesta's head and stuck there with a noise like a metal ruler plucked over the edge of a desk. Chesta had not had time to move. He made a very small whimpering sound somewhere low in his throat. He could feel a new parting in his hair.

'So let Chesta try,' said Van evenly. 'Maybe he needs to change his pants first, though.'

Dilandau strode into the training hall at high speed; apart from anything else he was determined to enter before Van. Crossing to the sword racks, he drew one of the wooden practice blades from its place and turned sharply to face Van, who was trailed by the Dragonslayers. They had moved in a confused cluster in the corridor, but suddenly the atmosphere was formal and they had a model to conform to. They formed a rank and stood motionless in anticipation.

Dilandau held the sword out horizontally, a hand at either end, and waited until he had Van's full attention. Then he brought his right leg up and his hands down and broke the wood across his knee. It was the kind of pointlessly dramatic gesture that he did very well. He let the shattered ends fall to the floor with a clatter, and drew the steel blade from its scabbard at his side. Van was still watching impassively, his failure to draw in response a studied insult. The coldly glinting sword swept around to point to the line of blue-armoured boys behind the young King.

'Forward, Chesta. I don't want to soil a rather good blade on him.'

'So you'll make your subordinates do the dirty work?' Van turned to face Chesta, who was stepping out of the line and drawing his sword very much as if against his better judgement. No-one could show him too much sympathy, since technically to be singled out in this way was an honour.

'They will do anything for me,' Dilandau replied flatly. 'That's a measure of power, wouldn't you say?' He hated talking to Van's back like this. Chesta was looking to him for permission to begin. Typical Chesta. Initiative had never been his strong point. And he always had that knack for saying just the thing, or making just the face, or standing in just the place to annoy Dilandau. He was asking for it, in Dilandau's opinion. No-one should be that pathetic and get away with it. But he was as loyal as a dog, and he was well trained to fight. Dilandau nodded, very slightly, and Chesta charged.

It was a respectable match, not over with humiliating quickness, but it was clear almost from the beginning that Chesta would not win. He looked too worried, was having to work too hard. The best he could do was to hold his ground for a short time, before he was driven back against the wall and Van took his sword from his hand with a swift flick of his blade. Chesta held his smarting hand with his other and looked at the dark boy with something like panic. Those outside the fight might not have been able to see it, but there was a ferocity in Van's eyes that he had only seen before in certain wild animals, and of course, in Dilandau-sama. He looked like someone who didn't stop at disarming you.

But this time - Chesta was alarmed at how naturally he thought of it as this time, as though another time were inevitable - he did not. He turned away, dismissing his fallen opponent utterly, and looked at Dilandau, his free hand on his hip.

'Chesta didn't beat me,' he pointed out.

Dilandau forced himself to breathe slowly. 'Forward, Biore.'

'I'll humour you, shall I?' said Van, smiling.

He beat them each in turn. Dilandau's head ached from grinding his teeth together. He was far too stubborn to back down now, however. As long as he had men to throw at Van he would do so, and somehow, by hellfire, he would prove his point. Each Dragonslayer was fresh to the fight and Van must surely get tired. Besides, watching like this did give Dilandau a certain advantage. He got to observe Van's form against a variety of different opponents, to analyse his style, his preferences, his weaknesses. And he was interested to observe that he was weak in the same way as all the Dragonslayers. For all his ferocity, with that growling cry as he charged at his opponent, he did not strike as though he meant to kill. He knew it was only a practice match and he thought that meant you held back. That was what had always made Dilandau superior. That was why they needed the wooden swords, because if they had practised with sharp blades he would have massacred his own men a dozen times by now. As it was they had all borne long, deep bruises to show them exactly how he could have killed them. Guimel could not turn his head all the way to the right because of the day Dilandau had concentrated on decapitation. Visual aids were so helpful in teaching.

During the fifth fight, between Van and Gillen, the door opened soundlessly and Folken drifted in. Dilandau flinched inwardly. He's going to stop us. Damn him! He never lets me have fun. His own life's so joyless I guess the only thing he gets off on now is spoiling it for other people.

But Folken did not put a stop to the fights. He merely glided over behind the line of standing, waiting Dragonslayers (and of sitting or slumping boys who had already taken their turn - but who quickly straightened up and tried to look unsweaty when the Strategos appeared) and quietly watched.

Gloating over his brother, Dilandau seethed. Fuck 'em both.

'How long do you want to play this game, Dilandau?' Van called out as Migel, who had followed Gillen, crept back to the line, holding his arm. He wheeled to face the albino boy. He was bright-eyed, perspiring and breathing fast, but so far he did not seem anywhere near worn out. He could not seem to stop moving; he was almost dancing on the balls of his feet, shifting rapidly from side to side and apparently ready for anything and anyone.

Over by the wall, Folken noted that. Dilandau was currently wondering how the hell Folken could have known what they were up to in any case; he normally never interrupted training. Folken could have told him a thing or two about surveillance, but what was the point? Dilandau took it for granted that everyone was watching him anyway. Most people who thought that were paranoid. Dilandau was simply extremely vain. The one Folken was really watching these days was Van, watching simply to see how he turned out. He was already so different, all his arrogance and aggression magnified, his moodiness intensified. Would this be an ongoing process? If he simply continued to grow more so, he might become uncontrollable, even by Folken. But it was not simply the issue of control that preoccupied him. There was a little, irrational, inconvenient part of him that protested simply, quietly and persistently that it was a shame to make these changes to a nice boy like Van. He kept seeing the distance between this magnificent young berserker and the long-ago boy-child who had yanked on his arms, demanded stories with different voices for every character, spilled juice on his clothes and fallen asleep in his lap. He would never have come so far by himself. Folken wished he could stop feeling guilty about that.

'I'll play until I win,' Dilandau replied.

'It isn't chess,' Van said, grinning. 'But I guess you don't play chess, because sending pawns after a king one at a time is hardly a conventional strategy.'

'I know the king is the weakest piece on the board,' Dilandau shot back. 'However important he might think he is.'

'Are you the queen in your tiara?' Van asked jeeringly.

'Just shut up!' Dilandau screamed. 'God, I hate guys like you!' He was far too angry to restrain himself now. Let Folken think what he wanted. He had seen enough now. He was ready to prove the point himself. He raised his sword and charged.

The first clash of steel slightly startled Folken; there was a savagery to this bout that the others had lacked. Personal grudges were apt to do that; they also introduced such dangerous instability that he hoped he had never allowed his personal feelings to unduly influence him. Of course he had not. The current state of Fanelia was clear proof of his total objectivity, unalloyed by sentiment. The plans for Freid, too… if people there would just see sense, would behave logically and for the betterment of the majority, there would be no need to make another Fanelia. Dilandau would not see that as a win, but it was the kind of victory Folken craved.

He glanced at the boys before him. When Dilandau stepped forward, they had all tensed in a new way, above and beyond their alertness under the eyes of a superior officer. Whether consciously or not, they were all leaning forward; fists were clenched, teeth were set and pulses, if he was any judge, were rapid.

'Dilandau-sama…' he heard someone mutter, the little blond one with a handkerchief tied around a cut hand. His eyes were so wide they seemed to take over his face. The devotion and belief in his tone half-amused Folken.

For the first time, the outcome of the fight seemed really in question. Dilandau was taller than Van, but not much bigger in build, and in terms of sheer ferocity they seemed well matched. Neither was prepared to simply make and parry strokes; they were both aiming to wound and it seemed a wonder that so far every blow had been blocked.

Dilandau's heart was racing, a drumbeat accelerating to a hum, and he could feel the sweat rolling off him. This was the exhilaration he had sought in the sparring last night, the sheer cleansing fire of hacking and hacking again at what he hated. Nothing else mattered, nothing else was real. His senses contracted down to the circle within which they fought. Glorious, heat and sparks, he thought the blade burned in his grasp. Right now he could breathe fire. All he could think of was how it would feel the first time he chopped into Van's flesh, whether blood would splash in his face, whether Van would scream, whether he would scream in his triumph.

The swords met and hissed down one another's length, locking at the hilts. The two boys strained against one another's strength, almost nose to nose. Van's damp hair clung to his forehead and fell into his eyes; he shook his head irritably and drops of sweat sprayed against Dilandau's face. His mouth was open, panting. He tasted salt. With a feeling of falling forward, he looked into Van's eyes, blazing dark, and saw there a will to master his own. If he let it. He would never let it. It only hardened his resolve.

Dilandau gained the advantage with a savage rising shove. Van overbalanced backwards, lost his footing as Dilandau kicked at his ankle, and windmilled round awkwardly, swinging his arm so wildly in an effort to stop himself that he succeeded in hitting his own temple a dazing blow with the butt of his sword.

The Dragonslayers caught their breath, as one.

Dilandau felt that he rose on a column of fire, the blade of his sword soaring up to swing down in a deadly slash across Van's back. His guard was totally down; he was dazed and momentarily helpless, and Dilandau lived for the moment.

'Behind you, Van.'

And as Dilandau's blade descended, Van's rose, barely under its owner's control, a wild swing up and back with no thought behind it other than to somehow save his life.

Everyone but Van saw Dilandau fall back, his hand to his face. Van tumbled forward, with a clang as the knees of his shin-guards hit the floor. He rolled onto his back as fast as he could, keeping his sword above him, expecting another blow. It did not feel as though he had hit anything.

But Dilandau was on his knees, trembling, almost immobile. His head was bent down so that his ashy fringe hid most of his face; all that was clear was that his right hand was pressed hard against his cheek and temple.

Blood dropped on the floor. A few snippets of grey hair fluttered down and settled on it. Van found himself staring at the blade of his sword, where another grey wisp adhered to a streak of the same red blood.

'You warned him,' said Chesta reproachfully. He was staring up at Folken in apparent outrage. Normally he would not even have had the nerve to look him in the eye. In five minutes' time he would not be able to believe that he had spoken this way.

'It seemed only fair,' Folken said, shrugging. 'Dilandau made a rather cowardly rear attack.'

'He was - he…' Chesta's brain caught up with his mouth and he realised he was arguing with the Strategos. His jaw sagged a little as he turned pale. Folken really wondered what his next move would have been, but something clicked into place in the boy's mind and he broke away, turning with a cry of 'Dilandau-sama!' The Dragonslayers raced towards their stricken commander, but checked themselves, drawing up short within feet of him. Dilandau-sama injured, Dilandau-sama defeated were such unfamiliar ideas that no-one was confident of how to proceed.

'A-are you all right?' Gatti asked, and stepped hestitantly forward, reaching out.

Dilandau raised an arm, stopping him. 'Don't come any closer,' he said, his voice muffled. He slowly raised his head, ignoring the boys standing around him, and stared at Van. From being feverishly dilated, his pupils had gone down to pinholes. He was deathly pale; the blood spilling from between his fingers looked all the redder by contrast.

'My face,' he said, his voice coming from low in his throat, half-choking on the words. 'My beautiful face. How dare you?'

'Uhh,' said Van, looking slightly pale himself. He could not understand his sick feeling. Perhaps it was just that he had never seen an injury he'd caused at such close quarters before. Fighting in a guymelef was one thing; you never saw the face of the enemy. Fighting hand to hand, he had never really hurt anyone before. But this was ridiculous; he had wanted to hurt Dilandau. More than anything. And by sheer luck he had wounded him where it hurt most, in his vanity.

Dilandau rose unsteadily to his feet, still clutching his cheek. He looked as though he wanted to say more but could not find the words to express his loathing. He looked down at Van, sitting on the floor, and spat once, viciously. It caught Van squarely on the cheekbone, just under his eye, sticky by comparison with the sweat that misted his whole face. Then Dilandau turned sharply and stalked away, towards the door of the locker room, hastily followed by the Dragonslayers.

Van had not yet moved. He slowly raised a hand to wipe away the blot of saliva. His breathing was just beginning to get back to normal. He was certain of only one thing, that that had been the strangest fight that he had ever had. When Dilandau had stared right into his eyes he only hoped he had not shown the jolt he had felt; no emotion he could recognise, just pure nervous electricity.

A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see Folken. His brother did not bend down to him, but looked at him from his lofty height, a vaguely quizzical expression on his long face.

'You don't seem pleased to have won,' he said.

'Well… I'm not sure I won fair and square, I suppose.' Van looked at the soiled palm of his hand. Something about that was giving him a feeling of déjà vu. Yet he couldn't remember anyone ever having had the nerve to spit on him, and he was sure he had never spat at anyone else. Who had ever made him feel such contempt?

'Does that matter when you did win?' Folken asked. 'I trust you are not hurt. Does your head ache?''

'Hardly,' Van said. 'He really hates me now, doesn't he?'

'He already hated you,' said Folken. 'I felt sure you knew. It may be that you have broken him now. Dilandau's appearance is very important to him, and it is a harsh blow to have been humbled in front of his subordinates. But I advise you not to count on that. It is equally possible that you have made matters more difficult for yourself. If you did not wish for him to hate you, your behaviour was very foolish.'

'Of course I knew he hated me,' Van said, 'but I think I didn't know until… you couldn't see his eyes.' He seemed shaken; it was the first wobble in his cast-iron confidence that Folken had seen since he had put him under.

'I may have been mistaken to permit this,' he said. 'You don't need to worry, Van. I will not allow Dilandau to threaten you again.' He turned to go.

'Hey!' The quickest way Van, still sitting, could get his brother to stop walking was to put his heel down on the trailing hem of his leather cloak. Folken paused and looked down, puzzled.

'Don't protect me!' Van said. 'I mean… I mean I'm grateful, brother, of course I'm grateful, but I have to fight my own battles.'

'You are not at war with Dilandau,' Folken pointed out mildly.

'No… I mean… I can deal with him by myself. I mean, I'm sure as hell not afraid of him. I just have to show him who's boss. Teach him respect.'

'You will find that difficult. The most I have ever been able to inculcate in him is fear. And he does not fear me, he fears consequences for his behaviour. Making Dilandau understand that he would have to face consequences was a struggle in itself. When he is excited, he doesn't really think that way.'

'Why do you use someone like that?'

Folken half-smiled. 'Because he's so useful.' He gently tugged his cloak out from under Van's boot-heel. 'Excuse me. For now I leave it up to you.'

'Dilandau-sama, you have to let me see. Please.' Gatti leaned forward and dared to try to prise Dilandau's hand away from his cheek. Dilandau snarled at him, but did not strike. Reluctantly, he let himself be helped. The Dragonslayers had clustered around him protectively; he had gone to the mirror above the washbasins opposite the lavatories, meaning to inspect the damage, but his nerve had failed him and he stood there hugging himself and shaking. Someone had brought the first-aid box.

'Just tell me how bad it looks,' he muttered.

'Not… not so bad…' said Gatti hesitantly. The cut went right up to the hairline. He tried to smooth Dilandau's tangled, sweaty bangs away from it, his fingers gentle with concern. 'It isn't deep,' he said. 'It's only bleeding so much because of where it is. And it's a clean cut, not ragged at all. It must have been a very sharp blade.'

'Fuck the blade, Gatti, tell me what I look like! I feel like the whole side of my face is torn open!'

'You just have a long thin cut down beside your eye on your cheek,' Gatti said. 'It's just a slit. Honestly. Dalet, can you put some antiseptic on a cotton ball and give it to me? I want to clean this up.'

'He slit my face,' said Dilandau convulsively, and uttered a sound very like a sob. Everyone stared. Dilandau-sama had never cried in living memory.

'Dilandau…' said Gatti softly.

The punch caught him under the chin and snapped his head back. He fell against a washbasin, clutching the porcelain rim for support.

'Dilandau-SAMA!' Dilandau bellowed at Gatti. 'Don't ever forget yourself like that with me again!'

'I'm forry!' said Gatti. He had bitten his lip and could not speak clearly at first. 'Dilandau-fama… please, I was only worried about you. We all are.'

'You do as I tell you, Gatti, and I did not tell you to worry! You're telling me you have no faith in me!'

'That is not… no… none of us would ever want you to think that. You just had bad luck today!'

'The Strategos helped him!' Chesta put in. 'If he hadn't, I bet you would have won! It was practically cheating.'

Dilandau looked at them through eyes narrowed with pain as much as suspicion. They meant it, every word. Every one of the boys gathered around him believed in him totally. Slowly, he relaxed.

'He can't ruin that, anyway,' he mumbled. The others looked at each other. They were not sure what he meant, but this was not the time to ask what might be perceived as an annoying question.

'Dilandau-sama…' said Dalet, holding up the cotton ball. 'Will you please let one of us clean your cut? Gatti is right, it doesn't look deep. It probably doesn't even need stitches, just a clean gauze dressing.'

Dilandau slowly nodded assent. Dalet stepped forward. 'The antiseptic will sting a bit,' he said, very carefully. 'If you can keep still, I can be done faster. I won't hurt you for too long. We don't want you to be upset. It was stupid of Gatti to make you angry, because that pulled on the cut.'

'I really am sorry,' Gatti said again. 'Never again, I swear.'

'You're right,' said Dilandau thoughtfully, as Dalet began to dab at the cut with antiseptic. He was perfectly still under these ministrations. 'It pulls on the cut… it aches and burns because of the anger I feel. It burns like my hate for him.'

'I - I meant because when you shouted the skin stretched,' said Dalet timidly. 'But… but if that's the way you feel…'

'Just be a nurse, Dalet, don't try to psychoanalyse me as well.' Dilandau spoke coldly. He was back in control, his features grim and drawn. 'Incidentally, none of you is to do anything to him in future. We don't need the trouble with the Strategos… and I want him for myself.'

He was looking at the soiled palm of his glove, at the drying blood. His hand closed and tightened.

Chapter Text

After lunch (another meal which Van missed, this time because he had been invited to dine with his brother) Dilandau took his injured face to the infirmary, since he did not particularly trust Dalet's assertion that it would not need stitches. The doctor, however, agreed; all he did was tape the cut closed and apply a more professional-looking gauze pad.

'Come back for a fresh dressing tomorrow,' he said. 'It shouldn't take long to heal. In the meantime you must just keep it clean and protect it.'

Dilandau swallowed a cold lump of fear which was rising in his throat, trying to stop him asking the question, from some blind superstitious feeling that if the subject was not raised then what he dreaded could not occur. 'Am I going to have a scar?' he asked.

'Well, probably,' said the doctor, not unkindly, but as casually as if he spoke only of a minor inconvenience that no-one would mind much. 'Not a big one. A thin red line. It will get less noticeable, and probably fade in colour, as time goes by.' He was turning away from Dilandau as he spoke, putting away the unused cotton and gauze in their drawer, and he could not see the boy's face, but he heard a small choking sound. He turned back, a little concerned. His patient was sitting on the examination bed, chalk-faced and staring. Next to the snowy colour of the sterile dressing, his skin looked yellowish and unhealthy. Of course, he was strikingly pale to begin with; the doctor had been surprised to see an albino who didn't suffer from weak eyes, too. Those sharp red eyes were fixed on a point in the air ahead of them, not focused on the doctor or anything he could see in the room. They seemed to be seeing some private vision of dread. The boy's dry lips parted wordlessly, a shuddery exhalation escaping.

'Of course,' said the doctor, gently, 'after an injury like this it's not uncommon to experience some delayed shock. You're very fortunate not to have lost an eye. Perhaps it would do you good to lie down here and rest for a while, until you feel steadier.' He did not want to alarm Dilandau, but he thought a reaction like that should certainly be kept under observation. In his experience, these very young pilots could be quite highly-strung, and the more insidious effects of trauma on them should not be overlooked. He carefully put his hands to the boy's shoulders, left bare by his light undershirt, and guided him to lie down on the bed.

'Just relax. Nurse will bring you a cup of tea.'

'I - I shouldn't…' Dilandau muttered. 'The Dragonslayers…'

'They'll manage without you for a short time,' the doctor assured him. 'I only want you to rest this afternoon.'

'You can't tell me what to do,' Dilandau said, although he did not make any visible effort to rise from the pillow.

'Of course not. I'm only asking you.'

'All right then.' He gave in, just for the time being. The cut was aching again after the doctor's examination, and he felt so tense that his lunch was bubbling and threatening to rise from his stomach. The tea, brought by a nurse in soft, vague powder-blue, was hot, sweet and soothing, and unknown to him contained a mild sedative. He drank it in slow sips, looking at the blue of her uniform rather than raising his eyes and seeing the pity he was sure her face expressed. The colour somehow made him feel sleepy, and when he had put down the cup he decided to rest his eyes a little.

When he woke it was evening already, the lights were off and the examination room was deserted. Someone had covered him with a quilt as though they expected him to spend the night there. As he sat up the cold of the room struck him, and he hastily grabbed his thick leather jacket from the chair by the bed and pulled it on. Its weight was reassuring, protective. He sat for a long moment, eyes closed, contemplating the feeling of the soft lining, the familiar heaviness on his shoulders of the armour-plating. Dilandau loved his uniform every bit as much as its designer could have wished. It told the world not only what organisation he belonged to, but who he was, an immensely important person within that organisation, of course. It was cleaned and polished with a regularity and assiduity which actually threatened to make it wear out sooner than normal, just from the rubbing. He would have to make sure the soiled glove got special attention, or perhaps even that it was replaced.

At last he began to feel warm again, perhaps partly because he was becoming angry. He should not have been left alone like this, and he should not have been allowed to sleep so long. He slipped down from the bed and went to give the doctor a piece of his mind.

It was a measure of the man's professionalism that he insisted that before Dilandau left the infirmary he should put some ice on his bruised knuckles.

Dilandau dropped the ice-pack into a garbage chute on his way back to the dormitory. By now dinner would be over and the Dragonslayers should be engaged in silent study of one of Lord Dornkirk's texts assigned to them. That was one of his least favourite parts of the day, since he found reading of any kind very dull and the Emperor's writing style was no ball of fire either… but at least it would be restful and orderly. Besides, if he felt like it he could draw the velvet curtains around his bed, a luxury the other boys did not have, and no-one would be able to see if he was reading or not. The privileges of rank, he thought, and smiled, although the smile faded very quickly as he felt the stiffness of the bandage when his face moved. The cut was not really hurting any more, but he could feel it all the time nevertheless.

I'll feel better in the dorm, he told himself, and reached for the doorhandle. He stopped, puzzled, with his hand on the knob, as he heard what sounded very like a quiet laugh from within. Without supervision, they must be goofing off. There was nothing to laugh at in anything Dornkirk had written. He would have to crack down on them. The ice had been a good thing after all; he was ready for more.

He opened the door quietly, the better to catch them by surprise and frighten them. The boys on the beds nearest the door noticed him first, and a wave of startled, guilty silence ran ahead of him along the length of the room. They had turned it into an unofficial rest period, with extras. Someone had smuggled food and bottles in; Guimel was taking a drink at the moment he spotted his commander and choked very messily. No-one dared speak until Dilandau did. No-one dared warn anyone else.

Some beds were not being sat upon because Gatti's card-school was in operation again. The game was apparently so interesting that none of the circle of eagerly-bent heads surrounding his bed looked up at Dilandau's approach. He felt as though his stare should burn holes in them. There was Dalet's sleek brown bob, and Biore's wussy tendril-curls… and a head of glossy black hair, somewhere between spiky and floppy, which was suddenly thrown back as its owner laughed again.

It was a pleasant, light-hearted laugh, the same one he had heard from the corridor. 'All right, all right, you beat me fair and square. You're the best bluffer I ever saw, Migel,' Van said, shaking his head and smiling.

'Comes from learning to keep a straight face when he's in one of his moods,' said Migel, sounding half amused, half guilty. 'Sometimes I get so freaked I think I'm going to giggle, or something crazy like that.'

'You think I'm funny, Migel?' Dilandau said softly, right by Migel's ear. He had a special voice for these moments, one that was quiet but that cut straight into the hindbrain and paralysed with fear.

Migel's eyes widened as the colour drained out of his face. Every boy in the circle, as though dragged by puppet-strings, turned to look at Dilandau.

'N-no - I mean - I mean you frighten me - I mean…' Migel froze, aware that nothing he could say could possibly make it better and might very well make it ten times worse.

'What is he doing here?' Dilandau asked. His voice was still utterly cold and controlled, but his fists were closed so tightly his fingers ached.

'He?'

'He means me,' said Van, casually, throwing down his cards. 'I guess we're not speaking.' He turned and smiled at Dilandau, and got up from his seat on the side of the bed.

'I'll speak to you,' Dilandau said, facing him in the central gangway. 'I'll tell you to get out.'

'But I was invited in.' Van hooked his thumbs in his belt and looked complacent.

'By whom!?'

'I don’t remember exactly. But I was certainly told I could come in, and I was certainly told I could join in the game, and it's not as though I've been a bad guest. I ordered the food for us. You're welcome to a share if you're peckish. Didn't you miss dinner? Where were you, anyway?'

'It is none of your business. You may think it's clever to come in here with bribes to try to make yourself popular, but I despise that sort of behaviour.' Dilandau's eyes flicked downward. 'What is that you're wearing?'

'It's my dressing-gown.' It was a loose garment of dull-finished black silk with red embroidered dragons on the lapels. To Dilandau's own irritation he found himself coveting it.

'We have a uniform,' he said. 'Some of us are proud to wear it. Some are even worthy to wear it.'

'Oh, for goodness' sake, I'm just wearing it over the shirt and pants,' Van said peevishly. 'Do you seriously think it matters to keep all that scrap-metal on right up until you go to bed? Don't you ever want to unclench a little and be comfortable?'

'I am comfortable!'

'You don't look like it. You look distinctly flustered.' That superior smile again.

Dilandau struck him squarely across the face. Every one of the Dragonslayers winced in sympathy. Van's head was snapped over to one side with the force of the blow. For a moment he remained motionless in that position of recoil. Then he raised his head slowly, with an air of menace which chilled the onlookers. Dilandau was not intimidated. He was holding on to the frisson of power he had felt as he landed that slap. His heart gave a little trip-step, and for some reason he was breaking out in a tingling sweat.

'Thank you,' Van said, 'for giving me an excuse.' His left cheekbone was flushed angry red. Dilandau's lips twitched into a beatific smile at the sight. He thought he could actually see a tear glistening in the corner of Van's eye. Even if they were only watering from the sting, how glorious to have brought tears to those eyes.

He should have watched Van's hands, not his eyes. They shot out together as Van sprang forward, one flashing to the back of his head, one seizing his face. Van's fingers twisted and clenched in the longer locks of hair at the back of Dilandau's head and dragged it back, forcing the whole of his body into an awkward posture, knees bent and back tilted. The hand across his face… suddenly all he was aware of was that Van's thumb was right on the dressing, a layer of gauze away from the cut that had not even had a chance to scab over. A spike of nausea shot up in his stomach. Where had his advantage gone? Where was his power?

Van pulled down on his handful of hair, forcing Dilandau to sink lower and enabling the shorter boy to loom over the taller.

'Maybe,' he said, a touch breathlessly, 'I should have taken that as a compliment. That's the way you treat your friends, isn't it? I can't believe how they take it. And I can't believe how they talk about you. Talk about popular. This is the most twisted set-up I've ever seen, and the marvel is how you get away with it. Am I hurting you?'

'Van-sama, please…' Chesta started to say, but he was hushed by Biore. To interfere, even on Dilandau's behalf, would not earn them his favour. Already the sound of Van's name with the honorific attached was hurting Dilandau far more than the pull on his scalp. He could not show pain. He could not show weakness. That would complete his destruction in the eyes of his subordinates, wretched traitors though they were. He set his teeth, although his lips were awkwardly forced apart by the pressure of Van's fingers, and glared up at him with pure fury. Stare him out… wait for an opening…

'This is a nasty cut,' Van said, and slowly dragged his thumb down the length of the dressing. The pressure was agonising. A wordless hiss escaped between Dilandau's teeth. He could not look away from Van's eyes, from the dilating darkness at their heart, black holes opening to swallow him up. The sweat had turned icy cold, and his shirt felt drenched with it. Far from its earlier excited acceleration, his heartbeat seemed to be slowing, as though whatever impulse made it pump was travelling more slowly, bogged down in a cold slush of fear. It was as though the life was being drawn out of him, like those horror stories you heard of the Deceptants, subhuman soul-vampires that could snuff out a person's existence and usurp his place in the world, stealing even his form and face… his face… his own face was reflected in Van's devouring eyes, and it looked so weak and white and crumpled that he did not want to own it.

'You sadistic bastard,' he managed to say. Even speaking his hatred did not break the spell that bound him.

'They say we hate our own qualities most in others,' said Van. The thumb came up for another stroke, a savage parody of a caress. Where it passed, redness seeped up through the soft white gauze. 'Just learn this, Dilandau. I told you last night but I guess it hasn't sunk in. You're obviously not very bright, but luckily I am very patient. I'll tell you as many times as necessary. You cannot treat me that way. You cannot treat me like one of them. And you should not be treating them that way either.' His breath was hot and humid on Dilandau's face. In this position, his legs were beginning to shake. He struggled to keep them rigid, but it was just not possible.

'Things are going to change, Dilandau,' Van said, 'and you'll find you have to change with them. So don't fight me, because I will only hurt you.' He grinned, tightened his grip until Dilandau felt his eyelids were being pulled back into slits, then let go altogether. Off balance, Dilandau fell and landed, with a bump, on his rear.

'How can you tell him not to abuse us and treat him that way?' Gatti flashed out angrily. 'You came mooching in here looking bored and lonely and we decided to give you the benefit of the doubt. Frankly, I'm sorry we did. We - look, we love Dilandau-sama, and if you're his enemy you're our enemy too.'

'You love him?' Van repeated, incredulously. At his feet, Dilandau cringed at Gatti's embarrassing loyalty. What a pathetic thing to say. He put his hand over his eyes, trying to stop shaking before he attempted to contribute to the debate.

'What's to love?' Van was wondering aloud.

'I just - I mean - look, I didn't mean it to come out like that. It's just that… haven't you ever been truly grateful to someone? You knew that you owed everything good you had to them, to them giving you a chance? That's what Dilandau-sama means to all of us. I can't expect you to feel the same way, but you should be able to understand how we feel, and respect it. Seriously, do you know the kind of thing I'm talking about?' Gatti was blushing rather, but clearly determined to make his point. 'I mean... I am speaking for all of us when I say that, aren't I, lads?' He looked around at the other boys, a little helplessly.

'Absolutely,' said Chesta firmly.

'That's how I've always felt, but I didn't know how to say it as well as you have,' added Guimel. There was a general round of nods and agreements.

The expression on Van's face was difficult to read. A sort of surface blankness seemed to be masking intense thought, as though what he had just heard had made a deep impression upon him but he was in two minds as to how to react to it. His brows drew together darkly, but whether this meant he was displeased or just thoughtful they were not sure.

'I do know what you mean,' he said slowly. 'It still doesn't seem right to me, but I know what you mean…' He looked down at Dilandau. 'That tells me how you get away with it, I suppose. Goodness knows how you did it in the first place, but they're yours… until the day they decide they don't want to be.'

'So… so maybe now we all understand each other,' Chesta said hopefully, 'we could get along better, and you and Dilandau-sama could be friends, Van-sa - Van?' He remembered himself and cast a guilty look at Dilandau. They had all slipped into saying Van-sama somehow, since he had sort of taken the lead over the course of the afternoon and evening. It sounded all wrong now that Dilandau-sama was here.

Van smiled, shaking his head gently. 'You really are a nice boy, Chesta. I wish I were one too, but I just can't make myself feel that way. For what it's worth, I'm sorry I upset you guys.'

Dilandau pushed himself to his feet. The Dragonslayers, who had come forward a little in the course of backing up Gatti, took half a step backwards and then tried to look as if they had not. He rose to his full height, his straightness of bearing emphasising that it was greater than Van's, and looked down at him bleakly.

'Leave now,' he said. 'I think even you must be satisfied by now. Just leave.'

Van looked him in the eye, and he forced himself to stare back without flinching, although by now being stared at by Van made him more uncomfortable than almost anything. He would not drop his gaze first. Van's eyes were not openly hostile; they seemed to be searching him, analysing and criticising him; they seemed to see everything he kept hidden. I only think that because I'm upset, he soothed himself. He has no power over me. He kept his face as dead as he possibly could, giving nothing away.

Van's eyes moved from Dilandau's own eyes to the crumpled dressing on his cheek, retracing the line his thumb had made down its surface. Perhaps there was a flicker of satisfaction in them before he turned away and walked to the door.

Dilandau did not turn or move until he heard the door click closed. When he heard that, he did not sag at the shoulders, he did not relax, but his level of tension seemed to move down one notch. Wordlessly, he walked over to his bed and tugged at the cord that drew the heavy crimson curtains across. For some reason, his fingers had difficulty in managing it. He stood looking at the cord in his hand, at the twisting strands of some slightly shiny fibre. It seemed to expand to fill his whole view. He almost did not want to move. They were whispering together on the other side of the room.

Someone stepped up behind him.

'Dilandau-sama?' said Chesta apprehensively. 'We're all sorry. We understand that you're angry, and we know you'll punish us. But we want you to know that none of us meant to betray you.' He fought the instincts that screamed at him to put his arms over his head and duck while he had time.

Nothing happened. Dilandau-sama still stood there, looking at the curtain cord as if it were the only real thing in his presence.

'Dilandau-sama?' quavered Guimel, coming up behind Chesta. 'Aren't you going to punish us?'

'I'm… too tired to think what to do to you right now,' Dilandau said. His voice was low and hollow. 'And it's not your place to hurry me. Wait till morning. I'll tell you then. In the meantime, put that crap away and go to bed. And everyone is to leave me completely alone.' He paused, twisting the cord. 'You all will anyway.'

No-one was sure what to say. In the past couple of days all the rules for understanding Dilandau-sama, uncertain as they had been, seemed to have gone out the window.

'No we won't,' said Guimel, who was not widely regarded as the most perceptive boy in the unit.

'People always leave me alone,' Dilandau said. He was not sure himself why he was saying it. It just seemed to him to be true. It must be the right way for things to be. 'I would like all of you to understand one thing quite clearly. We are not friends. I am your captain. I have observed a distinct tendency lately for you to forget that. Your admiration and respect are welcome. They're natural and proper. Don't allow your enthusiasm to lead you into the error of presuming upon our connection. I don't need friends like you.'

The silence behind him had a hot, hurt quality. Perhaps this was an even better way to punish them than the usual physical blows. It was true. He did not need such weak, foolish people. They were fit to serve him and nothing more. He did not even need these particular ones. There would always be people to serve someone like him. It was the natural order of things. Van simply had to be ignored as an aberration, a freak. That was the only way to deal with his existence. Seeing things this way was the only way to be able to carry on.

'All right, Dilandau-sama,' said Chesta quietly. 'We didn't know you felt that way. We regret having behaved so inappropriately. We'll all try to serve you better in future.'

Dilandau drew the curtains closed around his bed and stepped behind them. Sitting on top of the scarlet quilt, he could hear the subdued sounds of the boys tidying up and preparing for bed, not daring to talk among themselves except for strictly necessary communication. Slowly, mechanically, he undressed and laid his clothes on the lid of his foot-locker. Sometimes, self-indulgently, he slept naked, but it was a cold night and somehow he did not want that feeling of intimacy with himself anyway. He put on his pajamas and lay down in bed, flat and straight on his back, arms at his sides. He was not sure he would be able to get to sleep now, after that long nap in the infirmary. On the other hand, he felt too tired even to go to the washbasins to clean his teeth.

He moved his head on the pillow, seeking a comfortable position, and the movement put pressure on his cut. A twist of pain went through it, and hot tears welled in his eyes. They were strictly an involuntary reaction to physical discomfort. They kept running because the cut was still throbbing from Van's abuse. They scattered as he blinked, wetting his ears, rolling down beside his nose and making their way to the stretching corners of his mouth where he tasted the salt. These were purely tears of pain. He would not cry for rage, or humiliation, or grief. He was fine. He was strong.

Without quite realising it, he had crossed his arms over his chest, holding himself, hugging himself. After a time, with a strange chilly feeling of despair, he sought comfort in physical pleasure. It did not feel the same as it always had. The despair intensified and caught at him with dark claws as he realised that he was no longer the boy he had always loved. He was not perfect any more. Van had done that to him; he had diminished him in the eyes of others and even in his own estimation. However he stroked himself now, however he tried to induce the warm dream-state of arousal, the coldness was still there and satisfaction was impossible.

Eventually his hand stole up to his face and traced once again the path of pain and disfigurement. Warm salt water soaked the bandage and diluted the red stain. In the end, he later supposed, he must have slept.

He woke sometime in the very early hours of the morning, soaking with sweat and shivering violently. He had been having some kind of nightmare, a formless swirl of confusion and panic. His own skin stank to him. He sat up in bed, smoothing back his wet hair again and again, trying to feel calm. His empty stomach was twisting and roiling.

I need to pee. That'll probably be it. I'll just go to the toilet and then I'll feel better. I can take care of myself easily. He slipped out through the curtains and padded across the sleeping dormitory to the locker-room. Using the lavatory did not make much difference to how he felt, only relieving a minor discomfort. He washed his hands and face, bathing his sweating forehead with cool water, closing his eyes against the bluish gas-light burning in the wall sconce. The adhesive on the gauze bandage gave up the ghost and it dropped off, slapping wetly into the washbasin, off-white against the porcelain. He looked up at himself in the big mirror and stared in horror. He looked so terrible, so exhausted and broken down. The cut was still not scabbing properly. A dribble of watery blood continued the curved line down over his wet cheek to the side of his chin. He swept it away with a damp hand and it returned. He wiped at it again and again, his efforts becoming a little hysterical. Nausea was rising and for some reason his back ached horribly. Suddenly he was so dizzy that he had to brace his arms on the washbasin rim and lean there helplessly until his head cleared a little.

I am not well. I am very, very ill. The blade of the sword was poisoned. Or his hand rubbed some virulent germ through the dressing. Or just his touch has made me sick. I'm contaminated. God, if I had keeled over just now and hit my head on the tiles I could have died. I could die! The possibility had never presented itself to him so directly before. He must go and tell the doctors instantly before things got worse. He must be helped. He waited until he felt sufficiently steady on his feet to let go of the washbasin. He did not want to wake any of the others. This was his business. He went out through the training hall and walked carefully through the dark passages, one hand against the wall just in case. Why did no sentries cross his path? Why did no-one notice that he was not all right? He was not sure he was going the right way. Everything looked different when it was so dark and his sense of balance was only intermittent. His head was far too hot and his feet were painfully cold.

He came to a door that he thought was in the right place, but it was too hard to read the sign in the dark. It might have said 'Infirmary.' There was a light shining in the cracks above and beneath it. He put his hands on the knob, but could not go on, arrested by a contraction of pain in his spine and another rising whirl of giddiness and nausea. He tried to fight it down, but it grabbed him and pulled him down into darkness with it.

Fortunately, the sliding thump of his body falling against the door alerted the nurse on night duty inside. Looking outside, she quickly called to a colleague to help her bring him in.

'He was here earlier today, wasn't he?' the second nurse said as they lifted him, unconscious but shuddering, onto a gurney. 'This is the pretty one all you girls have crushes on.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' the younger nurse said crossly, colouring a little. 'He's someone very important. It'll be terrible if he's seriously ill. I'll get him into bed and call Doctor Kalderemis. You'd better see that the Strategos is informed.'

Folken was replaying the footage of Van in the dormitory, as he had been doing for some hours, when the message came to him. As he rose to go to the infirmary and take matters in hand, he became aware of the stiffness of sitting still for so long. He glanced at the image on the screen, where he had frozen the display; Dilandau bent almost double and Van… Van torturing him, there was no other name for it. He had not expected this. He passed his good hand wearily over his face as he walked. If the situation escalated to the point where it was disruptive, he would have to account for what he had been doing. He did not look forward to that.

In the infirmary, another sorcerer had already arrived, dismissing Dr Kalderemis. He was one of the old guard who tended to resent Folken for having arrived from the sticks, learned everything they could teach him faster than anyone on record, and gone on to improve on their best work in directions they had never thought of. In a strange way, it struck them as ungrateful. He was observing the semi-conscious figure on the bed with a sort of gloomy satisfaction. Dilandau was in restraints to prevent him falling to the floor in his convulsions. These had been violent earlier, but now he was only trembling.

'Reversion,' the sorcerer said as Folken approached, not bothering with a greeting. 'We thought it might happen under stress. That's the trouble with altering the morphic field. For some reason, it's very difficult to do in the first place, but once it has been done it can happen again and again with increasing ease. The problem is that at some level his body knows another shape is possible, and thinks it might be safer than the one it's in. Here we are, fighting a war, it's too much for him and it's having the psychosomatic effect of using the previous morphic configuration as a sort of bolt-hole.'

'Dilandau was brought up for war,' Folken said. 'I don't think you can attribute the reversion simply to the stress of combat. He likes fighting.' He bent forward to examine the way Dilandau's eyelids were flickering, and gently felt his forehead. No thermometer was necessary to determine that he was running a high temperature.

'Well then, why do you think it's happening?' the sorcerer asked peevishly.

'Oh, I agree with your diagnosis of stress triggering the reversion. It's simply not combat stress. There's a… personal situation.'

'How can he have a personal situation?' the sorcerer said. 'He's completely self-centred. All our analysis shows it. He doesn't appear to have proper relationships with anyone he knows.'

'Perhaps not normal relationships,' Folken murmured, still intent on observing the twitching of the boy's facial muscles, 'but he's not made of stone. Besides, your last psychological assessment of the subject was four months ago. He's a growing boy.' He stepped back and looked at the intravenous drip bag hanging on its stand, one-third filled with a murky blue liquid. 'You're trying to stabilise him?'

'Well, obviously.' The sorcerer was indignant. He took off his pince-nez glasses and polished them on a cloth drawn from his sleeve.

'Don't,' said Folken. 'If you've given him that much already and he hasn't settled, I don't think he's going to tonight. It would be less traumatic overall to let him revert and recuperate a little before attempting to restore the Dilandau configuration.' He waited a moment before looking up at the other black-clad man. 'He is my responsibility. So I assure you I take full responsibility for whatever happens if you follow my instructions.'

The sorcerer gave Folken a very hard look before replacing the spectacles on his nose. 'Just as well,' he said, and rang for a nurse to remove the drip from Dilandau's arm.

'He should be sedated and left to sleep until the physical distress subsides,' Folken said. He gently put a hand to Dilandau's cheek, tilting his head so that he could see the cut on his cheek better. It looked a little inflamed.

'I'll get a fresh dressing on that directly,' said the nurse, thinking he was pointing out what needed to be done.

'Don't bother,' said Folken. 'It will be unnecessary shortly. You'll be briefed on the special care this patient will require.' He was still looking at the swollen cut. 'Do you believe in serendipity?' he asked the other sorcerer.

'Unexpected good fortune? Things showing up by chance exactly when you need them? It's a nice plot device for a fairy-tale, but it doesn't happen in real life,' the older man said scornfully.

'Perhaps not…' Folken said thoughtfully. 'I think what's more likely is that opportunities present themselves all the time, but most people don't notice all of them. Those who appear to experience serendipity are in fact simply very good at recognising an opportunity. They're always thinking about how they can use everything that comes their way.'

'What are you going on about?' the sorcerer asked irritably. He was a practical medical magician who did not see any need for philosophical discussions in the middle of the night.

'Just that it's funny how an arising problem can turn into a possible solution for another problem,' Folken said, and turned to go.

When morning had fairly broken, the Dragonslayers, thoroughly alarmed to find their commander gone from his bed when they awoke, were informed by a messenger that he was on temporary sick leave and until his return Van Fanel would take over his duties. They were to go to breakfast as normal and continue with a regular training day, pending further notice.

'This is bad,' said Chesta. He stood in the gangway in his nightshirt chewing his lip. 'Do you think he left because of us? I mean, he was really angry last night.'

'Don't just stand there thinking about it, get dressed,' said Dalet impatiently. He was feeling both panicky and guilty, thinking of how Dilandau's face had looked last night, and it was making him feel worse to hear Chesta whimpering. The thing to do now was to try to be efficient, to keep things going so well that when Dilandau-sama came back he would be proud of them. If he ever would be proud of them. The zip on his left boot stuck as he tried to pull it up and he painfully pinched his fingers fixing it.

'What worries me is this thing about Van Fanel,' said Migel soberly. 'I hate to say it, but do you think he's had Dilandau-sama put out of the way so he can take over? They hate each other so much… I don't understand why it's so personal with them. We attacked his country too but he seems all right with us. Why do they hate each other so?'

'Some people just do,' said Gatti. 'Comb your hair. You have bed head. We mustn't let our standards slip without him.'

'No matter what happens,' Migel retorted, 'I hope I can remember to comb my hair in the morning. Seriously, do you think he might have? I don't understand him. Like I said, he's been decent to us, but with Dilandau-sama…'

'Dilandau-sama wouldn't let him do a thing like that, would he?' asked Chesta, wringing his hands.

'Chesta,' everyone else shouted, 'get dressed!'

'Maybe it's not a question of letting,' said Biore darkly, as Chesta scurried to get his clothes on. 'Maybe he couldn't stop him. Who knows what someone as violent as that might do? And he's got influence because he's the Strategos' brother. When you think about it, who does Dilandau-sama have to back him up except us? We all have families, but I've never heard him talk about any relatives or anything.'

'He's a private person,' Chesta said, zipping his pants. 'I expect he just didn't think it was appropriate to tell us personal things like that. You heard him last night. I think we've all been really annoying him for a long time, acting too chummy…'

'We do not act chummy,' said Gatti. 'He got on his high horse because he was embarrassed and angry and we let him down. And he hasn't got any family, because when we had our physicals last year the nurse left some files on the desk when she went to do something and I was curious so I looked. It said he hasn't got any known relatives at all.'

'That was pretty nosey of you,' said Dalet, disapprovingly.

'Well, he's so mysterious,' Gatti said, shrugging. 'I always wanted to know more about him. How much does any of us really know? Besides what you can just find out from being around him every day. He's the same age as the rest of us, but where's he from? Who are his people? What do they do?' He sighed. 'I suppose that sounds like I'm being a snob. I just wanted to know what sort of background produces, well, Dilandau-sama.'

'Aristocracy,' Biore suggested. 'Natural leaders.'

'Which would explain why he hates Van,' said Dalet briskly. 'Royalty are always scrapping. Half of them can't stand the sight of each other and the rest are married to each other's cousins. Or their own cousins.'

'I didn't know you were such a republican,' said Migel, sounding amused. He looked at the clock and sighed. 'We'd better get moving. Hand up anyone who's looking forward to this.'

Chapter Text

When Van went to have lunch with Folken (Folken seemed to want this to become a tradition) he was in the sort of mood he could only define as 'out of sorts with himself.' On the one hand, Dilandau seemed to have disappeared without trace in the night. No more stubborn opposition, no more hateful attitude, no more baleful staring, no more… when he got right down to it, it was hard to define exactly what he hated so much about the guy. Perhaps it was knowing that Dilandau hated him. Perhaps it was, very reasonably, what Dilandau had done in Fanelia, but for some reason, when he thought about that now it seemed faint and distant, as though it had receded behind more recent events that seemed more real to him. Perhaps that was his own mind protecting him from painful feelings. Fanelia, in his mind, was like faraway foothills, which you see through a blue haze of distance even on a clear day. Perhaps it was simply that he knew now that the present, and what he could do for the future, were more important than the past. When he tried too hard to think about these things, he became very confused, even to the point of developing a headache. He had to leave a lot of thoughts at the 'perhaps' stage and focus on that of which he could be certain.

Since he was certain he hated Dilandau, and wanted to defeat him, he should have felt happy about his disappearance, but certain things about it niggled at him. Firstly, that he just disappeared. Where had he gone? When? Why? Had he simply lost his nerve and bolted? Was he AWOL somewhere? Somehow the 'sick leave' explanation didn't ring true to Van, and yet he really hadn't thought Dilandau would be the type to walk away from their fight if he could help it. Secondly, that there had been no clear victory before he vanished. It wasn't a real win if his opponent had simply withdrawn from the game. Van had been looking forward to really breaking him.

Then there were the Dragonslayers. He had anticipated a certain amount of opposition from them to his leadership, but there was none. They were perfectly obedient to him and had said nothing at all about their precious Dilandau-sama. It was the quality of their obedience that got to him. It was so much on principle. Of course, that was how it should be; they should obey their commander because he was their commander, not because they personally wanted to please him. But they had wanted to please Dilandau. There had been no principle about it. Even if Gatti had tried to back down from saying they loved him, it was pretty clear that they had had a sort of massive collective hero-worship crush on him. It was ridiculous. Van could have liked them except that this weakness made them so easy to despise.

So the morning had been unsatisfying. Seeing Folken would probably make him feel better. Perhaps he could advise him, or perhaps, when asked nicely, he would provide the information that would make all this make sense. Van reached the door of Folken's quarters and tapped for entry.

Folken seemed unusually happy today. That was an observation that needed to be qualified quite a lot before it would be correctly understood by an outsider. By most people's standards he was still quite sombre, but Van had the impression that some pleasing thought kept recurring to his mind, although he was not, apparently, willing to share it at this stage. Lunch was excellent, so much better than the food the Dragonslayers were given that Van ate rather a lot in the hope of filling up and being less hungry for dinner.

'You eat as though you've been starved,' Folken commented. 'Three bowls of soup, and the steak and kidney pie is rapidly disappearing. I shall have to have you wormed.'

'Don't be disgusting,' Van protested. 'I've never had worms in my life.'

'Growing up alongside a cat? I'm a little surprised. They're transmitted so easily if you share food. It's a shame we can't have your little Merle here with us. She must miss you.'

Van paused with a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. For a moment, he actually thought 'Merle who?' Then the memory shuffled into place and he was embarrassed at himself.

'Oh,' he said, a little vaguely. 'Yes. Poor Merle… But I'm sure someone is taking care of her.' He paused and thought again. 'Hitomi would take care of her.' He went back to the steady demolition of the steak and kidney pie.

'That will be a comfort to her,' Folken said. 'To both of them. It's strange how comforting it can be to take care of someone else. When you have to be strong for them, sometimes it gets easier to be strong in all ways. And being gentle in strength helps us to avoid becoming hard. At some stage I must introduce you to my wards Nariya and Eriya. I feel sure you would like them very much. Just now they're on a training mission, and won't be back for several days. I take a certain pride in those girls. I flatter myself that I've been the making of them.'

Van nodded politely, but somewhat to Folken's concern, did not seem very interested. It was fascinating how quickly he had apparently stopped thinking of Merle. He could remember her, of course, but unless prompted he would not consciously do so. Folken was fairly sure that he should not be able to remember the events immediately before his capture at all. He was half-tempted to drop some hints to see if Van could recall Castel Fort, or the name Allen Schezar, but it seemed too risky. Van might surprise him; he could trigger a breakdown in the memory suppression. Merle was a memory dating from childhood and therefore relatively safe to invoke.

'Like you've been the making of me,' Van said, unexpectedly, derailing Folken's train of thought.

'Hmm?'

'Brother, you know I owe you everything.' Van spoke quite earnestly. This was not a suggestion Folken had intentionally implanted. Van seemed somehow to have come up with it by himself, and now believed it implicitly. Folken would have tried to challenge it, except that, once more, making Van question any of his new foundation beliefs might have undermined all of them. Folken found it faintly embarrassing to think that people might get the idea he had done it on purpose.

'You take care of a lot of people, it seems,' Van went on. 'I think it shows the kind of heart you have. I want you to know that I think… well, what's done is done, but I think you could have been a better King than me.' Again, he spoke without evident irony. Folken felt another twinge of guilt at letting him believe such a piece of nonsense, which he suppressed with some exasperation. Outwardly, he smiled slightly and shook his head.

'If that's how you feel,' he said, 'perhaps you would be prepared to do me a small favour.'

'Of course. What did you have in mind?'

'It can wait until you've finished eating. Assuming you ever will finish eating. Please don't shame me by getting fat.'

'As if I would,' Van said, well aware that his brother was only teasing. 'I don't think there's ever been a fat Fanel. Skinniness runs in the family. I just hope I grow up and fill out as well as you have. Did it happen long after you were my age? You were already taller, weren't you?' He looked a little concerned at the thought of being short and thin forever, and helped himself to more steamed rice as a preventative.

'There's nothing wrong with you as you are,' Folken said. 'Don't worry. Your genes won't let you down.'

'My what?'

'I’ll lend you a book that explains it.'

'Will I have much time for reading?' Van looked thoughtful as he polished off the rice. 'I mean, you'll want me to go into battle soon, won't you? I'm surely not just meant to cool my heels with the Dragonslayers. They're combat ready and I think I am too.'

'That will depend on how things go in Freid,' said Folken, 'and on what arrangement we come to with Asturia. A peaceful resolution is possible. That's what I hope for. The goal, after all, is not to escalate war but to end it.'

'Oh,' said Van, looking a little dismayed. 'But then I can't be any help to you. I'll feel really ungrateful and useless not doing anything to pay you back.' He laid down his knife and fork and stared gloomily at his plate.

'You can do me that favour I mentioned. Are you ready now? Don't look so disappointed… there wasn't going to be pudding anyway.'

They walked along corridors Van had not been in before. Folken was not someone who made conversation while he walked with you, and he did not seem to feel it was necessary to explain where they were going before they got there. Van contented himself with keeping alert, remembering the way, noting the details of his surroundings. There were no clues as to what lay at the end of the journey, but he had the impression that they were moving upward, and towards the core of the floating fortress.

Finally Folken stopped at a tall door of frosted glass.

'I want you to follow me in quietly,' he said. 'Avoid making sudden movements, and wait until I indicate that you should speak. All right?'

'All right,' said Van, wondering why it had to be so mysterious.

'Come in, then,' Folken said, operating a combination lock and sliding the door open.

Van stepped through behind him and caught his breath. This was the last thing he would have expected to find at the heart of a fortress. It was a garden, canopied with glass through which he saw the thin blue sky above and around the floating stone hulk. Perhaps because of the sun coming through that greenhouse roof, or perhaps because of some kind of heating and humidifying system, the air was warm, moist and balmy here, in striking contrast to the sterile chill of most rooms on the Vione. This felt like a place apart from changing seasons. Here it was permanently the most verdant, caressing phase of Spring. The ground was covered by thick, softly shining grass liberally sprinkled with clover and other small wildflowers. A soft, shifting hum denoted the droning presence of honeybees. There were young trees around the perimeter of the garden chamber, but most of the greenery was low-growing, lovely scented bushes and beds of flowers you wanted to lie down and sleep in forever. Van's clothes felt too heavy and his feet felt imprisoned in their thick socks and hard boots. This was a place to walk barefoot. He had a sudden surprising vision of himself and his brother as if from outside, and was struck by what sinister, alien things they appeared in the midst of this soft beauty. Folken was like a piece of midwinter night that had strayed into the daytime, and he, Van, reminded himself of a large black and red insect with a shining carapace. They were sputtering inkblots on soft pink tissue-paper. They seemed so artificial… and yet this whole garden was as much the product of artifice and technology as the tiny screws in Folken's metal arm and the zips and hooks in Van's clothing.

'Do you like this?' Folken murmured. Mindful of the injunction not to speak, and in any case dumbfounded by his surroundings, Van just nodded.

'Follow me,' Folken said, and led the way across the grassy space at the centre of the garden. This was landscaped into the form of a gently dipping little dell. In this depression the grass grew more lushly, tall enough to brush the brothers' ankles as they walked. It partly obscured the form that lay on the ground, but as they drew nearer Van clearly saw it was a person dressed in teal-blue - a girl dressed in teal-blue, lying curled on her side and gazing with minute concentration at a ladybug working its way along her index finger.

Folken stopped when they still stood a little way off, and said quietly 'Hello. We've come to visit you.'

The girl slowly rolled into a half-sitting position, propped on her elbow, and looked up at them with wide milky-blue eyes. There was something newborn about those eyes, something both innocent and uncomprehending. They were very lovely eyes, too. Van had not met many girls this pretty and he found himself feeling shy on many levels; because she was pretty, because he had just been thinking of himself as something rather ugly, because seeing her lying there like that made him feel oddly as though he had walked into her bedroom. She had very fair, fine-looking skin and ash-blonde hair shot through with silver. The silver threads suggested elderliness, but he had never seen such a young-looking face on anyone his own age. He thought she must be his age. For some reason, he wanted her to be.

Folken, moving very gradually and deliberately, sank down to crouch on his heels and look the girl in the eye. It was the first time Van had seen him make a concession to being taller than most people.

'Do you remember how I came to see you this morning?' he asked. His voice had acquired a softness that was new to Van, too - new until he remembered hearing it as a child. This was Folken's to-a-baby voice. He never used foolish-sounding 'baby talk' but he did have a special tone reserved for the very young. Hearing it again made Van wish he were still small enough to be hugged and petted.

The girl frowned as though remembering this morning took quite a lot of effort. Then her face cleared and brightened with a radiance that made Van blink. 'Yes,' she said. That appeared to be all.

'This afternoon,' Folken went on, 'I've brought someone with me. It's my little brother, Van. That's him behind me. Van, will you come here and say hello?'

Van knelt down beside Folken. He supposed that was his cue to speak. 'Hello,' he said, and heard his voice croak slightly. 'I mean, hello,' he tried again, a little more smoothly.

'Van, this is Celena,' Folken went on, continuing to use that gentle voice, and his eyes were still on the girl. 'She's lost her memory and her family. We are taking care of her here, but I think it's rather lonely for her. I thought you two might make good friends. Would you be willing to stay here for a while and talk with her?'

'Y-es,' said Van, hesitantly, 'but what about my duties?'

'You won't miss anything important. And I would be very grateful to you if you'd do this thing for me. I can't stay with her, you see, and she needs companionship. I'm attempting to locate someone I believe to have been her former guardian, but until then… if you would be so kind?'

'Of course,' Van said hastily. He had not meant to appear reluctant to do as Folken wished. 'I just didn't want to let you down about the other stuff.'

Folken turned to him and spoke more quietly, but in his normal tone. 'Celena's amnesia is quite severe. She has forgotten a great deal of things that you might consider common sense. You will need to be patient with her. What I particularly want you to do is to try to get her to have normal conversations, to engage with another person in a manner appropriate for her age. It may take a while, and you shouldn't expect success on the first day, but I think I can rely on you to do it.'

'I hope you can always rely on me, brother,' Van said. He did not quite understand Folken's confidence, since he had never thought of conversation as his strong point, but he would do his best. It was not at all the sort of assignment he had expected, but really, how hard could it be?

'Good,' said Folken, and rose to his feet. 'I'll leave you together, then. I'll call for you later, Van. If you need anything there is an intercom by the door. The door is self-locking for security, but the guards in this sector can let you out if necessary.' He nodded to the girl. 'I'll see you later, Celena,' he said, his voice softening again. 'Be a good girl for Van.'

'Bye,' said Celena. She watched Folken walking away for a moment, but then she was distracted by the tickle of the ladybug's feet on her finger and turned back to watch it. Van watched her uncertainly. What was a good way to open a conversation? Perhaps he should just pick on something in their surroundings and make a comment.

'Are you going to make a wish?' he asked her. She looked up at him in puzzlement.

'On the ladybird,' he explained. 'You need to make a wish before it flies away.' She still did not respond, but she looked interested. 'When you've made your wish and you want it to go, there's some rhyme you're supposed to say… ladybug, ladybug, fly away home… but you need to think of a wish first.' This seemed like a promising topic, something he could remember discussing before. 'If you could have three wishes, what would they be?'

'I… don't know,' she said. She had a pretty little voice, quite low for a girl. She seemed to have a slight, lilting Asturian accent, setting her apart from the flat vowels of Zaibach speakers and the soft Fanelian burr that Van noticed more in his own voice since he had been here. Folken had almost lost it, but he still did not sound exactly as though he was from Zaibach.

'Well, would you wish to be rich? A lot of people would.'

Celena shrugged. He seemed to be losing her to the bug.

'What would I wish for?' Van wondered aloud. 'Well… I would use the first wish for my brother. I would wish for his plans to work out right, for him to be happy. Second… I think I'd wish for the people of Fanelia to be happy. Fanelia's my country, you know. Once I've finished helping Folken I suppose I'll go back there and start again. It'll depend on what he wants me to do. Third… I don't know. I think I'd wish not to have wings.'

Celena's face clouded again. 'That's backwards,' she said. 'You mean you'd wish to have wings.' That was the longest sentence she'd spoken so far. She seemed to be waking up.

'No I wouldn't,' he said. 'I've got them and don't want them.'

'Where?' she asked, looking curiously at his shoulders.

'They're put away right now,' he said. 'I don't like people to see them.'

Suddenly Celena laughed. 'You're tricking,' she said. 'You're silly.'

'No, honestly,' he protested, rather pleased, 'my brother has them too. Big wings with soft black feathers.' A little self-consciously, he unhooked his collar and reached inside to draw up the thin cord around his neck. He had picked this up from the floor without Folken noticing and he was not sure it would please him. 'This is my brother's.' He showed her the black feather, its down somewhat the worse for wear. She bent close to stare at it between his fingers and thumb. Acting on an impulse, he used it to tickle her nose. She started back with an exclamation of surprise, then began to laugh again.

I am doing well, Van thought. She seems to really like me. I don't think it can be as bad as Folken thought, she talks quite sensibly. She's just a little vague.

However, the trick with the feather seemed to distract Celena for only a few moments before her laughter faded and she returned to her observation of the creeping ladybug. It had trundled all the way to the tip of her finger and was hesitating near the nail, as if weighing up its options.

'Isn't that a pretty little beetle,' Van said gamely. 'Are you fond of insects?'

She only stared harder at the little red-and-black dome. Then, before Van fully understood what she was doing, she opened her mouth and popped her finger inside, ladybug and all. The finger reappeared, wet and without its passenger.

'I didn't mean to eat!' Van exclaimed. 'Celena, spit that out, you're not supposed to do that!' He was fairly sure ladybugs were poisonous; wasn't that what bright coloration was supposed to mean in nature? In some alarm, he forced her mouth open with his fingers. Looking surprised at his objection, she stuck out her tongue. On its pink tip rested the ladybug, very damp and astonished but apparently unharmed. Van flicked it away to land in the grass. That left him holding Celena's chin, which laid him bare to embarrassment on previously undreamt-of levels. He was being much too familiar. He quickly took his hand away and she closed her mouth, wetting her lips nervously as she did so.

'Are you cross?' she asked in a small voice.

'No,' he said, flustered. 'No, not at all, I was only worried, because you could make yourself sick just eating anything you found like that.' He looked around at the garden. 'There are insects here, aren't there? I suppose you couldn't have a garden without insects… wait a moment.' He went over to a likely-looking bush and ferreted about in the earth at its base for a minute. The ground underneath was covered by wood chippings, gently decomposing to enrich the earth, and when he turned over a large piece he found what he was looking for. He returned to Celena with six fat white grubs wriggling in the palm of his gloved hand.

'These are all right to eat,' he told her. 'They have a nice nutty flavour. They're better toasted, but they're perfectly good raw. Three for you and three for me. Here, try one.' She looked apprehensively at the larva coiling round upon itself as he offered it to her. 'I can pinch the heads off yours if you want. They stop wriggling that way.'

'No thank you,' said Celena, accepting the grub. She looked at it for a moment more before putting it in her mouth whole and beginning to chew with a preoccupied expression on her face.

'That's quite good, isn't it?' Van asked, watching her closely.

'Itsh rubbery,' she said.

'That's why they're better cooked… cooking softens them… but not bad, right?' He took one for himself.

Celena swallowed and looked pleased with herself. 'Can I have another?'

'Go ahead. You can have mine too. I just had lunch so I'm not that hungry.'

She opened her mouth like a baby bird and waited to be fed in the same way. Van co-operated, although he wondered if this was quite what Folken had had in mind when he spoke of companionship. Still, sharing food was as good a way of making friends as any he knew. It had worked pretty well with the Dragonslayers, until Dilandau had come in bitching. They, however, had seemed fairly sophisticated, and might have objected to him putting grubs in their mouths. Some people seemed to find the idea of insect food distasteful, although Celena, swallowing the last grub now, obviously had no such problem.

'Thank you!' she chirped, reminding him again of a bird.

'My pleasure,' he said. It had been odd to think of Dilandau in this place, if only for a moment. He seemed so far away and unimportant. Van realised that since he had been in Celena's company, he had not really felt worried about anything. The out-of-sorts feeling had melted off. He felt almost like a different person. It really was pleasant to take care of someone, Folken was quite right. He had forgotten what it was like. Celena was certainly very different to anyone Van had looked after before, but he thought he could get the measure of her. All right, so she had no common sense. She had forgotten all sorts of little things. He could teach her all sorts of little things. Once he started filling up her mind with interesting thoughts and facts, probably that would encourage the rest of what she knew to start coming back by itself.

'Celena,' he said, holding up a clover blossom, 'do you know the name of this flower?'

She shook her head.

'It's clover. Bees make very sweet honey from clover, but you mustn't let cattle eat it because it gives them bloat. And if you find a four-leafed clover, you should keep it because it'll bring you luck.'

'Clover,' she repeated, taking the pink and white flower from his hand and looking at it carefully. 'Not to eat, right?'

'No,' he said, smiling, 'you're quite right. And this one? Do you know its name?'

She frowned. 'Dai… daisy?'

'That's right! Good girl. That name means "the day's eye," because daisies open up like eyes when the sun rises and close again when it sets. Put it with the clover.' She dropped both flowers in her lap.

'Now how about this one?' Van went on. 'It shouldn't really be here, it's a weed. The name is…?'

For a moment it looked as though Celena knew the answer, but then her face fell and she shook her head.

'That's all right, it's a long one, it's hard to remember. Dandelion. From the old words dent-de-lion - lion's tooth. See how the shape of the leaves is jagged, like an animal's jaws? And you can eat those. Have a dandelion salad to finish off your lunch. This is a young dandelion - see the yellow petals? Old dandelions turn white and fluffy, and they're another thing you can make wishes on. I'll teach you how if we find one.'

'Can lots of things make wishes for you?' Celena asked eagerly. Van paused, thinking about it.

'Well, I can't promise you that the wishes ever come true. But it's fun to pretend that they might. You never know your luck. There are all sorts of things that let you make a wish… ladybugs, shooting stars, thistledown, a penny in a well… some people say wishes really are magic. I don't know. I've made a lot of wishes in my life that never came true.'

'Maybe you didn't make them right,' Celena suggested. 'Are there rules?'

'Of course there are. There are always rules with magic. Usually you have to keep the wish a secret, or it definitely won't come true. Sometimes you have to close your eyes. Sometimes you have to blow something away… you do that with dandelion fluff, and… well, look, I can give you an example. You have an eyelash on your cheek. Hold very still so I can get it off for you.' He carefully removed the stray eyelash from just below her right eye. She had such dark eyelashes for a fair-haired girl; they were long, thick and gave a dreaming look to her face.

'Now,' he said, holding up his finger with the eyelash on the tip, 'you must think of your wish - don't tell me, or it won't come true - and then blow the eyelash away.'

Celena closed her eyes, thinking. The slight frown that crinkled her forehead cleared away and her lips smiled slightly. Still with her eyes closed, she took a breath and gently blew through pursed lips. The eyelash spun away on the air and was forgotten. Van was transfixed by the face before him, by the way those dark lashes rested on Celena's fair cheeks, and by the pale-pink rosebud that was her mouth. He leaned forward and kissed her before he had time to think about it. He was rather shocked by himself.

Celena's eyes opened as he drew back from the kiss, the lids beating rapidly as butterfly wings in a flutter of confusion.

'That wasn't my wish,' she said, 'but I wish it had been!'

'Oh?' he said, blushing and blinking rather a lot himself. 'What was your wish?'

'For you to come back tomorrow. Oh no! Now it won't come true!' Her face crumpled in dismay.

'No… no, it will. Don't worry, Celena. I've got the power to grant that wish and I promise you I will.'

'I didn't know people could grant wishes,' she said, enchanted by the idea.

'I think according to some old superstition I've got the power to heal scrofula or something at a touch, so I don't see why I shouldn't be able to grant the occasional small wish,' Van gabbled. He was talking nonsense, he thought, but he had surprised himself so much with that kiss that he was quite flustered and could not pull himself together. What if she expected another one? He was far too nervous now to manage it. That was the worst of it, these days - all his feelings seemed to be so close to the surface. He kept acting before he had time to think, and got carried away so easily. He needed a distraction or he was going to go completely to pieces.

'The, er, the flowers,' he said quickly. 'Why don't we see how many different kinds we can find. One of each? We'll make a collection, and see how many we know between us.'

Celena looked at him wonderingly for a moment, but then seemed to accept the change of tack, always so easily distracted. 'All right,' she said contentedly, and turned to comb through the velvety grass for unknown blooms. 'Buttercup!' she exclaimed, with evident satisfaction. 'I know about this! Let me see if you like butter.'

She is remembering things, Van thought. It was nice to have his theory proven, but his heart was still pounding. Celena's hand under his chin would not help that at all. 'Not right now,' he said. 'Let's collect some more first. Oh look, I think this is a wild pansy. That's from the old word pensée, thought. If you give someone pansies you're saying "think of me".' He felt like a prize idiot. He hadn't felt at such a disadvantage since… he couldn't remember.

If Dilandau could see me, he thought, crawling on my hands and knees to pick weeds for a girl I haven't got the nerve to kiss twice, and babbling out the stories about flowers my mother used to tell me, my God, how he'd laugh.

Chapter Text

The nurse looked up from her paperwork. 'Yes, sir?' she said politely.

'Um, I was wondering,' said Chesta, blushing nervously, 'is Dilandau Albatou allowed visitors, miss? He's been off sick for days and I thought maybe he might be feeling better by now.' They had all agreed they wouldn't pester him, but it was getting close to a week now and Chesta had stolen away, just to find out, he told himself. Even Dilandau-sama might feel lonely being sick all by himself. Perhaps they could send him some fruit or flowers.

'I'm afraid Mr Albatou is no longer in the infirmary,' the nurse said slowly, as though she were trying to remember a rehearsed line.

'Has he been discharged?' Chesta asked, his face lighting up with hope. Perhaps he was better already! Perhaps he would be in the dorm tonight and things would get back to normal.

'I believe he was moved to a specialist facility,' she told him. 'I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to tell you anything else because of our patient confidentiality rules.'

'Oh,' said Chesta, crestfallen. 'Oh. Well, thank you. Did - did he leave any message, or anything like that?'

The nurse felt rather sorry for this pretty, moon-faced boy. Chesta had a way of making people want to help him, without ever quite meaning to. It seemed unkind to tell him, but perhaps it was better for him to know the truth. Bending the rules a little bit couldn't hurt.

'No, dear,' she said sympathetically. 'He wasn't in any condition to do so. I'm sorry to tell you that your friend was really very sick. I don't know any more than that. Perhaps you should ask the Strategos. I believe he took charge of the case.'

'Oh,' said Chesta, turning paler. 'Oh, no, I don't think I'll bother him.' After he had talked back to Folken-sama on that fateful last day he had gone around feeling as though there was a sword hanging over his head, and he had only just begun to relax and think there might be no punishment.

Outside in the corridor, he leaned back against the wall and sighed gustily, blowing his bangs upwards. Chesta was by nature an optimist. He liked to think the best of people and situations, and put a lot of energy into making excuses for others. He knew perfectly well that Dilandau-sama was only so hard on him because he deserved it. He was very grateful to him for caring enough to provide so much correction. It made him feel rather distrustful of Van… sama, he added guiltily in his mind, whose style as a commander was so different. He didn't slap anyone, he didn't shout. He kept doing unnerving things like complimenting you on your work, and it didn't even sound like sarcasm. Chesta always suspected he was winding them all up and laughing secretly. Being suspicious of someone was a rather new feeling for him, but it seemed only loyal to Dilandau-sama.

The other very strange thing about Van-sama was how he disappeared for a couple of hours every afternoon. They knew he went to lunch with his brother, but it couldn't take that long. He never talked about whether he went. Sometimes he came back very cheerful, sometimes looking preoccupied. Dalet noticed on the second day, and after that they had all observed, that when he returned there were fragments of crushed grass on his boots. Once he had come in with a daisy caught in the back of his collar, apparently unaware of it, and it had stayed there tauntingly all evening. Since he still slept in his own room, and Dilandau's curtained bed still stood empty, they never got to see if he discovered it when undressing, or how he behaved if he did. No-one liked to ask where he went. You didn't go asking nosey questions of the Strategos' brother.

Every day was full of mystery, Chesta reflected sadly. All the beloved certainties of his life were coming untied. If only Dilandau-sama were back, things might not be normal again, but they would feel better just because he was there. And now… he wasn't just sick, he was 'really very sick' and under the care of specialists. Chesta shivered a little at the thought. He would have to tell the others as soon as Van-sama had gone to bed and they were alone. There would be nothing any of them could do, but he did not want to be alone with this frightening knowledge any longer than necessary.

It was a strange week for Van. It was such an abrupt shift to make, from the enlivening, angry high he'd been riding when he had Dilandau to hate, to this weird dreamy existence with Celena. He was not about to deny that he liked her very much, and that trying to help her struck him as entirely worthwhile. His feelings about her, however, kept throwing him off balance. It was like trying to keep his footing while fording a fast-running river, and just to make matters worse every now and again the river started flowing the opposite way. Or the water boiled.

When he met Folken for lunch the second day, he was full of questions that he had not had time to think out yesterday. There had not really been time to talk then, anyway, as Folken was on his way to do something else, and Van had hurried back to run the Dragonslayers through some guymelef drills.

'Will you go to see Celena after this?' Folken asked, pouring wine for both of them. Van fiddled with the stem of his glass.

'Yes,' he said, 'I promised her I would.'

'You managed to get her talking, then? I have not had much success.'

'We talked quite a lot.'

'I'm impressed.' Folken smiled slightly.

'Brother…'

'Yes?'

'What can you tell me about her? She's so mysterious. She sounds as though she's from Asturia. Do you know who her family are at all? Or that guardian you were talking about?'

'I'm afraid I can't tell you a thing besides what Celena knows herself,' Folken replied, shaking his head. 'Which is almost nothing. The guardian, I should say, is really only a guess. She remembers that someone called Jajuka used to take care of her. Now, Jajuka is a dog's name, and a more common one in Zaibach than anywhere else. Since all dogmen born in Zaibach are required to be registered, it's relatively simple to locate any one Jajuka who may have taken care of a young girl at some time in the past. My people are making enquiries.' He took a sip of wine and rolled it in his mouth. It was a rather young white wine, and he was not sure he liked it; too sharp.

Perhaps the sour taste in his mouth was symptomatic of the distaste he felt at telling Van another lie, a lie put together out of pieces of truth. If he had not really known exactly who Jajuka was, and where he was now posted, it would have been the truth; that was precisely what he would have done to find out. There was, of course, no hurry to bring Jajuka to the Vione. He thought Van would do very nicely as a companion for Celena just now, but it was more plausible to say that efforts were being made to find her connections.

How are you going to wind this all up? an unpleasantly persistent voice at the back of his mind was asking. At what stage do you stop the lies and the drugs? At what stage do you believe it will be safe to tell him the truth, without him being disgusted and leaving you?

When the whole plan has come to fruition, when our destiny is fulfilled… surely then I can be honest with him without ruining it all. The deception, the control, will only be necessary for a little while longer. This campaign should be over before the end of summer. And all of this little rigmarole, this private pet project of mine, is to make him happy. He would be grateful if he knew. That is, if he really understood. All I want is to make things right. This is the Way. If I can only serve this great design, and bring it to fruition, I can transcend my failure and redeem myself, yet that's not the most important thing… it's for them, for Van, for Nariya and Eriya. I may even have a shot at redeeming Dilandau and giving him happiness. I don't want to sacrifice anyone.

But you would. If it was necessary for the plan, you would, wouldn't you?

It was an inner dialogue that had been going on for days and nights. Mostly nights, when it was so quiet, and he was so very alone in his narrow bed.

Of course I would. I would sacrifice myself with a good will. None of us individually is as important as the plan. But sacrifice may not be necessary in every case. I don't waste lives. I weigh every decision so carefully. It's never easy for me. Those who died had to die. If they understood they would be grateful. But you can't tell people a truth like this… they simply don't understand… it's my burden and my gift to be the one who sees it, and who has to make the decisions because of that… do you imagine I get pleasure from this?

You do get pleasure from seeing your brother here, from having him under your wing and looking up to you. From making little arrangements for him, giving him jobs, even matchmaking for him… don't delude yourself that you aren't playing happy families on some level. You're always trying to put together families, from the oddest waifs and strays. You let it distract you from what you're really doing.

You are nothing but the voice of my self-doubt, and I have too much good sense to attend to you.

He drowned the nagging voice with another sip of wine, and reminded Van, as a concerned brother should, that he had to take his pills with meals.

'Can you remember ever going to school?' Van asked.

Celena shook her head no.

'Do you know if anyone ever taught you to read?'

She shook her head again, and the daisy-chain she was wearing slipped down over her nose, making her laugh. He had made it for her before trying to do anything more constructive. Of course, to use his thumbnails to slit the stalks he had to take his gloves off, and that meant taking off his jacket altogether. It was much more comfortable to sit in the sunny garden with only his light undershirt on his back. The jacket lay on the grass like a shed skin, along with his boots and shinguards. He had taken off his socks, too, and buried his feet in the cool green grass. This made Celena determined to take off her boots too. She kept giving him little kicks and nudges with her bare feet; she was very bad at sitting still today. Van reminded himself to be patient. He had spent quite a long time preparing materials last night during silent study, and he just needed to get her mind on the task.

He held up the first slip of card.

'Can you read me this word?' She frowned at it dutifully, but ended up shrugging.

'Won't you talk to me today?' he asked plaintively, trying to draw her out with an exaggerated voice. She gave him a teasing sort of smile.

'Come on, Celena… don't be silly. You spoke beautifully yesterday. I enjoyed talking with you. Let's try something else, not reading.' He turned over some cards and held up another. 'What's the name of this shape?'

'I liked flowers better,' she sighed.

'Come on. Please. Humour me. If we only ever talk about flowers you won't remember anything else. Do you know this one?'

She looked a little disgruntled. 'Triangle,' she said.

'Excellent. You do know. The more you try to remember, the more I'm sure your memory will come back. These are just to prompt you and get it started. What's this one?'

'Circle,' she said. 'But when I guessed a flower right you gave it to me. I don't want a boring shape card.'

'Then I'll give you a flower for each one you get right.'

'You could give me kisses. I liked the kiss yesterday.'

'I - I don't think that would be a very good idea,' he said. 'Not the best way for you to learn, I mean. I think it would be a distraction, and - and anyway I shouldn't be doing that kind of thing when your parents don't know,' he finished with a burst of half-desperate inspiration. 'It would be underhanded. Not honourable.'

'Does it really matter if they don't know, if I don't mind?' she asked, dismayed.

'Yes,' he said, 'that sort of thing can be extremely important to parents. They can get very agitated if they think anyone might be taking advantage of their daughters. Once my brother has tracked them down I don't think they'd be very pleased to know I'd been messing around with you that way when I was supposed to be helping you get your memory back.'

She sighed but seemed to accept this rationale. 'I wish I could remember my parents. All I can remember is two names, and one of them's mine. You're lucky to have a real family.'

'But I haven't - I mean, there's only me and my brother now. He's all the family I have.'

'Really?' She looked at him curiously. 'What happened to your father and mother?'

'It's a long story.' He waved a hand self-deprecatingly. He hadn't meant to get into all this, but somehow it was easy to tell her things. There was something about the way she looked at him, a sort of waiting emptiness that he wanted to fill up.

'I'd rather hear a long story than guess shapes. Please tell me all about them. Is it a sad story?'

'Yes… it has a rather pretty beginning, though. You might not like it when you know it. It's about why I have wings, too.'

'I still don't believe you about the wings,' she said, smiling, 'because today I can see your back and I know there's nothing on it. But if you'd like to tell me a fairy-tale you can.'

'All right,' he said, thoughtfully. 'A fairy-tale. Once upon a time, in a small kingdom called Fanelia, there ruled a good king named Goau, who was no longer young.'

'What did he look like?' Celena was settling herself on her side in the grass, knees drawn up and hands curled under her chin.

'Imagine my brother with black hair like mine, and a moustache,' said Van, trying hard to remember clearly. 'And a bit older, when the story starts.'

'Was he a kind king?'

'Of course.'

'And a brave king?'

'Absolutely.'

'Did he wear a crown?'

'No, but he had an ancient sword.' He pointed over at the jumble of armour. 'And that very same sword is lying there in this garden. The kings of Fanelia have always been warriors, dedicated to the protection of the common people. Let me tell you of a night when King Goau - who was not yet my father - was on his way home from such a campaign.'

Telling her stories worked well. It distracted her from the thoughts he wanted to avoid, although when he was pouring out words to that rapt face and she accepted everything he told her with such eager belief, it was difficult to avoid them himself. When she was listening very intently her lips would part very slightly, and her eyes widened like daisies at dawn. He told her the whole tale of his family, to the bitter end, and those eyes brimmed with tears of sympathy.

'Oh, Van,' she said, and abruptly sat up and hugged him. With her head on his shoulder, she must have closed her eyes, because her lashes shed a few warm drops onto his skin. Now this undershirt felt inadequate. But her sympathy, her kindness, was so warm and sweet that he was near to tears himself.

'Celena…' He put his arms awkwardly around her, almost afraid to touch, and his fingers strayed to stroke the back of her head. She had such very soft hair. His fingers gently closed.

'What?' Her head jerked up and she looked at him as if in fear.

'What? Nothing! I just - excuse me.' He let go of her completely. 'I didn't mean to do that. I'm sorry if I upset you.'

'I…' She looked confused. 'I don't know why it… upset me.'

'Did I pull your hair?'

She put her hand to the back of her head. 'No… it feels all right. I suppose I was just being silly.' She smiled a little weakly. 'It's a very sad story, but it's happy in the end, isn't it? Because you've found your brother again.'

'Of course,' Van said hastily. 'Of course that makes it a happy ending.' Why was she looking at him that way?

Celena did not exactly embrace him, but she put her hands on his shoulders and drew them down, stroking his arms. 'You're still sad, though.'

'No I'm not,' he said, bewildered. 'I'm very happy. Everything has worked out for the best. Folken's explained it all to me. And together we're going to bring about a better future. Everything is going to be fine. And I owe it all to him.' She had not taken her hands away; they slid gently up and down, a movement that was half soothing, half galvanising. 'Celena, honestly, it's very nice of you to be concerned about me, but what do I have to be sad about any more?' For no reason he could understand, he had a sensation of rising panic, not merely nervousness at being so close to her. Something was happening, or trying to happen, that should not, he was sure should not be. He was getting a headache.

'What if I tell you another story?' he said desperately. 'I know so many. My old sword-master Balgus used to tell me all about the adventures he and my father had as young men. He trained my father too, you know. He was a sort of family heirloom.' He tried to smile at the little joke. 'Why don't I tell you about how my father slew the dragon that made him king?'

'All right,' said Celena, looking somewhat disappointed. She sat back from him again. 'Please do.'

For the next few days he kept her at arm's length, simply talking so much that she could not think of anything else his mouth might be doing. If they did not talk, they ate; he brought her treats from Folken's table in addition to showing her which plants in the garden were edible. A couple of times they slept, because when lying on soft grass with warm sun blanketing you and the soft hum of bees in your ears it is easy to lose the thread of your conversation and doze off. Folken came to call for Van at the end of a visit and found them this way. He almost hadn't the heart to wake them. He was a little concerned at the vein of sentimentality that seemed to be running in him these days.

He was still doing his work, but in times past there had been no such thing as free time. Time when he did not have to do any work was time when he did it anyway. Now… well, there were already the lunches with Van, and while he had always listened to recorded music as he drew up orders or reviewed paperwork, because it helped him to think, now there were times when he pushed himself away from his desk, leaned back in his chair and listened with his eyes closed, letting himself daydream. He was still too conscientious to dream wildly, to let his mind wander wherever it might; he confined himself to simple, probable, pleasant thoughts of the near future. Nariya and Eriya would be back before long. They would meet Van. They would surely like each other. Celena's mind and heart would blossom under Van's care, and Van would be made gentle again by his love of her. Van would prove a better leader of the Dragonslayers than Dilandau had ever been and no-one would mind that Dilandau had reverted under Folken's care. A new world order would come… there would be no more broken hearts… he would have done the right thing and everyone would be so happy. All would be forgiven.

All right, perhaps sometimes he allowed himself a flight of fancy regarding the more distant future. It was still possible. It was the outcome he sought. There was every reason to be optimistic. King Aston, for all his high opinion of his own importance and desire to play both sides, would be easily won over. The small group of agitators moving against them could be headed off in Freid without great difficulty. The Duke was not a fearsome prospect. It might not even be necessary to use force.

I will if I must. But I still hope for the best.

What he still would not let himself think of were the details of his life once the plan was successful. Perhaps it was superstitious, but he could not shake the feeling that being overconfident might jinx him. The questions came sometimes, late at night - where will I live? What will I do? Will I be free, or will there be more that Lord Dornkirk needs from me? - but he refused to speculate upon the answers. Dreams could take him only so far. He had always been prepared to give up his life if he had to, and it would be foolish to make that harder by creating a dream-life ahead of himself, something to live for beyond Lord Dornkirk's design.

He wondered what Van was dreaming about as he lay there with his head pillowed among daisies. Perhaps nothing; his eyelids were still and his face was calm. Folken crouched down on his heels to watch more closely, his shadow falling across Van's head and shoulders. Celena sighed in her sleep, her hands opening and closing fitfully for a moment, before she relaxed again. They looked so much like children, lying there.

Van's eyes were moving under their lids now, and his breathing quickened a little. His brows drew together in a faint frown.

'Nnnhh…' His lips parted slightly and his teeth showed briefly, set together as though in pain or anger. Folken watched, perturbed. Van was breathing hard now; he appeared to be struggling somehow, although his body was motionless. His arms and legs had stiffened, however, and after a moment his back began to arch. It was almost like a seizure.

'Van,' Folken said, softly, urgently, and touched his shoulder with his good hand. Van gasped and woke as if into a battle; his hand flew up and seized Folken's wrist in a grip tight enough to be painful. He stared wild-eyed at his brother's hand, panting and bewildered. The intensity of his eyes gradually faded into mist.

'I thought…' he said breathlessly. 'I thought… hurting me… or something… I think I was angry. I… don't know now.'

'Are you all right?' Folken asked, with some forbearance. He had not realised Van was quite this strong.

'Yes… yes.' Van appeared to realise he was half-crushing his brother's wrist and let go of it hurriedly. 'I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?'

'Oh, it's all right,' said Folken wryly, shaking the blood back into it, 'I've still got one that works. Did you sleep well?'

'Er… yes… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be lazy… I have to get back now, don't I?' He pushed his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in spikes, and rubbed at his face in an effort to wake himself up more thoroughly.

'Yes. I hope you haven't just been coming here and sleeping the whole time. It hardly seems fair to Celena. And at your age you really shouldn't need an afternoon nap.'

'I just… well, this is a peaceful place, and I haven't been sleeping too well at night lately.'

'No? What's the matter?'

'I just can't seem to drop off,' Van said, shrugging sheepishly, as though it were an admission of failure. 'My body's tired, but my brain won't stop.'

'What are you thinking about that keeps you awake?'

'Nothing much… just what happens during the day.' Van glanced at Celena. 'I'm not sure why she needs all the sleep, but she's happy to just nap where she falls down. I suppose if her paws twitch it means she's dreaming of chasing mice.'

'Do you tickle under her chin?' Folken asked, amused. Van looked at him reproachfully.

'There's no need to make innuendoes,' he said. 'I behave myself like a gentleman.'

Folken raised one crooked eyebrow quizzically. 'I wasn't suggesting that you didn't. How is it ungentlemanly to take an interest in a very nice, and incidentally very pretty, young woman?'

'If you like her so much, there she is,' said Van gruffly. Folken cuffed him gently on the shoulder.

'That was ungentlemanly. You know perfectly well I was talking about you.'

'Well, it's embarrassing,' Van said. His brows knit again. 'Well, what if it was you? What would you do?'

Folken felt a little lost. 'It's not me,' he hedged. 'I can't answer for you.'

'You're twenty-five… I do assume you know more about girls than I do.'

'I've never had time for girls,' Folken admitted.

Van looked astonished. 'What about those two you were talking about, Nariya and Eriya? I thought it was a bit wicked of you… twins… I was sort of impressed.'

'They're my wards, Van!' Folken was quite startled. 'I don't feel that way about them, I couldn't. It would be taking advantage, and…' He faltered. 'I've never thought much about it. I suppose I'm not very interested in women.'

'You don't like them?'

'It isn't that. I respect women. But I've always had something more urgent, more important, to focus upon. I couldn't be so selfish as to pursue personal interests when all my energies were needed to bring about our destiny. Besides which, Van…' and here his mouth quirked at the corner, a slight bitter smile… 'do you seriously think anyone would have me? Look at me, just for a moment, as though you weren't my brother. I'm a cripple. If you were a woman, would you want this cold arm to hold you? Could you stand for this hand to touch yours? Don't be polite. Admit it. I would horrify you.'

'I might feel different if I got to know you,' Van said diffidently. 'Did you ever have a girlfriend before… you left home?'

'Why are you suddenly so deeply interested in my supposed love life?'

'You started it!'

'More fool me,' said Folken briskly, standing up. 'Now, I must be on my way to speak to Lord Dornkirk, and I believe you have a drill session to get to. I suggest that you get dressed and wake Celena before you leave, or she will wonder where you've gone.'

'I'm not undressed,' Van muttered defensively as he pulled on his boots.

When Celena was woken she only murmured a drowsy goodbye before rolling over and falling asleep again, a vague smile on her dreaming face. The brothers left together, neither in a comfortable frame of mind.

That night, in the Dragonslayers' dorm, Chesta unburdened himself.

'You twit…' said Migel, shaking his head. 'You haven't done any good. And all you've achieved is to get yourself upset.'

'Well, I didn't want to keep doing nothing,' said Chesta. 'I want to know where he is. I want to know what's happening to him! I feel as if we've deserted him.' He was sitting on his bed worrying at a small rip in the quilt's cover with his fingers.

'He's the one who's gone,' Dalet pointed out. 'We haven't deserted anyone. And before you get cross with me, Chesta, I am not saying he's deserted us, I just mean we haven't. Don't glare at me like that, it's scary when you're angry.' This was half a joke. Chesta was proverbial for being unable to make intimidating faces. Even when he was attacking he just looked serious.

'So the Strategos knows,' said Gatti. 'And there, I guess, is an end of it. Because he's not going to tell us if he doesn't think we need to know. Any volunteers to ask him?'

There was an uncomfortable silence.

'Gosh, yes, I can just see that,' said Guimel, with what he thought was heavy irony. 'The bunch of us marching up to him and demanding an explanation.'

'Oi, Strategos! Spill yer guts!' barked Dalet, and got a small laugh.

'Guess whose guts would really spill,' said Migel gloomily.

'It's just not fair,' said Chesta. He had teased out several fragments of eiderdown fluff and was working on drawing out a whole feather. 'Poor Dilandau-sama… and here we sit, useless as anything. Van-sama says we're just to stay in training and be ready to move out when necessary, but there's never any word on when "necessary" will be and I just don't trust him.'

'I know what you mean,' said Gatti. 'He's too nice to us. It's fake compared with how he was with Dilandau-sama.'

'Not that I'd want him to treat me the way he treated Dilandau-sama,' said Biore with a shudder.

'What are we going to do?' Chesta asked mournfully, twiddling the feather around between his fingers and thumb. It was a little soft grey-brown wisp of a thing.

'Nothing, Chesta,' said Gatti patiently. 'This is the military. You can't expect it to be nice or fair. We just have to take what they give us, and hurry up and wait. I don't know how you've managed to hang onto these ideas, you've been in it for as long as we have. Leave your quilt alone, you're getting on my nerves picking at it like that.'

Chesta was absent-mindedly tickling his lips with the feather. 'I still think there ought to be something we can do,' he said stubbornly.

Chapter Text

'I will do it. I won't chicken out. I'm not afraid. What's the worst that can happen, anyway? No, don't think about that. I'm not afraid. A little bit nervous, yes, but fully prepared to go on and do what I've planned. I'm not afraid. Who am I kidding? I'm shitting myself.'

Chesta stopped walking and made himself keep very still for a moment. This felt much worse than going into battle. In a battle, he had Dilandau-sama telling him what to do; all responsibility for making decisions was taken from him and he simply followed orders to the best of his ability. He had made up his mind to do this by himself, and it was awful. He hoped he never got promoted to a command position because his nerves would never stand it.

Besides, in a battle he was at the centre of a huge heavily-armoured guymelef with deadly liquid-metal weapons, a stealth cloak and a flamethrower. Here and now he just had himself. The armour-plating on his uniform and the sword on his belt were really no help; he couldn't use them and they only seemed to mock him with their supposed protection.

'All right,' he told himself, hoping no-one came along the corridor and heard him talking to himself like a lunatic, 'all right, just think, what would Dilandau-sama do? He'd just march right in there. He'd know he had a right to some answers. He'd do the same for me. Probably.' He'd often heard old soldiers from the infantry talk about what it was like before you went 'over the top' in old-fashioned trench warfare. You just had to try to get yourself psyched up and not think about how it was going to be. Let your training take over and guide you. Chesta hadn't been trained for this. If you thought about it, he'd been trained for the exact opposite.

He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and walked the rest of the way to the door of Strategos Folken's quarters. He shut his eyes and knocked as hard as he dared.

'Come in.' The voice was distant, preoccupied. At least he hadn't come and opened the door himself. If Chesta had had to look up at him framed in the doorway he might have lost his nerve and bolted. He made himself take hold of the doorknob with a firm hand and let himself in.

The first thing he was surprised at was that it was a nice room. He didn't know exactly what he had been imagining - some sort of dungeon with a coffin on the floor, and shackles on the walls for prisoners? - but it was quite unlike that. It was a bit dark, but so were all rooms on the Vione. There was a dining table and two chairs in one corner, and a rug on the floor, a pattern of warm dark and light browns. In the far wall was a door that probably connected to a bedroom. There was a low couch with a lot of books stacked on the floor around it, books full of dangling markers, some proper ones of leather or fabric but many just improvised from torn paper. Finally, there was a large desk against a wall of well-stocked shelves, and at this desk sat Folken Fanel, looking at him expectantly. He was paused in the act of writing in a large black-bound ledger with a red pen. There was rather pleasant, if melancholy, soft music playing. On one of the shelves above the desk was a squat black music-box.

The second thing that threw Chesta off balance was the fact that Folken was not wearing his sorcerer's cloak. It was hanging from a hook on the wall looking like a sleeping giant bat. He had never seen the Strategos without it, had never imagined him without it, and he was amazed at how different it made him look not to be encased from chin to floor-level in sinister, creaking black. He was still an intimidating figure. He was much too tall, even sitting down; you could see the infamous artificial arm even better this way, and the sombre face etched with purple tattoos was almost too much for Chesta to look at. But for the first time he saw him as more or less human. It gave him rather a shock, but also a little bit of courage.

'It's Chesta, isn't it?' said Folken. 'Can I help you?'

'Sir!' said Chesta, saluting while he tried to remember what he had planned to say. 'I've come to ask for some information, sir.'

'Information?' Folken repeated, rising from his chair and coming nearer. 'What did you want to know about?' He was making Chesta nervous again, looming over him. He probably couldn’t help it. When you were that tall looming was not optional.

'I… sir, it's about Dilandau-sama,' said Chesta, and lost his voice. He had just noticed for the first time that, like Dilandau-sama, Folken-sama had red eyes. Chesta had a terrible weakness where red eyes were concerned; they seemed to do things to him on a level he didn't understand. Perhaps it was because they were so unusual; they always seemed to have an intensity that you didn't see in ordinary people. Why had he never seen Folken-sama's eyes before? He'd been thinking of them as black or brown. It was going to be that much harder to stand up to a person with red eyes. His mouth had gone dry.

'What about Dilandau?' Folken asked, not impatiently. He was a little amused at Chesta's temerity in braving his possible displeasure not once but twice. The boy was obviously scared stiff; it was rather sweet that he was loyal enough to do this. He seemed to have forgotten his script, however, because he was just standing there with his mouth and eyes open, blushing slightly, so it was only fair for Folken to prompt him a little.

'Please, we want to know where he is. All of us. We're worried about him and we haven't heard a thing, we didn't even see him go, he just wasn't there when we woke up in the morning, only his bed all messed up, we - we made his bed for him so it'll be nice to come back to, we'd look after him, I mean I think we could if a doctor checked up on him regularly, I don't even know what's wrong with him and I'm so worried, the nurse said he needed a specialist and I'm afraid I upset him right before he went and if he dies before I could make it up to him I'll never forgive myself and I don't know what to do and you won't tell us anything!' Chesta said, and burst into tears. He was astonished at himself. Once he had started to say what he thought he seemed unable to stop, and he had hardly realised that he was so upset, or that he was so afraid Dilandau would die. He was deeply ashamed to cry like this, as he had not cried since he first left home (and Dilandau-sama had had very little patience with babyish homesickness), but he was helpless; the tears just came and came.

'You're not fair!' he exclaimed. 'You were horrible to him putting your brother in! I bet he's sick because of you!' He was worked up past the point of caring what Folken thought of him now. Everything was so terrible that he might as well be punished anyway and he would hardly notice. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. At least this way he could not see those garnet eyes.

'Good grief,' said Folken, sounding more perplexed than enraged. 'You are in a state. Come here and sit until you can calm down a little.' He put his hand on Chesta's shoulder and guided him, blind and choking, to the couch, where he made him sit down and seated himself next to him. This sudden outburst of grief had quite disarmed him. He was not used to thinking of the Dragonslayers as individual humans with feelings. He had rather tended to classify them all with Dilandau, as appetites for destruction on legs, useful when properly directed, agreeable to look at, but not worth getting to know. That was foolish. You obviously couldn't put this soft-faced, earnest boy in such a category. Dilandau, in Folken's opinion, did not deserve such a follower. Of course he should not be indulged in such behaviour, it was undisciplined and insubordinate, but there was room in Folken's mind for a little sympathy. He would feel a beast if he spoke harshly to Chesta now.

'Come now,' he said, patting Chesta's shoulder, 'you know you can't give way to your feelings like this. Try to pull yourself together. Would you want Dilandau to see you like this?'

'Nuhnuhno,' Chesta stammered, trying to wipe his eyes, 'but I wouldn't care if I could just see him and know he's all right! You don't know how much he means to all of us. You don't care! You only care about your poxy brother.' He spoke very bitterly, and Folken felt it would be unfair to him to laugh.

'Chesta, look at me,' said Folken, firmly. He pulled Chesta's hands away from his face, gently holding the wrists. Chesta stared up at him, blinking miserably. He was one of those lucky people who did not look ugly when he cried; it only put colour into his lips and cheeks and made his eyes shine tremulously. He felt quite hopeless now. He could not look away and Folken-sama was going to pronounce some terrible judgement. It was all over now and he had not helped Dilandau-sama at all. He was the most useless failure there had ever been.

'You don't need to worry about Dilandau,' Folken said. 'He's going to be all right. I can't make you any promises about when or if he will return to the Dragonslayers, but he is in no danger. Does that make you feel better?'

Chesta's eyes widened still further and he drew in a shaky breath. He wanted to speak, but it was just impossible; the tears burst forth again with a loud wail of relief and he fell against Folken's chest, clinging to his hands.

'For heaven's sake,' Folken muttered, freeing his good hand and putting his arm around Chesta's shuddering shoulders, 'you're far too emotional.'

The problem was his own emotions. He was thoroughly disturbed by the way he was feeling. Some new pulse had begun to flutter when Chesta had first looked up at him like that, as though seeing him for the first time with those great vulnerable aquamarine eyes, and now it was beating strongly. It got worse the closer they got and the more impassioned Chesta became; he tried to detach himself from the situation but… well, it had been a mistake to touch him. The problem was how aroused he had become during this conversation. It was a possibility that had never occurred to him before. He had assumed he was attracted to nobody. It had been easier to believe that, that desire would never trouble him, since it would surely never be fulfilled. But here he sat, with his arms around a beautiful, weeping boy, acutely conscious of the warmth of the young body leaning against his, and of the answering warmth in his own veins, and he could not deny that it was the most erotic thing that had ever happened to him.

I must control myself. I mustn't do anything inappropriate. Is it all right to stroke his hair? Yes, I'm sure it is, I'm just being comforting. Oh, the smell of it… at least I've been able to touch his hair and feel how soft it is. I mustn't think like that.

'Chesta, pull yourself together,' he said, more sharply than he intended to, because he was overcompensating. 'I wouldn't have told you that if I'd known you'd make such a fuss. There was no need to tell you at all; you should have accepted what your superiors told you. What kind of soldier are you, anyway?'

'I'm a good soldier!' Chesta exclaimed, breaking away. He got to his feet and took a few hasty backwards steps away from the couch; his eyes were glittering with indignation as well as with tears. Unfortunately for Folken, this made him more attractive than ever. He had thought he had more willpower than this. Of course, in all other circumstances he had been applying willpower to what he wanted to do. It did not seem to work nearly so well against it.

'You can't say that to me!' Chesta snapped. 'I've always done my duty, I've always been respectful, I've always obeyed your orders…'

'Would you obey any order?'

'Of course I would!'

'What if the order was to come back here and sit on my knee and kiss me?'

There was a moment of extreme stillness. Folken caught his breath at the sound of his own voice. It was too late to take it back now. He was over the top and had to go on. There was a sense of relief in being picked up and carried along by events like this; it was almost as though he was not really responsible and things were just happening by themselves. Chesta was staring at him in shock, but not, he thought (he hoped) in disgust.

You don't have to be afraid of him, Folken told himself. Who could he tell? Who would believe him? Without quite knowing it, he dug the claws of his steel hand into the cushion he sat on.

'Is - is that the order?' Chesta asked hesitantly.

'Let's suppose that it is.' Folken spoke very carefully; deliberately. He was struggling not to show how eager he was to feel Chesta's body close to his again. He could not yet imagine how good the kiss might be.

For a seemingly endless moment, Chesta still stood there, biting his rosy lower lip. Then he stepped forward and cautiously seated himself in Folken's lap. With equal care, he put one arm around Folken's neck and looked into his face. Folken could feel now how much he was trembling. He was not sure he was rock-steady himself.

'On - on the cheek, or on the lips?' Chesta asked, his voice a little husky.

'When I say jump, you say how high… when I say kiss me, you say where…' Folken closed his eyes for a moment, treasuring the anticipation. He looked up at Chesta again, because he wanted to see when his eyes closed. 'On my lips will do.'

Chesta's eyelids dropped; it was all Folken could have hoped for, the gentle heaviness of sleep; they could both be drifting in a vibrant, feverish dream. He leaned forward and his nervous breath tickled for a moment on Folken's lips before he kissed them. Folken closed his own eyes tightly. He would not have believed that a simple kiss could make him feel this way. It was overwhelming. Such a simple, sweet little kiss, the boy's lips pressed against his, soft and almost dry with - with what? Fear? Excitement?

It was over far too soon, and he was looking into Chesta's eyes again, darker than before as the pupils dilated.

'Again, please,' he said, before anything else could be said.

'Is - is it still an order if you say please?' Chesta asked.

'Stop looking for loopholes and kiss me. Keep going until I tell you to stop.' He was afraid that he was forcing the point, frightening the boy too much, but he had never realised before how much he wanted to be kissed, how lonely his whole body had been, how his heart would burn within him at Chesta's touch. He had not felt this since the throbbing, over-excited dreams of his early adolescence, and now, perhaps because he was older, perhaps because he had denied himself for so long, it was a hundred times more intense. He could not be satisfied with only kisses, but he meant to extract every particle of pleasure from them that he could.

He put both arms around Chesta, hands stroking, drawing him closer, trying to feel the body inside all that leather and armour, while his lips devoured the boy's. Chesta truly was obedient. He pressed himself against Folken and admitted first the touch of his tongue, then its deeper exploration of the wet heat of his mouth. He even responded, slowly, gently, letting Folken's flickering heat play with his, until the Strategos lost control and softly bit his lower lip, drawing a muffled sound of protest from his throat.

They parted again, both gasping for air. Chesta was startled to see the change in Folken already, the crimson of his eyes, the wet shine on his flushed lips, the quivering energy that seemed to emanate from him. He hadn't known he could do that.

'Chesta,' Folken said thickly, 'I order you to be completely honest. And I promise that you will not be punished for how you answer. Were you enjoying that?'

Chesta took a deep breath. He was in so far over his head by now that sinking in a little further made no difference. 'Yes,' he said. 'Sir,' he added as an afterthought.

'Just call me Folken now. It's going to be different between you and me now.' Chesta thought Folken would kiss him again, but he seemed to have something else on his mind.

'One more question,' he said, 'and once more you have to tell me the truth.' His steel hand was resting on Chesta's hip. He slowly raised it and held it between them. 'Does… this… bother you?'

Chesta gazed at the hand, thinking how it reminded him both of armour and of a skeleton. It was so beautifully made, so ingenious. He had always thought that it made Folken seem superhuman. He took it in his own hand and kissed the cold palm. 'No,' he murmured. 'No.'

'That's a very lovely gesture,' said Folken, 'if a little pointless, given that I have no feeling in that hand.' He was so relieved that he had to make a dry little joke to keep himself from breaking down somehow. He had been so sure that would be what ruined it all.

'Well, I'll kiss you where you will feel it,' said Chesta. He touched his lips to Folken's again, proving it. 'There are lots of places…' He kissed the point of his chin… the corner of his jaw… the soft side of his neck… his gloved fingers fumbled with the fastening inside his high collar.

'I can't believe you want to do this…' Folken whispered.

'I didn't know.'

'Let me help you…'

'Yes, sir…'

'Stop that. That's your last order… now just do what you want.'

Two hours later, Folken lay in his bed alone. Chesta had left some time ago, so that he could have dinner with the Dragonslayers without his earlier absence in rest period being unduly noted, but he had felt so wiped out by what had happened that he had gone back to lie down while he tried to take it all in. The bed was really not big enough for two. He could not possibly get a bigger one because of this, could he?

Chesta had been a complete surprise. It was not simply that he seemed to have come out of nowhere, to suddenly present himself for Folken's attention after months living in the same place without contact. Nor was it only that he had been so willing, that he had not been repelled by Folken's broken, adulterated nature. His apparent initial reluctance had only been shyness and uncertainty as to Folken's intentions; he seemed to have no problem whatever with making love to a man. No problem at all. He had been so enthusiastic and seemed so knowledgeable that Folken was quite taken aback. When he had asked questions, Chesta had laughed and attributed it to a misspent youth reading dirty books under the covers after lights-out.

'That's where I got all my ideas,' he said. 'I wonder how many will turn out to be physically impossible? I want you to test me…'

He had done things Folken had never thought of. Right now he was aware of a warm, uneven ache corresponding to the purplish love-bites dappling his inner thighs; Chesta believed in quite aggressive teasing. Folken would never have expected it of a boy like him. He had thought he would be passive, modest, slow to arousal, even reluctant, perhaps whispering 'no, oh no' as he let Folken do whatever it was anyway.

'Just because a person looks innocent and has big blue eyes, people make all sorts of silly assumptions about him,' had been Chesta's word on the matter.

On the whole, Folken thought he approved. He had expected to feel like the dominant lover, to have to do most of the work; instead they had been equal partners in pleasing one another. There were times when he had simply given himself up to whatever the boy wanted to do, submitting completely, and although technically he had 'taken' Chesta, he rather felt that he had been taken - taken by surprise, taken by storm, taken over.

He had been conquered completely. He had lost himself. It was wonderful. For just a few moments with his lover he had experienced oblivion of the separate self, forgotten utterly his loneliness and shame, been relieved of all thoughts of duty and destiny, and known only delight. In those moments, everything was right already, and there was nothing more he needed to do. He had succeeded completely, giving Chesta joy along with himself. He was made whole.

All that had been in and of the moment. He was himself again, and he felt almost as guilty as he had expected to. He felt guilt, but not regret. Those moments were untarnished in his memory. Of course it had been the wrong thing to do. Of course it was corrupting a young boy, although arguably he had been corrupting himself fairly well already - and how deliciously wicked of him to have kept it so secret. It was even a waste of time. He should have been reviewing the new battle order and making any necessary adjustments or corrections. He should be finishing that job right now, except all he wanted to do was to lie here and relive it all in his mind, every perfect moment, Chesta's soft fair skin, the salt and musk of his body, the way he caught his breath with a little choking gasp, the way he moaned after he came…

Of course it was wrong. He despised himself. But he could not regret it no matter how he tried.

And when Chesta crept away to come to his room that night, after the others were asleep, he could not regret that either. His desire was so strong now that it was awakened that they fell down on the rug together and made love very rapidly just to take the edge off their appetites before proceeding at a more leisurely pace. It was decided that Chesta would stay all night; Folken would wake him early so he could slip back to the dormitory before the other boys were awake.

At a hushed and dreaming hour of the late night or early morning, Folken lay and watched Chesta's sleeping face, pillowed on his good shoulder. Sharing a single bed built for a lonely man meant sleeping very close together in any case, but he felt that the closeness would have been by choice if there had been any. Such a beautiful moonlight boy, a picture of innocence, the silk-smoothness of his skin only slightly marred by the reddish traces around his mouth of forceful kisses from an older man.

I can't believe I've made love to a boy who doesn't shave yet. He's a full ten years younger than me; he's the age of my little brother. I don't care. I want him. I've never been so selfish… I can't believe I'm doing it now… but I want to keep him for my own no matter what.

And is he selfish, the little darling? I think Dilandau has gone entirely out of his head since he became the star of his own little passion-play. He thinks only of me. Oh, I want to believe that he thinks only of me, that I'm something wonderful to him… not just pitiful broken-down Folken. He used to be so afraid of me and now he doesn’t think twice about jumping my bones. Does familiarity breed contempt? Or will this just get better and better?

Closer to morning, Chesta woke and found Folken sleeping in his turn. He looks younger asleep. But sadder. Here I am in bed with Strategos Folken, the great and terrible, who has licked the tears from my face and kissed me in places I wouldn’t mention in public and begged me to do things I blush to think about… but I'll still do them. This morning I was scared of him and thought him inhuman. Tonight I can kiss this teardrop of his. I could never have imagined what would happen when I went to see him about Dilandau-sama… and I wish I could get rid of the thought that maybe all this is partly because he didn't want to give me a straight answer. He hasn't really told me anything, just that I don't need to worry. That's a matter of opinion… but things are better tonight than they were this morning, and next day they may be better still.

Van looked at his brother suspiciously.

'What are you whistling for?' he asked.

'What?' said Folken, bringing his mind back to the here and now.

'You're sitting there,' said Van, 'tilting back on two legs of your chair, letting your soup get cold, looking into space and whistling. It's the closest I've seen anyone get to smiling and whistling at the same time.'

'I wasn't even aware of the whistling,' said Folken, returning his chair to a more normal position. 'I suppose I feel cheerful today.'

Van raised his eyebrows in a rather sarcastic and pointed manner.

'Stranger things have happened,' said Folken defensively. 'I have a right to feel optimistic. The war to end war is proceeding well, you're all right, I've had a message from Nariya and Eriya to say they've achieved their objective and are coming back, and… and it's a nice day today.'

'Who are you,' said Van, 'and what have you done with my brother?'

'Try not to talk rubbish, Van,' said Folken reprovingly. He ate a few spoonfuls of soup before forgetting what he was doing again. It was stealing over him with more and more certainty that he was in love. Clearly it had a deleterious effect on his higher mental processes. He was not sure if he had fallen in love with Chesta because he had slept with him, or if he had wanted to sleep with him because he was falling in love him, but either way, his lover was a good deal more on his mind than watercress soup. It was the most ridiculous state, because it was making him feel unutterably happy even as he was reminding himself of how dangerous it was.

'And what happened to your hair?' Van asked. 'You look like you did when we were kids.'

'I ran out of the stuff I use to style it,' Folken said promptly. There could be nothing more natural; Van would have absolutely no reason to disbelieve it unless he was inquisitive enough to look in the bathroom wastebasket and saw the two-thirds full tin of styling wax. It had been deposited there by Chesta, who, after an enjoyably soapy shared shower at four a.m., had announced that he found Folken more appealing with his hair floppy and something else stiff. He was getting quite bumptious and bossy with him, which Folken was surprised to find he very much liked. He had been attracted at first to Chesta's vulnerability and loyalty, but he would not have been much fun were he totally submissive. Folken was so accustomed to people fearing and distrusting him that it was rather wonderful to experience exactly the opposite. All Chesta needed was a little affection and he blossomed in confidence. His cheekiness was nothing like Dilandau's insolence.

'But you have to watch it,' Folken had warned him. If Chesta had to get up early, he thought he might as well too, and catch up on some work that morning; he was letting Chesta sit up on the tiles around the bathroom sink, wrapped in a towel, and paint the shaving soap onto his face.

'You mustn't give any sign in your behaviour that things are different now. Not in the way you speak or act, and definitely not in the way you talk to me. Try to behave just the way you did before.'

'Yes, Folken-sama,' said Chesta, and rolled his eyes with exaggerated fear. Then he dabbed the shaving-brush on the end of Folken's nose.

'You're lovely in bed, but a terrible actor.' Folken wiped at his nose and looked at Chesta appraisingly. 'Let's try that again. Try to look as though I scared you. Seriously, now.'

Chesta composed himself. After a moment he succeeded in looking convincingly anxious.

'That's quite good,' said Folken judiciously.

'It's a lot more difficult when you're wearing nothing but a towel and shaving soap than when you're looming around in black leather.'

'Imagine the cloak, then. Try to look really unnerved.' He leaned closer, staring into Chesta's face with a cold, remote expression.

'You are unnerving me,' said Chesta. 'Stop it.' Folken continued his chilly gaze, adding to it a certain suggestion of scorn and contempt. 'Really, stop it! You're scaring me, Folken.' His eyes were wide with panic and his cheeks, previously ruddy in the warm steamy air of the bathroom, had turned pale.

Folken held him paralysed for a few moments more, then said 'Grr,' and smiled.

'You prick!' squealed Chesta, half laughing, and slapped him. Folken growled again and seized him around the waist, intending to kiss him. 'Don't!' Chesta gasped. 'I don't want a mouthful of soap off your face!'

'Can you help me shave, then? I'll let you try if you're extremely careful.' Folken picked up the cutthroat razor that lay beside the sink. He had to keep perfectly still while Chesta, with an immensely serious expression on his face, slowly and carefully scraped away the white foam until his face was bare and clean. Something in the combination of factors - the need for self-restraint, Chesta's earnest eyes, the closeness to him, the feeling of the blade on his skin and of trusting his lover with his life, in a way - had such a powerfully stimulating effect on Folken that by the time the job was done he could hardly wait to slide inside him - and fortunately Chesta was perfectly willing.

'I - I can see myself in the mirror,' he gasped, bracing his arms against the rim of the sink. Folken was doing his best not to be rough - he was afraid he must be rubbing the boy raw by this time - but there was no way he could avoid using some force in his movements.

'Do you like it?' he asked.

'I like how we look together,' Chesta replied. 'I like… seeing you behind me… and feeling you in me… and… oh… ohh…' He closed his eyes, biting his lower lip and tilting back his head, concentrating only on what he felt. His bare feet slipped slightly on the tiled floor. Folken found himself staring at the rhythmically moving image in the half-steamed-over mirror, at Chesta's pale torso cut across by his embracing metal arm, at his good arm disappearing below the mirror's frame, the hand gently, insistently, pulling and rubbing, at Chesta's softly flushed face and damp golden hair, at his own face, half in shadow but with eyes shining in a way he had never seen. In that moment he thought he might really be the half-demon his father's councillors had warned of. Perhaps that was why… perhaps that was what had always been wrong with him… if it brought him to such ecstasy as this, he could not disown it.

He felt warm tears running down his face, salt stinging where Chesta had scraped the skin a little too closely.

'Yes…' Chesta breathed.

'Chesta… sweet…'

'Folken… ohh… oh, Folken… sama!'

'I don't know what you're thinking about,' Van said, 'but you have the most vacant expression on your face.'

'I'm so sorry,' said Folken, 'I just seem to keep drifting off today.'

'Maybe you didn't sleep enough last night.'

'No, I don't think I did.' Folken looked almost pleased at the thought. Van really was getting worried about him.

Chapter Text

Despite Chesta's best efforts at acting, it had been fairly evident to the other Dragonslayers at dinner that he had cheered up. Folken had given him permission (sealed with a kiss) to tell part of the truth, anyway.

'Guess what,' he said, beaming up and down the long table. 'I plucked up the courage to just go and ask Folken-sama about Dilandau-sama.'

'You never,' said Migel, stopping with a chunk of sausage halfway to his mouth to stare. 'He scares you stupid.'

'Well, not any more,' said Chesta firmly. 'Because I just took a deep breath and went in there and asked him, and he was perfectly nice and reasonable and told me Dilandau-sama is all right. He can't say when he'll be coming back but there's no need for us to worry. So isn't that a weight off your minds? I don't know why I was so frightened of him. He may look a bit forbidding but he's really very kind.'

'We are talking about the same Folken-sama we know, right?' said Dalet. 'Tall, cadaverous, spooky as hell?'

'Hey,' said both Chesta and Van, indignantly, at the same moment.

'That's not fair,' Chesta murmured, before subsiding into slightly red-faced silence. He certainly didn't expect (or want) the others to find Folken as attractive as he did, but he didn't think cadaverous was at all a fitting word.

'I don't want to hear you talking about your commanding officer like that,' Van said sternly. 'Show some respect.'

'He isn't even here,' Biore whispered mutinously to Gatti. 'Dilandau-sama wouldn’t mind.'

'Dilandau-sama would have been the first to start taking the piss out of him,' Gatti agreed under his breath. 'At least he had a sense of humour. It might have been a bit warped, but it was there.'

'I hear whispering,' Van said, at the head of the table. 'Do you two want to share your conversation with the rest of us?'

'No, Van-sama,' said Biore brightly, 'Gatti was just asking me if my constipation had cleared up.'

'Not while I'm eating, please,' said Van, and returned his attention to his tray.

'Constipation?' hissed Gatti.

'It had to be something he wouldn't want to ask any more about,' Biore hissed back.

'I know, but couldn't it be a verruca or something? I don't want people to think I'm interested in constipation.'

'Ssh, he'll notice us again.' They re-applied themselves to putting away mashed potatoes.

'Um, so, Van-sama,' said Chesta, 'I thought it was - well, you've got a nice brother, that's all. I'd misjudged him.' He still wasn't at all sure he liked Van, but he felt it would be a good idea to be nice to his lover's younger brother. Somehow he wasn't afraid of him any more, and that made it much easier to be charitable. He felt as though he was on the same level now, or possibly higher.

Van gave him an odd look. 'Well, thank you,' he said. Chesta really was weird. Looking this happy just because he knew Dilandau was all right - Dilandau, who'd abused him physically and verbally every day. Yet he'd always prefer him to Van. Van was getting impatient with the Dragonslayers' professional coolness towards him and it was making him snappy. He supposed it was paranoid, but when he heard them whispering apart he worried that they were saying things about him. Then he made himself sound like a schoolteacher by calling them on it. Now Chesta was acting friendly, which was quite bizarre since he'd been the one looking at him with kicked-puppy eyes every day just because he wasn't the fabulous Dilandau-sama. He couldn't relax around them at all, knowing they were all just waiting for the day when that freak would be back.

He also wanted to know why Folken had told odd little Chesta something he had never told Van. To be sure, he had not asked what was really happening with Dilandau… perhaps Folken assumed that if he didn't ask directly he didn't want to know… but it made him wonder if his brother was keeping secrets from him. The thought gave him a headache, a steady throbbing at the base of his skull.

So that had been last night, and today at lunch Folken had not even seemed to be all there. Perhaps he did have secrets. Perhaps Chesta and the others were involved. Perhaps he was planning something.

Van drew up short in the corridor and wondered at himself. Why would I think something like that about Folken? How could it cross my mind that he might deceive me? I know that's complete nonsense. He loves me. He's on my side. The only person who is. I mustn't ever think things like that about him. What's wrong with me?

He was going to Celena's garden by himself this time; Folken had told him the combination for the door, saying he had work to catch up on and couldn't spare the time to walk with him. He said he was sorry, but he was still in such an obvious good mood that it didn't ring very true. He had developed a mannerism overnight, a way of brushing his hair back from his forehead with his fingers, that annoyed Van. He found it affected, even effeminate - which he knew was unfair, because objectively it was a perfectly ordinary gesture such as any man with longish hair might make. He just didn't like Folken changing, somehow. It made him seem unreliable.

I've got to stop criticising him. I'm being ridiculous. I'm being as bad as Dalet, insulting him. No-one should say things like that about my brother. Least of all me. Traitor.

He could not shake off this headache. It would be so nice to get into the garden and breathe the sweeter air there. Celena would be happy to see him. Her company was restful by comparison with that of any of the others. A little slowly, because he had not done it before, he operated the combination lock and went in.

She was sleeping in her favourite little dip in the grassy turf. She was still wearing yesterday's garland of daisies and buttercups, withered and shrunken amid the silver-gold waves of her hair. She never wanted to take off anything he had made for her.

Well, he thought, I wanted peace and quiet. Here it is. There's no need to wake her up. I'll just settle down and wait for her.

Celena made a faint 'mmph' sound in her sleep as he sat down beside her and unzipped his jacket. Peeling it off, he rolled his neck and shoulders around. The weight of the armour always seemed to give him stiff muscles there; either that or he was spending too much time in a state of physical tension. There was a physiotherapist attached to the infirmary; perhaps he should go and ask for a back rub. Folken had to go to her sometimes for acupuncture to relieve the aches and pains he got where his artificial shoulder joint met the living flesh and bone. He sometimes made sour little jokes about living with his steel arm; Van remembered him saying he was the only person he knew who kept an oilcan in his bathroom cupboard.

It might be soothing to lie down in the infirmary and have the tension kneaded out of his muscles, but then again it might just make him feel as though he was sick. He had an odd feeling of aversion to the idea of lying down on any sort of medical bed. It was probably better for him just to lie here under the skylight with Celena, and enjoy the feeling of grass between his fingers and toes. This was a nice natural place, or as close to natural as anything got on board the Vione. He had never left it since he had been… since his brother had brought him to live with him. It was becoming his world. Fanelia hardly seemed real by comparison. Probably its meadows had not been any more beautiful than this. The grass was surely coarser and full of weeds and thistles. It must be better here.

And of course, there was no Celena. He settled himself on the ground, propped on one elbow, and watched her as she slept. She needed him. That was a comforting certainty. He had been able to do her undeniable good. In the short time they had spent together, she had become much more lucid and focused. She still could not remember anything about herself, but it turned out that she could read and write, if slowly, and elements of common sense appeared to be coming back to her. She talked intelligently about a variety of things, considering with a rather pretty frown before she pronounced on any point of which she was unsure. She always deferred to his superior knowledge, but she was forming opinions of her own. She laughed at his jokes, listened raptly to his stories and was delighted by everything he gave her, from a daisy-chain to a bowl of oyster-crackers to a butterfly he had twisted out of wire. She had stopped asking him to kiss her with words, but made persistent and eloquent requests with her eyes.

Why don't I? he thought. Really, what holds me back? I don't know why I feel so scared. It can't be that difficult to do right. It would probably be nice… make me feel happier. It's not as though I'm jumping on her without knowing her. I know her as well as I can. I think she's sweet.

Celena turned her head towards him and her lips parted slightly, although she was still sound asleep. Van found himself staring, as he was afraid he often stared, at her soft pink mouth, at the weak Cupid's bow of her upper lip and the inviting fullness of the lower. He had touched her lips by chance when feeding her the little treats he brought; that was a tradition between them. Yesterday when it was raspberries she had licked a trace of juice from his thumb and - and his nerve had failed him, although his mind filled with thoughts of tasting the juice in her mouth, her red-stained lips and tongue, which had stayed with him for much of the night. He was deeply confused by his feelings, by the unreliable desire he felt which would not seem to translate into physical form. He was having wet dreams that he couldn't remember when he woke. Obviously there was something lighting his fire, but when he was actually with Celena he seemed to freeze. It was nice that he had never been embarrassed by an unwanted erection when they were close, but then he had to wonder why it didn't happen when he was certainly having thoughts along those lines.

He was getting disgusted with himself by this time. Impatience and exasperation as much as anything else pushed him on now. If he didn’t have the balls to try it even when she was asleep, how much of a man was he? He bent his head towards Celena and experimentally kissed the corner of her mouth. She did not stir, and he tried again, a more definite and centred kiss. The air of a faint sigh tickled his face. He kissed her once more, and, with his eyes closed, felt rather than saw her awake. She gave a little gasp and he thought perhaps he should stop, but in the moment before he could move, her arms laced across his back and drew him down upon her.

This is just right, Van thought, just as it should be, no need for words… except I hope she understands what's going on. How do I ask? I've got to touch her. I want to touch her. There's nothing to be afraid of, she's a sensible girl, if she doesn't like it she'll tell me so, won't she? Feeling extremely awkward, he slid his hands down to her hips and tried stroking gently up and down. I wonder when you start really enjoying this, instead of thinking so hard? Seriously kissing was full of surprises; he had not realised how wet her mouth would be, how alive she would feel, more so than he felt. He was not getting any less nervous. White hissing panic was rising up in him, infuriating him. It shouldn't feel so mechanical, surely. It was as though his whole body had been replaced by artificial parts like Folken's arm, moving exactly like human limbs but without feeling, not animated by a soul. Under him, Celena gently arched her back and moved one leg to wrap around him.

Van rolled away.

He pushed himself away from her so vigorously that he rolled over twice before coming to a stop on his back, staring up at the clouds passing over the glass ceiling, his breath rasping in his chest. He looked towards Celena. She was half sitting up, her cheeks and lips flushed a deep warm pink, but an expression of hurt and bewilderment in her eyes.

'What's wrong?' she asked.

'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I'm so sorry. I just can't do this, it's wrong.'

'It isn't wrong if we both like it, is it?' she asked plaintively. 'Unless… unless you don't like it, you don't like me.'

'I do like you! I think about it all the time. Sometimes I can't sleep for thinking about it. But…' He could not explain his own feelings. Uppermost in his mind was a horrible sense of disappointment. He started to gather up the outer clothes he had cast off. 'I can't stay. I'm so sorry, I have to go. It isn't fair to you. I… I need to think about this a lot more. I don't know what's right any more.'

'But you'll come back tomorrow, right?' she asked, her voice high with concern.

'I can't promise,' he said helplessly.

Unexpectedly, her face set into lines of anger. It was the first time he had seen anger in Celena, and it bewildered him.

'Fine, then,' she said, 'just go away and leave me after making me feel all sorts of things I'd never have thought of if you hadn't come. Just leave me alone like everyone else. I don't need you! I would have been happier without you! Get out!' The last words were almost a scream. Her eyes blazed through bitter tears.

For a long moment Van stared at her with wide eyes. Then he turned, clutching his jacket and boots, and left at a pace which was just one notch down from running.

Night wrapped around the Vione, concealing no-one knew how many secrets. It was an inferior cloak to those Folken had devised, but it was sufficient to hide a great deal. It gave perfect concealment to a fair-haired boy stealing his way from the Dragonslayers' dormitory to the quarters of the Strategos. He moved quickly, because he was eager to get there, and because it was a cold night to be creeping about in just his nightshirt. Everything seemed exciting, dramatic, romantic, because of where he was going, because of what he anticipated. The shadows must watch him with envy in their hearts. He had to feel sorry for everyone who was wasting this night on just sleeping, for lack of anything better to do. As for those who lay awake alone, poor creatures! It might be better if they didn't know what they were missing.

Folken did not quite hear the second knock at his door that night; it was muffled as Chesta's thighs pressed together on either side of his head, an involuntary squeeze which was repeated at all moments of the most intense pleasure. They were comfortably settled in Folken's bed. Soon enough he would spread those sweetly perspiring legs apart and up for a still deeper intimacy (or obscenity, a disapproving, castigating part of him thought) but at the moment he was fully and contentedly occupied with gently varying the pressure of his suction in just the way that was making Chesta's fingers convulsively tighten their grip on his hair and his rapid breathing turn to broken, high-pitched gasps.

In the beginning he had honestly not expected to enjoy doing something like this so much, to find it such a positive pleasure in itself rather than a service patiently rendered for the sake of pleasing Chesta. Perhaps it was lowering himself this way, worshipping Chesta's body so humbly, that made it so exciting. Perhaps it was the taste and the smell and the heat. Perhaps it was the pressure, the confinement, the breathless crush of the humid little world he lowered himself into, Chesta's hands and thighs holding him there so desperately, the slip and tug of wet suction and the thickly swollen flesh in his mouth coming close to choking him at times. It made him feel dirtier the more he tried to analyse it, and in his most clear-headed moments he suspected that that was the secret. It was because he thought it was obscene that it thrilled him so much. It was because he disapproved of himself that he was delighted. None of these thoughts came clearly to his mind as he actually did the thing, any more than the sound of the knock came clearly to his ears.

He did, however, hear his brother's voice a moment later.

'Brother? Can I come in? It's me, Van.' He was outside the door in the corridor. Folken felt a jolt of mixed panic and fury at being interrupted at this moment, and fervent relief that Van had not just walked right in. He raised his head and looked up at Chesta, who stared back at him in silent horror. There was no time to lose.

'Get under the bed, quickly,' said Folken quietly, 'and keep very still.' Chesta obeyed immediately. Folken pulled up the covers and sat up in bed, wondering exactly how obvious it was what he had been doing. Self-consciously, he wiped his sweating face on the underside of the sheet and drew up his legs to prevent the appearance of a 'tent.' At the same time, he tried to make his voice sound sleepy and called out to his brother to come in. As he heard the door of the outer room open, his heart lurched at the thought that Chesta's nightshirt was still lying crumpled on the bedroom floor. He looked down and saw a slender arm clawing it out of sight under the bed. Folken congratulated himself on his taste in sensible boys and tried to relax. It was not particularly easy, since he did not seem able to stop feeling aroused at a moment's notice; he felt as though he had 'SEX!' tattooed across his forehead to show everyone what he was thinking. That had been the rather self-dramatising logic behind his purple teardrop; an external token of his inner state. It was no longer perfectly accurate, of course, but he was not yet at the stage where he could consider having it changed to a heart as Chesta had sweetly but naively suggested.

Van's footsteps were crossing the outer room. Folken tried to think if there was anything incriminating out there. An empty half-bottle of wine - but they had drunk from one glass, and even if drinking alone was a bit pathetic, he was sure Van would be ready to believe that was the explanation. Thank God they hadn't done with the bottle what Chesta had suggested, giggling slightly because he was, at the time, a little (adorable) bit drunk.

The bedroom door slid open and Van looked in. 'Did I wake you up?' he asked. 'I thought maybe you wouldn't have gone to bed yet.'

'It's after midnight,' Folken said, trying to sound stern instead of guilty. 'You should be in bed, at any rate.'

'I'm sorry,' said Van, coming into the room properly. He was wearing the black dressing-gown Folken had given him as a welcoming present, but Folken could see his trouser legs under it; he was not ready for bed. 'I don't feel like I can go to sleep until I've talked to you, and I've been trying for hours to figure out exactly what I want to say.'

'Oh?' said Folken. He was caught between wanting Van to leave as soon as possible, and genuine concern for whatever was worrying his brother. Clearly he was worried. Folken had not seen him look so troubled for some time. He had thought things were going so well. Van had started to seem stable. Had he not observed something important because he was so bound up for once in what was happening in his own life?

Van wandered over to Folken's bureau and fiddled with the handles on the top drawer. He did not seem able to come to the point immediately, although everything about him seemed drawn tight with unhappy tension.

'What's the matter, Van?' Folken asked gently. 'I always want you to feel that you can confide in me.' Apart from anything else, I need to know what you're thinking. You're too unpredictable.

'It's about Celena,' Van said, almost inaudibly. Folken had to ask him to turn around and repeat himself.

Under the bed, curled up into the corner of the wall, Chesta wondered a little who Celena was, although mostly he wondered when he would be able to get out from here. It was both chilly and dusty, and he had nothing between his skin and the cold floor. Putting his nightshirt on, or even getting it under him, would involve too much movement and noise to be worth the risk. He felt very exposed, even in his hiding place.

'I can't see her any more,' Van said, in a tone which suggested he expected to get into trouble for such a declaration.

'Whyever not?' Folken asked. His calmness surprised Van; although when he thought about it Folken spoke much more calmly than he looked. He was rather red in the face, now that Van looked closely. He must only just be keeping a grip on himself. Better talk fast.

'I - I know it seems very ungrateful, after you arranged everything for us. And I know it seems uncaring, because she needs someone to look after her. But it just can't be me, brother, I can't do it!'

'Is it too difficult to reach her?' Folken said. 'From the things you told me, I'd had the impression you were communicating very well.' It was taking a heroic effort to find sensible things to say and keep his mind on the conversation. It had just occurred to him that there was definitely a fresh love-bite on the side of his neck, and he had no idea if his hair hid it. If he tried to sit with his hand over it that would only draw attention. If he didn't cover it Van might happen to notice it. The expression 'guilt was written all over him' took on new significance in his mind. Surely it was horribly obvious. The imaginary tattooist got busy with his needle; in addition to the forehead adornment there was now 'dirty old man' on his good shoulder, 'faggot' picked out in rivets on the other arm, and a large, unequivocal 'PERVERT' inscribed across his chest.

Van looked around the room, avoiding his brother's eyes, for which said brother was grateful.

'Why are your clothes all over the place?' he asked. 'You were tidy when I stayed with you before.'

Folken felt trapped. 'I wanted to make a good impression,' he lied. 'Things get a bit scattered in here sometimes.' He normally was tidy. He prayed Van hadn't noticed that his underwear was hanging from the upper corner of the bathroom door. Even a typically untidy person probably wouldn't have flung it up there. This was what you got for getting over-excited; it came back to shame you.

'You've changed lately,' Van said, frowning.

'I don't think I have. As I said, I was trying to make a good impression on you before. I suppose now I'm relaxing a little.' I suppose this means I'll have to keep the place deliberately messy from now on in case he pops in. It's such tiresome work trying to keep one's lies consistent. And I don't want untidy quarters.

'You didn't need to do that,' Van said. He was standing in the middle of the room now, sort of hovering, as though unsure whether to stay where he was, or sit down, or leave altogether.

'You still haven't said what the problem with Celena is,' Folken reminded him. 'I would like to know. I thought you were rather enjoying your time with her.' Inwardly he was cursing himself for not having kept closer tabs on the surveillance footage from the garden. It was not that Chesta had taken his mind right off it, because he was not that careless; but what he had already seen had been so encouraging that he had not been on the lookout for signs of trouble. He hadn't viewed today's recording yet; other, entirely legitimate business had occupied him and he had considered it a higher priority than his pet project.

'It's - well, that's the trouble,' Van said, looking deeply embarrassed. 'It's… what you were teasing me about the other day. I'm - I sort of - well, I like her very much, of course, and…' Folken got no particular enjoyment out of watching his brother flounder, so he nodded in an understanding way.

'You're attracted to her?' he suggested.

'Yes. Too much. It's a distraction to me. I think it's weakening me. I'm all mixed up about it and it's not fair to you.'

'To me?' Folken repeated. 'I don't see where I come into it.'

'Because of the opportunity you've given me, to help you with something so important, for everyone, for the whole world, and I'm not putting my heart into it! I've got no right to get distracted by a girl when the plan is so much more important. I was thinking about what you told me, about how you'd never had time for women because of your duty, and I just felt so small and shabby and weak that I had to do something about it. I know I've let you down, I know you wanted me to help look after her, but I'm just not strong enough to be with her without wanting… what I shouldn't want. I want to serve you and help you the best way I can. With the Dragonslayers. That's what I'm good at. I think it's all I'm good for. I'm not clever like you. I'm not a natural leader like you, I have to work so hard at it and then I'm never sure I'm getting it right… but I'll do my best, I swear by Escaflowne, and our father's sword, and anything else you want. I'll do anything for you, except that I can't see Celena any more.' Van was so much in earnest that he was trembling; it alarmed Folken to see how worked up he was about this. It worked better than I ever thought. He's devoted to me above all else. Sometimes my own power scares me a little.

Van still had a little more to say. 'I've been thinking about it so hard, and this must be why I got so nervous with her, that deep down I knew I was doing the wrong thing, being disloyal to you. It was my conscience stopping me. I've figured out the truth and I won't fool myself any more.' He looked rather relieved now, as though a weight had fallen from him with the confession. He crossed over to the bed and sat down on the end of it, relaxing a little. Underneath, Chesta stared at the portion of Van's legs that he could see, hanging with the feet not touching the ground, because it was a rather high bed, and found himself possessed by a slightly hysterical need to laugh. With great presence of mind, he put a couple of folds of his nightshirt sleeve in his mouth and bit down.

Folken steepled his fingers together and rested his chin on them while he thought. It went against the grain to try to reprogram Van's thinking again. It might also be ineffective, since the initial set of principles was obviously so deeply entrenched - besides this hero-worship that he had never intended. He had just wanted Van to love and trust him, as he had when they were younger. He had never meant it to interfere with him forming attachments to other people. In any case, when Van had obviously gone through so much mental turmoil coming to this conclusion, and had made up his mind to self-sacrifice, telling him it was all unnecessary would feel like rejection to him. It might damage that trust. Better to accept the sacrifice and make the best of the situation.

'If that's how you feel, then of course that's what you must do,' he said. 'I'm very sorry to have unthinkingly placed you in a difficult situation. And I must say I am very thankful to have such a loyal and dutiful brother.' He smiled at Van, giving his blessing.

'You're not angry?' Van asked. 'Or disappointed in me?'

'Not at all. I'm only sorry, as I said, that you should have had such a hard time of it. I hope you'll sleep better tonight for having got all this off your chest.'

'Oh, I'm sure I will,' said Van with some confidence. 'Thank you, brother. I feel so much better now I've told you. I'd better get to bed now, hadn't I? I'll probably have trouble getting up in the morning.' He gave a self-deprecating little half-smile.

'Good night, then,' said Folken. 'Pleasant dreams.'

'Good night,' said Van, rising to go, 'and you too - pleasant dreams, I mean.' He paused for a moment, as though trying to decide something, and then said, a little shyly, 'I love you.'

'I love you too.' Folken's heart reproached him when he saw how Van's smile grew at those words. How long since he had been told someone loved him? Van left, sliding the door closed behind him, and Folken waited motionless until he heard the outer door close too.

In his hiding place, Chesta breathed a little easier. After a moment he heard Folken move above him, making the slats of the bedstead creak, and then his head came into view upside down, over the side of the bed.

'How scandalous,' he said, making a weak attempt at humour to mask how scared he had been. 'There's a boy under my bed.'

'Is it safe to crawl out?' Chesta asked. 'I'm freezing under here.'

'Then come and be warmed up.'

Chesta joined him on the bed, shedding dust-balls from his hair, the covers were pulled up, and deep, slow kissing followed. Folken was feeling a sort of after-rush as a result of having escaped from a dicey situation, and found Chesta's pace a little slower than he would have liked.

'Look at this thing,' he murmured, guiding Chesta's hand to feel rather than to see, 'the whole time I was talking to him, scared out of my wits, it wouldn't go down. It's got no sense of shame.' He pushed Chesta's chilly hand up and down over warm skin, working up heat and pleasure from friction.

'Either mine has a conscience or it was just too cold under there. I've gone off the boil. You've got to be patient while I warm up again,' Chesta replied. 'Although if you think yours is so bad I guess I could beat it for you.'

'But I'm meant to be treating you tonight,' Folken protested, with absolutely no show of resistance. After his success in deception, and defusing of the situation, it seemed like a fitting reward. He was not about to stand on principle.

'Hang on a moment. Who's Celena, anyway?' Chesta grew suddenly thoughtful, and his moving hand slowed.

'No-one important. Please don't stop. Do what you did this morning. I've been wanting another dose of that all day.'

'If she's not important, why's Van-sama so upset about her?' The hand was still now, and its grip loosening.

'How can you ask questions like that at a time like this?' Folken asked hopelessly. He felt he was losing, and just when he had been so happy in the moment.

'I told you I'd gone off the boil.'

'And you call yourself a fifteen-year-old. You're supposed to be at your sexual peak, you know.' Folken tried to distract him with more kisses, and for the first time found him a little unresponsive. He drew back and found Chesta frowning, although on Chesta it was a fairly weak frown.

'Why don't you want to tell me?'

'Because it really isn't important. You don't need to know. For you, it's completely useless information. I could tell you and you would say "uh-huh" and forget it in two minutes.'

'You could let me be the judge of that,' Chesta persisted.

'Who's ten years older than you, not to mention your commanding officer?' Folken asked a touch peevishly. 'How about trusting my judgement?' He regretted pulling rank almost immediately. Chesta looked so hurt that he felt wretchedly guilty. He rolled over and turned his back to Folken; not in the way that was an invitation, either.

'I'm sorry,' Folken said quickly. 'I didn't really mean that. It was a stupid, nasty thing to say. Please ignore it.' Chesta was silent. Oh God. We're having a fight. Why do I always have to ruin things? Why can't I get anything except machines right?

'Please don't ignore me. I'm sorry. Just look at me, Chesta, look in my eyes and you'll see I mean it.'

'If I look at you,' Chesta said, slightly muffled by the quilt he had dragged up around his chin, 'I'll only forgive you. You know perfectly well I can't say no if I'm looking you in the eye.'

That didn't sound like someone who had hardened his heart against his love. Experimentally, Folken raised himself on one arm and leaned over, looking at Chesta upside-down again. Chesta put one hand over his eyes. It was such a silly gesture that it brought back all Folken's confidence.

'Come on,' he whispered, gently prising away the fingers one by one, 'just look at me… see how much I want you… see how much I want to please you… open those pretty eyes and see a fool.'

Grudgingly, Chesta opened his eyes and looked at Folken gravely. 'I can't see one,' he said. Folken kissed him gratefully and pulled the boy back towards him in a hug.

'Let me make your blood boil,' he whispered, nuzzling into the side of Chesta's neck.

'Yes…' Chesta arched towards him, the unconscious, forgiving grace of his young body making Folken feel overgrown, brutish and clumsy. He was ashamed of himself; not that that was anything new. There were different flavours and strengths of shame, that was all; he was tasting a fresh one. It was not just what he had done, it was what he knew he was about to do. He drew back and stroked Chesta's hair while he spoke.

'To answer your question, so we can proceed with a clear conscience, Celena is a girl who happened to come under my protection. She's an orphan with amnesia. She's your age, actually. Van has been spending time with her to try and rehabilitate her. It was a little pet project of mine. Well, you heard the rest of it from him, unless you were too polite to listen. I guess it won't work out the way I had hoped, but it's no great loss. That really wasn't very interesting, was it?' Well, there I go. I just did to Chesta what I do to Van. Surface truth, acceptable truth, enough to make sure he asks no more questions. If I gave him the truth I would lose him forever, and I can't bear that thought. Or I might order him to stay, and he would do it against his will, suffering without complaining, despising me in his heart, and I can bear that thought even less. I really am a coward.

Chesta looked thoughtful. 'I have to admit that it isn't fascinating. But it is interesting to know one more thing about you that I didn't before. I know two more things, really; I know you do kind things for orphans and you're a very nice older brother.'

'I'm a machiavellian older brother,' Folken said wryly. 'I try to set things up for him. I'm devious and wily. The word is éminence gris.' He seemed to be trying to confess sideways, admitting his sins against one boy to the other.

'Oh, it's for his own good really,' said Chesta blithely. 'He should trust your judgement like I do. I mean, I know you wouldn't do anything really bad. You just want what's best for everyone in the end.'

'Since when do you trust my judgement?'

'Since just now when you told me to. You know I obey orders, Folken-sama.' He was smiling now, teasing.

'I order you not to call me that in private.'

'Then you'll have to stop being all masterful and awe-inspiring and making me want to call you that. I can't help myself.'

'I don't really inspire you with awe, do I?' Folken asked, perplexed.

'You know perfectly well you do,' Chesta said, with an exaggerated glance downward.

'No, look, take me seriously.'

'Take me. Seriously.'

'You're getting silly, Chesta… don't make me growl at you…'

'I would rather have a growl from you than a - a poem from anyone else,' Chesta said seriously, although there was still a wicked light in his eyes.

'That's good. You'll never be disappointed.' Folken kissed him softly. He was beginning to think he had better resign himself to patience and a good deal of talking tonight. It was only fair, he supposed; Chesta was not just an enjoyable body. It was still frustrating, when he wanted the comfort of losing himself in that body.

'What were you going to do to me when we were so rudely interrupted?' Chesta whispered.

'Ah… well… I would have continued my attention to this area…' Folken slipped his good hand down to wrap around his lover's reviving erection, while he continued to kiss the boy's neck and shoulders.

'One of the things I find very surprising, and very sweet about you,' Chesta said, closing his eyes, 'is how shy you are about putting names on things. It's my cock, Folken-sama, it's all right to call it that.'

'Vulgar word,' Folken murmured between kisses. He always had to hold back in this; Chesta did not have the luxury of a private shower and any unusual marks on his body would almost certainly be noticed. He had a rather futile little fantasy about giving him a perfectly symmetrical collar of love-bites. A collar for my pet. To show he belongs to me. As it was, he wasn't sure he could risk biting a nipple, tempting as it was. He doubted he would ever again eat raspberries and cream without thinking of Chesta in a very specific way.

'All the non-vulgar words sound stupid… manhood? Honestly… I think the most poetical one I ever read was "his velvet hardness." Sounds a bit like a royal title.' Chesta's words were interspersed by little throaty sighs, almost purrs, of pleasure, but he did not seem prepared to stop talking. 'You were born a prince, right? Want me to call you Your Velvet Hardness?'

'Worse than Folken-sama.' Releasing his grip on the so-called 'velvet hardness,' Folken gently walked his fingers down, parting Chesta's suddenly tense buttocks and softly probing his way in to a tight, warm, deeply private passage. One fingertip… two… push…

Chesta caught his breath sharply. 'Oh God,' he whispered, his volubility deserting him, 'oh God…' He tightened his grip on Folken's shoulders, digging in his close-trimmed nails.

'Good?'

'Yes…'

'And like this?'

'Yes…'

'Do you want more?'

'Yes!'

'Come on, then… what do you call it, the "hook"…'

Chesta was given to putting names to positions too, conveniently and concisely labelling experiences he was not sure he could fully describe even if he talked for hours. The 'hook' meant his legs raised and spread, his hips tilted up, his legs hooked over Folken's shoulders; it meant Folken firmly holding his hips, one hand hot and sweating, the other cold and hard, fighting not to dig his claws in; it meant Folken sinking in with a long groan of joy and his full, overwhelming, wonderful weight coming to rest on Chesta's body. It meant taking in more than he thought he could bear and then wishing he could take more; it meant feeling so full inside that he thought when Folken came he would taste it; it meant deep thrilling pressure and friction in places he had never touched, sometimes a thin rim of pain around the edge of ecstasy. His voice rose and ran on almost incoherently, the higher part of a rhythmic duet, counterpointed by the deep, breathless grunts and low, hoarse cries he could feel as well as hear rising in Folken's chest and belly. For accompaniment they had the plaintive creak of the bedstead and the tapping of the headboard against the wall, gradually accelerating and increasing to a full-bodied thumping.

Pumping, straining, the fingers of his good hand clenched into a knot with the sheets, the claws of the other hand doing irreparable damage to the mattress (at least it wasn't Chesta's defenseless skin), Folken found himself once again fixated on one image before him, this time on Chesta's face, on the feverish bloom on his cheeks, the glisten of sweat on his upper lip, on his pink, panting mouth whimpering Folken's name. He was consumed by what he felt, aware of nothing else. His eyes were tightly closed, blond brows drawn tremulously together, wet lashes flickering against his cheeks. I have made him like this. I am the first and only to see this face, this beauty. For some reason, at this most inappropriate of moments, Folken remembered his mother telling a much younger version of him that when you cut open an apple, you are the first in the world to see what it looks like inside. I've opened a boy… I'm seeing his heart. With that thought he broke through into blissful oblivion.

Afterwards, Chesta clearly wanted to sleep, but Folken now found himself unable to stop talking. He would make an honest effort to shut up but then he would think of another thing he simply must say, Chesta would make a drowsy effort to answer and the peace would be broken again. The problem was that he was feeling excessively happy and grateful and kept wanting to express it.

'You realise, don't you,' he said, trying to snuggle closer, 'that no-one has ever made me feel the way you do?'

'You too,' said Chesta, without opening his eyes. 'You're wonderful.'

'I don't just mean the physical things. Although those are very special. And certainly new to me.' He paused, thinking. 'Did you make up that hook thing yourself, or is it out of a book or something?'

Chesta opened one eye to peep at him skeptically. 'Are you kidding? Of course it's out of a book. I couldn't make something like that up. Why'd you think that?'

'I don't know,' Folken protested, slightly embarrassed. 'You're the one with all the specialist knowledge.'

'You're the one with the experience.' He gave Folken's arm a little squeeze and rubbed his smooth cheek against his shoulder, sounding amused, and as though he expected this to be the end of it.

'No I'm not.'

Chesta opened both eyes and raised his head from Folken's shoulder to stare at him. 'I know you have a bit of a peculiar sense of humour,' he said, 'but this seems obscure even for you.'

'It isn't a joke. I didn't know you thought I was experienced. Don't look at me like that.' Chesta's incredulous gaze was making him feel extremely foolish. The revelation seemed to have woken him right up, and now he would not leave the subject alone.

'You're twenty-five.'

'What does that have to do with it?'

'Well, I thought - I assumed…' Chesta trailed off. 'Then how do you know what to do?'

'You always tell me what you want me to do. I - I know in general terms what people do, of course… and you made it easy for me… I thought that was why.' He stopped in confusion. 'I thought it must be fairly obvious about me.'

'Nothing is obvious about you. You're the most mysterious person I know,' Chesta said, shaking his head.

'I suppose I'm flattered that you couldn't tell,' Folken said uncertainly. 'I'm not flattered by the way you said "you're twenty-five".'

'Twenty-five is old to be a virgin,' said Chesta, with all the implicit disapproval of a debauched fifteen. Suddenly he grinned. 'Think of that, I popped your cherry. Can I say that?'

'No, it sounds dreadful.'

'But it works both ways, you popped mine.'

'I popped nothing.' Folken relaxed a little. 'At least it doesn't turn out you've had years of experience.'

'Wouldn't you like that?'

'No… I like knowing I'm the only man who's ever made love to you.' He traced the shape of Chesta's chin with his fingers. 'That I'm the only one who's ever been allowed to enjoy all this.'

'You are.' Chesta frowned. 'Why, though? I mean, why did you wait so long? You could have had anyone you wanted, I'm sure.'

'Perhaps, if I ordered them as I did you.'

'No. You could just have asked nicely. That would have worked on me too.'

'It's immaterial anyway. I never wanted anyone before you.'

'You're saying that to flatter me.' Chesta looked a little disappointed, as though he considered this unworthy of Folken.

'I am not. You woke something in me that I didn't even realise was sleeping. I didn't know it was alive in the first place. I assumed it was stillborn.' Folken grew irritated with his rather cumbersome metaphor and abandoned it. 'I only wanted to tell you what I said at the beginning. No-one but you has made me feel this way. No-one but you has been so precious to me. I want there to be no doubt in your mind whatsoever as to that. To me, that’s what makes it so special, that this is a first for both of us. It feels sacred.'

Chesta still looked dubious. 'Do you think sex can be sacred? Especially this kind.'

'Well, don't you like paradoxes? That it can be sacred and dirty at the same time?'

Chesta lowered his head wearily. 'It's too late at night for me to think about this kind of thing. Please, Folken-sama, you wear me out. Just let me go to sleep for a little while. In the morning I'll do whatever you want. Talk or anything.'

'I'm sorry,' said Folken. He felt he had been idiotic. It seemed as though Chesta had not read nearly as much into their relationship as he had. That made him feel panicky, as though what he was depending on might be built on a false foundation and could collapse at any moment. Did he really just see it as first sex, not first love? Folken did not want to ask. Every now and then Chesta would say something that worried him, that made the boy seem shallow somehow. Perhaps that was what you got for falling in love with a fifteen-year-old. His body might be at its best but his heart, presumably, still had a lot of growing up to do. Folken gazed down at the tousled head resting on his shoulder and felt that sleep would not come easily to him tonight.

'Folken?' Chesta murmured drowsily.

'Yes?'

'Van-sama said you said you didn't have time for women.'

'Well, I didn't. I've had a very busy life.' And for most of it I didn’t even realise boys were an option. Not that it would have made a difference.

'You have time for me, though. Even with everything else you do. You've got to be even busier now than you were for years before this.'

'Of course I have time for you. I make time for you.'

'Then I know I really am precious to you,' Chesta said, nuzzling against his neck for a moment, 'and I'm so glad.'

And every now and then, the boy said something beautiful.

Rest period in the Dragonslayers' dorm was an uneasy time these days; certainly not restful. People kept glancing at the red-curtained bed and trying to look as though they were not doing so, because after all Van-sama was there; he always stayed with them during recreation time, albeit rather grimly. It was generally felt that he did it to keep an eye on them rather than out of any enjoyment of their company or willingness to unbend, and therefore it was resented. The only person who seemed reasonably well-disposed towards him, above and beyond the call of duty, so to speak, was Chesta, although he took care not to overdo it lest he get a reputation as a brown-nose.

Everyone was quietly occupied just now; the perennial card game was in progress around Gatti's bed, although the players did not seem very lively. Their spirits were perhaps dampened by the fact that Van was a participant, and kept winning. They never played for real money, but the pile of tokens in front of Van was getting quite high.

Chesta was writing his weekly letter to his uncle, his only surviving relative. His parents had died within a few months of each other when he was nine, and going to live in his elderly bachelor uncle's house, he had had a childhood in which all his material needs were met, but no-one paid much attention to him in particular. He had achieved quietly and steadily at a high level in school, being selected for the nationwide top academic and athletic stream from which all the Dragonslayers had been recruited some years ago. Some of the boys had come from the same schools as each other, although most were meeting the others for the first time. It was the only bit of background they all had in common, including, they had always assumed, Dilandau-sama. He never said anything to the contrary because of course it went without saying.

Uncle Jerse had seemed quite satisfied with Chesta's placement. To term his reaction proud would have been overstating it, but he appeared to feel his nephew was behaving as he should. Chesta did not object to this. He and his uncle had always respected one another's privacy, their relationship being civil rather than affectionate. As long as he wrote once a week, his responsibilities were discharged and he could get on with his own life. If he had sometimes envied those of the other boys who received long letters from loving family members… well, now he had a secret better than any of that. He paused in his writing just for a moment, to think of his secret and let the warmth of it spread a little. The day was more than half over and he was well into the countdown to the time when he would be able to slip from his bed and make his way to Folken's room. He looked around the dorm at the others and felt a delightful sense of privilege.

'Read them,' said Van momentously, 'and feel free to weep.' He fanned out his cards on Gatti's bedspread and cocked an eyebrow at Biore, who was the only other person still in the game.

'Damn,' said Biore, and threw down his own, much weaker hand. A card bumped against the pile of tokens and sent them spilling everywhere, over the bed and onto the floor, where they skittered off in all directions. Van looked disgusted.

'Talk about a poor loser,' he said. 'Was there any need for that display?'

'That wasn't on purpose,' Biore said quickly. 'Sorry, Van-sama.' He dropped to the floor and started picking up counters on all fours. It was remarkable how far they rolled; he had to go under several beds, to the annoyance or amusement of people sitting on them. The last ones had gotten under Chesta's bed. Biore was under there longer than he had been under the others. When he came backing out on his knees, he had a coverless paperback open in his hand. Chesta glanced up, saw it, and froze.

'You'll never believe what I found,' Biore said to the room at large. 'Take a look at this book I found under Chesta's bed, it's pure filth!'

'Filth! Where?' Migel asked, laughing at Biore's enjoyably-scandalised tone. 'Why wasn't I informed, in my capacity as Smut Inspector? Give us a look.'

'It's dreadful,' Biore went on, batting Migel's reaching hand away and half-turning to keep skim-reading. 'Goings-on in a boys' boarding school. Everyone in and out of each other's beds after lights out. A very dubious head prefect. Good Lord! There's an illustration here. Look at that!'

'That's disgusting,' said Guimel, looking over his shoulder. 'Whose could it be? Did you say it was under Chesta's bed?'

'I've never seen that book before in my life!' Chesta lied frantically, colouring up to the hairline. He had thought it was secure under his mattress, but it must have slipped out between the slats of the bedstead.

'Oh, don't worry, Chess, of course no-one thinks it belongs to you,' said Biore cheerfully. Chesta felt oddly snubbed. Of course, it was wonderful not to be suspected, but being considered incapable of the crime seemed somehow a bit insulting. The rest of his secret smutty books were at the bottom of his foot-locker. He made a swift resolution to take them with him to Folken's room tonight, and ask if they could stay there for safe-keeping.

'Where did it come from, though?' asked Gatti. 'Come on, own up, whoever you are! If there's an arse-bandit in this dorm we've all got a right to know.' He was joking really. The discovery of the book struck him as more of a good laugh than anything else, but his words had an unintended effect; people suddenly looked apprehensive, as it occurred to them that whoever it was, they must have been changing and showering with him for months. It was unnerving to think you had been seen naked by the owner of a well-thumbed bit of schoolboy erotica.

'Don't be stupid,' said Dalet sharply. 'No-one here would own a book like that. You know what I bet it is? This wasn't always our dormitory. It probably belongs to someone who used to be billetted here. We've never had the beds out from the walls, so it could have been hidden wedged down behind the headboard or something. He just forgot it when they left and eventually it slid out. Mystery solved.'

'Poor Chesta, getting stuck with the pervert's bed!'

'Check under the floorboards, there could be more!'

Everyone was gathered round by now, ready to make a joke of it and get a look at the offensive material if they could.

'I'll take that, thank you very much,' said Van, twitching the book out of Biore's hands and slapping it closed between his palms.

Biore stared at him, nonplussed. 'What for?' he asked.

'I'm confiscating it, you nitwit,' Van said. 'However fascinated you seem to be by it, I can assure you that this isn't my choice in reading material. This type of thing has no place in a barracks. I may have to inform the Strategos.'

'There's no need for that, surely,' Chesta said feebly. He knew he did not have anything to worry about on that front; blame could not be attached to him and Folken would not mind anyway. Appearing to worry was just a good disguise. He kept having to remind himself to behave as though he were intimidated by Van, too, although that could not have been further from the truth. After what he had overheard last night he even felt rather sorry for him, in a way. If he had not been so hateful to Dilandau-sama he would be an almost pathetic figure to Chesta.

'I'll be the judge of that,' said Van, shooting him a nasty look. He wished, once more, that Chesta hadn't gone to Folken. For one thing, although Van had never forbidden it, it felt like going over his head. It seemed to have given Chesta an improperly high opinion of himself; he was less timid than he had been. Even though he was obviously finding the current situation stressful - he often looked tired, and tended to have dark shadows under his eyes in the mornings - he seemed to have some internal source of self-esteem which meant he cared less what Van thought of him. He probably imagined he had been taken into some privileged confidence. Folken would have said the same to anyone who went and asked him. He would certainly have told the truth to Van. Look at how reasonable he was about the confession last night. He trusted Van absolutely, and there were no secrets between them.

Van was not sure why he needed to tell himself these things nowadays. He already knew them. Perhaps it was simply that repetition was comforting. He had thought his headaches would go away once he had Celena off his conscience, but there was a fresh one gently building at the back of his head. He decided to take a rest in his own quarters before dinner, and see if that made him feel better. He couldn't take anything for it; he had had his meds at lunchtime and Folken had warned him that the dosage would be messed up if he took any more before dinner. Using painkillers at the same time might have unpleasant side-effects.

After he took his meds he always felt better for a while; they seemed to lift his mood and reduce his anxiety. He was not sure exactly what they were; they had such amazing medicine in Zaibach, illnesses that were considered major and alarming in Fanelia only meant a few days off work and some mild discomfort here. They seemed more like magic than medicine. He knew he had been very ill and only Folken's treatment had saved him. He must have been extremely sick, because his memory of that time was so hazy. It was always like that when you tried to recall events from when you were feverish. It seemed to him he had had bizarre dreams, something about fighting an older man who always humiliated him.

He flipped the dirty book at the wastepaper basket under his desk before he lay down. It bounced off the rim and fell on the floor beside the bed. Van sighed and covered his eyes. Well, if Folken thought it was all right to leave things lying around, he supposed it didn't really matter. Things were going to be all right now. If only he had something to do, something to focus on. The way things were, he almost missed Dilandau.

General Adelfos sat and sipped water while the young Strategos reviewed the reports he had brought to their meeting. He was trying to drink more of it these days; he had not been feeling quite right for a while and he thought he had read somewhere that lots of water was good for your system. It wasn't so much a definite physical complaint as a general feeling of malaise.

He watched Folken over the rim of his glass. Of course he respected him; having seen the results his inventions and strategies got, he would have been either a fool or extraordinarily pig-headed not to. But there were still times when he stepped back in his mind and said to himself, here I am, a veteran, a career soldier who put aside family and all private hopes for the military, and I take orders from a twenty-five-year-old with so much stuff on his hair that it probably wouldn't move if he were in a hurricane. He had never quite made up his mind whether or not Folken wore makeup but in his darker moments he suspected it. That's the new Zaibach for you, I suppose. It had all changed so much in the past few years. He didn't know the details of it, they were very secretive in Forward Planning, but he had the impression that if this young man hadn't come over to their side, with his head full of ideas under all that hair gunk (although he seemed to have given it a rest today), they would not be making their move so soon. It could have taken many years more to get to the stage where they were ready. Adelfos might have served out his time and died before the banner of Zaibach was raised over the nations of the world. Perhaps it would have been better so.

It worried him that he was thinking that way, but now that they were actually moving to claim their bright destiny, after a lifetime of service to the ideal, he was starting to question… not the end, but the means. It was foolish, he was a soldier, invasion and war were second nature to him, but he could not shake the feeling that the way they were proceeding now was less than honourable. Come on now, he would say to himself sternly, are you such a reactionary bleeding heart that you would give up the advantage of, say, stealth cloaks? That's a brilliant piece of technology. It would be foolish not to use it. It would be ungrateful. It's a gift from God.

And then he found himself wondering why God would want to give people a gift like that. Weren't things like that more normally stolen from God, taken without His permission? Didn't a judgement usually follow? On the last day, did he want to stand up and say 'I helped do this'?

General Adelfos knew that he was not a deep thinker. He knew he was simply a good soldier who had always worked hard, never asked more of his men than he was prepared to give himself, and did his duty as best he could. Wiser heads than his, somewhere, had this all figured out. He carefully put his doubts away at the back of his mind and did his best, as he always had.

'Very satisfactory,' said Folken, closing the cover of the dossier. 'I didn't expect Allen Schezar to get anywhere with the Duke by himself. No matter what he does there will always be distrust on the most basic level. The girl from the Mystic Moon… well, she's still something of an unknown quantity, but she's becoming isolated and much less likely to take a leading role.'

Adelfos also didn't quite like the way the Strategos always brought it down to individual personalities. He preferred to think of it as more impersonal. You had to form those habits of thought. It didn't do your sleep patterns any good to remember that every man you had killed was someone's son, a person with thoughts and hopes and endearing little quirks and all the rest of it. The General felt that history happened because of the united and purposeful movements of many people. One person could not make a difference in the way that romantics thought.

'Are the reports from your agents the same?' he asked. There was no answer. He had not really expected one. Everyone knew, or suspected, that the Strategos had his own intelligence network operating independently of the usual military spies. You never heard about them, unless you counted the times when he would suddenly cite a startling piece of critical information, which no-one could work out how he had discovered.

'I've been wondering,' he continued, 'whether you intend to deploy the Dragonslayers in Freid, if it comes to a fight. Of course, my men are more than capable, in my opinion. But you've been keeping them back so long people have been speculating that there is something wrong.'

'Well, their primary objective was, of course, to capture the Dragon. With that achieved, I believe we can afford to hold them in reserve for a time. The more experience our enemies have of fighting them, the less advantage our technology will give us. We've had proof that the stealth cloaks do not give perfect concealment in all circumstances. If we keep them unfamiliar they will be more effective when we do use them.'

'I heard their captain was invalided out,' Adelfos said, frowning. 'That little… maverick Dilandau Albatou. What's the story?'

'Dilandau is quite all right. He's almost recovered from his illness and I expect him to rejoin his unit in a couple of days. But you are right, his absence was a contributing factor. He is very important to the morale of the whole unit and they fight better under his leadership.'

'Your brother not getting on so well?'

'My brother is getting on fine, thank you.' He did not sound offended. It was more or less impossible to get a rise out of Folken Fanel.

'Shame to play our best cards too soon, I suppose,' Adelfos said, making an attempt at conciliation.

'Quite.' Folken watched him narrowly. He could see the doubt in General Adelfos, could see it eating at his mind like a sickly grey worm. He could also see the years of iron conditioning that would prevent him ever acting upon it. He wondered if the General would be amused or just saddened to know how alike he and Folken really were.

All the reasons he had given him for keeping the Dragonslayers grounded were quite true. There was no need to go into the fact that, as the unit included both his brother and his lover, he could hardly bear the thought of sending them out to fight and possibly die. The idea of Chesta getting hurt made him feel almost physically sick.

He rebuked himself for that very harshly. How can you have such a double standard? Is it fair to Nariya and Eriya? You love them too, but you would let them go.

It's different with Nariya and Eriya. They're different.

They're people too. You've lived with them too long to buy that propaganda about beastpeople not feeling or thinking as deeply as full-blooded humans.

They're older and more able to take care of themselves.

Van has been taking care of himself for years. They are all independent. I just like to feel that they all need me.

Which side am I arguing now? I don't know any more.

The problem was that when he really thought about that double standard, he was coming to realise that he could not send Nariya and Eriya on a suicide mission with a clear conscience either. He could not persuade himself that the plan was really worth more than their two small lives. Was it because Chesta had woken more in him than he had thought? Was it because having Van with him changed his perspective on everything?

But like Adelfos, he had been believing in the dream for so long that it had become habitual, ingrained. He could not make the break, could not convince himself that there was a better, a feasible alternative. He kept hoping that he could have it both ways. After all, if the plan brought everyone what they most wanted, the people he loved would have to be all right. It wasn't simply because he couldn't be happy without them (whether he deserved to or not), but what was the point of the plan if it didn't result in happiness for people like that? He was doing it for Nariya and Eriya. For Van, for Chesta, for all the people he didn't want to end up like him.

Chapter Text

After an arduous sword drill session, the Dragonslayers filed into the changing rooms to shower the sweat off before lunch. It had not been an unusually bad morning, but it had felt pointless. There were rumours going around that the war was nearly over, that there were complications meaning the war would have to go on a lot longer, that the Dragonslayers would have to scramble at a moment's notice, that the Dragonslayers were to be demobilised as redundant, that they had all been used as subjects in an experiment which was over now (or just beginning, depending on which version you heard), that there was bromide in the mess-hall food, that there were two amazing-looking catwomen on board training in secret, that Lord Dornkirk was coming to inspect them in person, that Lord Dornkirk had died and the top brass were pretending he was still alive so things wouldn't fall apart… all the rumours really proved was that no-one knew quite what was going on and everyone was feeling restless and worried.

With warm water beating down on top of his head, Chesta wanted to lean his forehead against the tiled wall in front of him and go to sleep forever. It was getting up so early to slip back to the dormitory that was so hard. Sometimes once he was back in his bed, with a little time to spare, he would fall into a doze and then be woken by the rising-bell to find that he had slept just long enough to make it hard to wake up again, and not enough to feel at all refreshed. There was no way around it; the only time he could go to see Folken without being noticed was in the dead of night, and he would never want to give that up, but he was becoming exhausted and there seemed to be no respite in sight. Maybe when the war was over it would be different. Folken would surely be richly rewarded for all the good work he had done. Drifting into fantasy, Chesta decided that Folken would ask him to come and live with him in a bluestone palace in the mountains. If they needed a cover story, they could say that Folken was training him as a sorcerer. He trusts me with his magic wand already, he thought with a smirk at his own bad joke. In the palace would be a huge bed with a mattress filled daily with fresh white rosepetals. They would lie down in this bed together, in a warm heaven of perfume, and sleep for a full week, dreaming the same dreams, and then wake up to live happily ever after.

Someone snapped a damp towel at his backside. He yelped and looked round wildly, startled by how close he had come to really drifting off.

'You're taking too long,' Migel called out, winding up the towel for another whip-crack. 'Let someone else rinse off! There's fifteen of us and only five showerheads.'

'Sorry,' said Chesta, in confusion, wiping the water from his eyes. He gave up his place to Migel and found his own towel on the bench opposite the lockers. While he was drying his hair his eye fell on the red locker, untouched for so many days. He found himself wondering whether Dilandau would ever come back; whether one day the locker and the curtained bed would simply be removed because there was no point pretending any longer. He wanted to ask Folken, but he didn't want to risk another fight. It would be so easy for Folken to drop him if he displeased him too much, and anyway he did not want Folken to think he didn't trust him to tell him if there was something he ought to know.

When his hair was more or less dry, and sticking out in every direction, he turned to towelling off his body. He found himself surreptitiously glancing around at the other boys now, testing whether it made him feel the same way to look at them as it did to see Folken-sama. He had always liked the look of boys' bodies, but a grown man's was much more appealing. Besides, he had never felt particularly attracted to any of the other boys in this group. Probably he saw too much of them, in every way, to be able to think of them romantically. The possible exception was Dilandau-sama, except that he was far too deeply in awe of him to even fantasise that he might find someone like Chesta attractive. It had never occurred to him to think of him in that way. Dilandau-sama was out of everyone's league. Well, no, possibly someone like Folken-sama might aspire to his favours. He felt jealous just at the thought of that. He comforted himself again with the thought that he was the one Folken had chosen, for whatever reason.

One of the toilets flushed and everyone under the showers leapt back squalling; it was an inherent flaw of the plumbing system that if anyone flushed a toilet the showers all ran scalding hot for a minute, and so there was a general understanding that anyone wanting to go to the toilet should wait until there was no one showering. Not to observe this courtesy was more or less asking for a fight.

'Who did that!?' Migel cried. 'Come out and face the music!'

A stall door swung open and Dilandau walked out, doing up his belt, with his jacket slung over his arm. He looked around calmly at all of them.

'What?' he said casually, as though it was strange that they should stare. He went over to a washbasin and washed his hands.

'Towel,' he said, holding them up, dripping.

No-one had any idea now whose turn it was for that job. Dalet, who had just stepped out from under the shower, was the closest person with a dry towel. After a brief double-take, he stepped forward and offered it to Dilandau, who dried his hands and dropped the towel on the wet floor. He pulled on his jacket. Everyone watched him as if they thought he might vanish in a puff of smoke, which was almost the case.

'What?' he said again, looking around the room. 'Do I have something on my face?'

'Uh, no, nothing,' said Dalet. Dilandau's head turned back towards him for a moment and he looked at him a little blankly. Then the garnet eyes narrowed. Dilandau's hand shot out and shoved Dalet in the chest hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Since he was standing with bare feet on a wet tile floor, it was also enough to knock him off his feet. He fell with a loud thud and slap of skin on ceramic. No-one dared to make any other sound.

'I hate people lying to make me feel better,' Dilandau said. 'Go on and stare now, and never again. After this moment, if I catch anyone looking at my scar, or talking about my scar, or for that matter looking as if they're thinking about my scar, there will be trouble.' He turned his right cheek towards his audience, daring them to comment.

It really wasn't that much of a scar. It was hardly even red any more. The greatest change it had made to his appearance was that the corner of his right eye seemed to sag a little, as though the nerves or muscles connected to the eyelid had been damaged. No-one knew how to react.

'Dilandau-sama,' said Chesta, prompted to boldness by the overwhelming happiness he felt, 'no-one cares about your scar. We're all just so glad to have you back with us!' He thought his face would split from smiling. No wonder Folken had not told him about this last night. He had wanted it to be a wonderful surprise.

'You don't care,' said Dilandau flatly, challengingly, throwing his words back at him.

'I mean it doesn’t make any difference to us. It couldn't. And I can hardly see it anyway. You look great.'

Dilandau stalked closer to Chesta, his arms folded. Chesta waited, apprehensive but hopeful. He tried not to make any annoying waffling gestures like hitching at the towel around his waist or biting his lip. It always annoyed Dilandau-sama if Chesta couldn't keep still while he was talking to him. Of course it could also annoy Dilandau-sama not to react to him enough.

'What is that?' said Dilandau, pointing at Chesta's ear. His tone suggested that there was a centipede crawling on it, or something equally distasteful.

Chesta tried to look at his own ear for a moment before regaining his composure. 'It's - it's an earring, Dilandau-sama.'

'You're wearing… an earring,' Dilandau said slowly. 'That rhymes. Why are you wearing an earring, Chesta? If that's not too outlandish a question.'

'I didn't know you had an earring,' said Migel, staring over Dilandau's shoulder.

'He hasn't got an earring,' said Biore. 'Has he?'

'What, Chesta?'

'Dilandau-sama says he has.'

'Let me see?'

They all crowded up behind Dilandau. Thirty eyes stared at Chesta and his new earring. One eye twitched slightly at the corner. Chesta prayed to be struck by lightning or vanish into a deep hole.

'Since when?' asked Gatti. 'I've never seen you wearing that!'

'Well, I've had it in all day,' Chesta said peevishly, stung into defending himself by their apparent disbelief. Chesta couldn't possibly have an earring. Chesta couldn't be the owner of a dirty book. Everyone knew what Chesta was like, good old boring Chess; or thought they did. 'And the day before, and the day before that,' he invented. Post-dating his story might make it more convincing. 'You just never noticed. I was waiting to see how long before someone looked at me properly and saw it. Of course Dilandau-sama did. The rest of you, are your eyes painted on?'

'What, really?' said Biore. 'Who did it for you?'

'I did it myself,' Chesta said. 'With a sterilised needle.'

'Why didn't you tell anyone?'

'I didn't want to before I did it because I thought it might go wrong and you'd laugh at me if you knew. I got up in the night and did it in the bathroom. And then I thought I'd wait and see how long it took you to see what was right in front of you. I think it looks quite good,' he added defiantly. 'And there's nothing against it in the uniform regulations.'

Everyone stared again at the earring. It was a small, thin gold ring from which was suspended a tiny, finely-wrought golden dragon. It was so delicate it hardly had any weight at all, although it still pulled enough to make Chesta's earlobe decidedly sore and pink. Tonight, he knew, Folken-sama would kiss it better; would gently turn the ring and apply methylated spirits as you were supposed to to help it heal cleanly. He had never dreamed he would one day think of methylated spirits and kissing in the same context, but there you were.

They hadn't exactly intended this; it had come out of getting thoroughly drunk and silly together, the night before. Chesta had taken it into his head to make a great fuss about Folken's earrings and how wonderful he thought they looked. Folken had asked if he would like a pair of his own. He still had the thin gold rings from when his ears were first pierced. The story was true in some details. It had been done in the middle of the night in the bathroom: Folken's bathroom. The needle had been the claw on the tip of Folken's metal index finger. Doing the first ear had been so painful that Chesta had begged him to stop at one rather than trying for the pair. He realised now that this was the sort of thing that only seemed like a good idea when you were drunk. Neither of them had thought of the consequences in time.

Folken had apologised fervently as he worked the earring in and fastened it, Chesta wincing and straining not to flinch away from him. From then on, it had gotten a little weird. Chesta's eyes were watering, and when Folken saw this he thought he had made him cry and was guilt-stricken. He began to kiss away the tears, with increasingly passionate tenderness, and somehow Chesta had got the feeling that the whole thing was rather exciting for Folken. He had managed to squeeze out a few more, telling himself to be wimpish about the pain, and this got easier when Folken accidentally touched his earlobe, which hurt very much indeed. Chesta found Folken's response very encouraging, and played up to it; in the end he had cried fountains, sitting in Folken's lap, clutching at his shoulders, and the sex had been utterly superb, but when it was over and they had both calmed down a little Folken was guilt-stricken all over again at the idea that he was aroused by seeing Chesta weep.

'But I was only doing it because I could see you liked it,' Chesta protested. 'I wasn't really upset or hurt. And you knew I liked it too, so what's the problem?'

'It's the principle of the thing,' Folken said miserably. 'What sort of thing is that to get excited about?' He was sitting in the shower recess, in only his shirt, refusing to let Chesta near him. Folken could behave very oddly when he was berating himself about something.

Chesta shrugged. 'Everyone has something they like,' he said. 'I like having my cock sucked, but I don't get upset about it.' He was kneeling just outside the shower looking through the sliding glass door, feeling considerably out of his depth. His eyes felt dry and puffy and he would have liked an opportunity to rest. He really didn't see why this had to be such a drama.

'That isn't the same at all. This is sick.' Folken put his head in his hands. 'Bearing down on you when you're crying, being excited by your distress…' He struck his forehead angrily with the heels of his hands and raked his fingers through his hair.

'Is that how you felt about it?' Chesta asked, puzzled. '"Chesta's all upset, God that makes me hot"?'

'No! Not in the moment… but when I think about it afterwards, that's what it must really mean! What else could it be?'

'Do you know what I think it was?' Chesta said softly. 'I was crying the first time we kissed. So when you see me cry you remember the first kiss. And that's why the tears have power over you.'

Folken looked up at him; there was still self-loathing in his eyes but the flicker of a wry smile on his face. 'You keep making me feel better about things when you really shouldn't,' he said.

'Well, you don’t think I get any pleasure out of seeing you suffer, do you?' Chesta asked. 'Oh - look, I didn't mean it like that!' He was horrified at how tactless and accusatory that had sounded. But Folken actually gave a small laugh, and emerged from the shower recess. He gently took Chesta's tearstained face between his hands, and gazed at him for some time without speaking.

'I wish I hadn't done this to you,' he said at last. 'I've made you like me, spoiled you like me. I've disfigured your sweet little ear to no good purpose.'

'That isn't true,' Chesta said. 'I asked you to do it and I like it. One earring is more interesting anyway. It's asymmetric.'

'It's lopsided,' said Folken gloomily. 'Again like me.'

'So it will always remind me of you, and that way I'll treasure it.'

'That was a very left-handed compliment,' said Folken. He tilted Chesta's head to look at the newly-pierced ear. 'It doesn't look so bad now that it's stopped bleeding. Do you mind if I fiddle with it just once more? There's something I want to add. I bought it years ago because it caught my eye and could never work out what to do with it.'

'A dragon for my pet Dragonslayer,' he had said, watching Chesta twist to see the earring better in the mirror.

'You like decorating me really,' said Chesta. 'Will you give me a tattoo next, to match yours?'

'My God, no,' said Folken, embracing him. 'It would be an offense to good taste to tattoo skin like yours.' This reminded him of what he had imagined while talking to Van the previous night, and he told Chesta about it to lighten the mood. It amused Chesta so much that he went and got several different-coloured pens from Folken's desk and occupied himself while they composed his cover story by writing messages, labels and in one case a limerick over large areas of Folken's skin, perfectly safe since his day clothes hid everything. Overall, it had been a very strange night, if a good one for mutual decoration.

And now here he was with everyone staring at the first piece of visible physical evidence that he and Folken were intimately involved. It made his heart accelerate to a nervous patter, and the sensation was not altogether agreeable, but the fact was the story seemed to be working. That gave him a little bit of a rush, a sense of achievement.

'It's a dragon for a Dragonslayer,' he pointed out. Wouldn't they have to agree that that was pretty neat? It sounded so wonderful when Folken said it.

Dilandau unfolded his arms and reached out one hand, very deliberately. He put a finger behind the dragon, holding it steady so he could see it better.

'It's quite nice, isn't it, Dilandau-sama?' said Chesta hopefully. Dilandau-sama could be relied upon to appreciate beauty. He just hoped he wouldn't consider this excessive vanity or showing off on the part of a subordinate. Dilandau-sama could get very irritable about that sort of thing. For some reason, he heard a mental echo of Van-sama's voice: They say we hate our own qualities most in others.

A petulant expression dawned on Dilandau's face. He closed finger and thumb on the golden dragon and abruptly yanked downwards. It should have ripped Chesta's earlobe clean through. It would have done, except that Chesta's own hand had flown up faster than he would have thought himself capable of, and seized his wrist, arresting the movement. As it was, his head was tugged down, and his ear felt excruciatingly hot and painful, but he did not think it had been torn. That was good. Now he was just left with the fact that he had laid hands on Dilandau-sama, unquestionably crossing him. Pleading self-defence would not get him anywhere. He felt an electric jolt of panic. He could not let go and allow Dilandau to tear out Folken's gift. Holding on also seemed more or less like suicide. He remained frozen.

'What are you doing?' Dilandau asked between gritted teeth.

'Please,' said Chesta breathlessly, 'let go, Dilandau-sama.' He was astonished at himself. He had most certainly not intended to defy Dilandau-sama. His hand had seemed to move without his willing it.

'You let go,' said Dilandau. His face was contorted with rage.

Chesta considered his options. He did not appear to have any. 'No,' he said, for want of a better answer.

'No?'

'This is important to me,' Chesta said desperately.

'It's an earring, Chesta. It makes you look stupid. Let go.'

The other boys were deeply unsettled by the whole business. Many of them were either naked or only half-dressed, and beginning to feel very cold, but they could no more turn away from the tableau than they could bring themselves to interfere. Chesta's defiance was incomprehensible. If he could handle pain to the point where he could pierce his own ear, why was he flinching from having the earring forcibly removed? Why was he fighting back at all? Chesta had never offered any resistance to Dilandau-sama; he had always borne his abuse more patiently and devotedly than any of them. He had always worried the most about him, made the most excuses for him, and been the most impressed by him.

The aquamarine and garnet-red eyes met and locked.

Why don't I feel more afraid? Chesta wondered. I mean, I am scared, but not nearly as terrified as I would expect to be. The pain isn't the issue… what I'm not so afraid of now is displeasing Dilandau-sama. It upsets me, but it's not the end of the world. The thought astonished him. It was a rather liberating feeling, oddly similar to what he had felt when he stopped being afraid of Van. The difference was, he knew he loved Dilandau-sama. His admiration and respect were intact as ever. They did not need to be enforced by fear.

Still, he did not have the nerve to try to force his commander to let go, not while he stared into those eyes, and it seemed like a stalemate.

Abruptly Dilandau released his grip on the earring and tugged his arm out of Chesta's grasp.

'I don't have time for this,' he said, sounding disgusted. 'If you want to look like an idiot go ahead. Typical of you.' He glared around at the others. 'What are you all staring at? Get dressed. Unless that Fanelian oaf has been messing around with the timetable, it's almost time for lunch.'

Chesta was beginning to relax. It almost felt as if he had somehow done the right thing. Dilandau-sama was not even looking at him now; he was telling the others to hurry up, turning away. And then his head snapped round, his hand swept up, and he gave Chesta a cuff across the side of his head that threw him against the lockers with a clang. Chesta grabbed at a handle to steady himself, his skull full of stunned white noise.

'I'm back,' he heard Dilandau say through the ringing in his ears. 'So once more we're going to be doing things my way. Do you have anything to say to that?' There was an anxious hush in the room. Chesta blinked and shook his head, recovering, and realised with some amazement that people were looking at him, waiting for his reaction. He put a hand to his temple, trying to decide what he thought.

Dilandau-sama's in the changing rooms and all's right with the world. I don't mind at all that he hit me. It's what he does, what he is. And I know, I'll always know, that it's his way of showing he cares about us. He's very hard on other people because he's so exceptional himself that it's hard for him to accept their weakness. Things are going to get better now he's back. I'm going to try harder than ever to make him proud, and somehow the fact that I'm not afraid of him now makes me feel more able to do it.

He lifted his head. 'Yes, Dilandau-sama,' he said. 'We're all eager to serve you again.'

Dilandau was feeling relatively good. He seemed to be fine physically. It was disorienting to learn that he had been more or less unconscious for over a week, with no memory of the time, but obviously whatever it was was out of his system now. He did not want to dwell on it, and had asked the doctor no questions beyond 'So can I go back now?' The business with Chesta had been surprising and unpleasant, but had turned out all right. Chesta had knuckled under as he had expected in the end. He'd probably just picked up some bad habits under Van, but it would be easy enough to get them all back into condition. It was what they all wanted really. He'd looked around at them all and seen the awe in their eyes at his return.

And there would be time during lunch to pump them for information on what had gone on in his absence, and to make a few plans before he had to encounter Van again. He was ready for that now. He would not be taken by surprise any more; he would be on his guard in every way. He was rather looking forward to seeing him again, to proving himself against him. He was a little excited about it.

But his heart lurched downward when he entered the mess hall, at the head of the Dragonslayers, to find Van already sitting at the long table, eating tomato soup. Dilandau stopped in the doorway, with damp-haired, soap-smelling boys backing up behind him, and fought for mastery of himself. He felt an urge to attack, another to run, another to just sit down and laugh helplessly. I can never rely on him to behave as he's supposed to.

Then he realised that his position allowed him to make a good entrance, framed in the doorway. He stood still a moment longer until Van looked up and saw him, then strode forward and stood on the opposite side of the table, fists on hips, looking down at the seated boy.

'I'm back,' he said. 'I am in command again. Get used to it.'

Van gazed back at him, almost impassively, although there was a light in his eyes for a moment at the very first, a reaction which he suppressed before Dilandau had time to interpret it.

'So you say,' he replied.

'What are you doing here anyway?' Dilandau demanded. 'You eat lunch with your brother.'

'He told me you would be back today,' Van said coolly. 'I thought I'd be here to welcome you.'

Dilandau cursed Folken. There went the element of surprise. He had probably planned it that way, to sabotage Dilandau and help his wretched brother keep his jumped-up position. He's always trying to do me down, he thought furiously. He envies me and so he has to try to ruin what I've got, what he can't have, a freak like him; his men might fear him but they'll never adore him. Trying to keep me down, put me in my place. Trying to change me. No-one is going to stop me being Dilandau, just being myself as hard as possible. Ordinary people don't know about that, which is why they are ordinary, and why I am above them all.

He sat down. 'Chesta, get me my lunch,' he said, without looking at the boy. The Dragonslayers trooped off towards the serving hatch, leaving Van and Dilandau sitting opposite one another, eyes locked over the table. There was an expression 'to look daggers at someone,' Dilandau remembered. He felt he was doing more; he was looking Crima claws at Van, shooting a superheated jet of liquid metal from each of his pupils directly through Van's into his brain. He had to be pinned by a stare like that, by the fire of it.

Van stared back, cold as midnight in winter. Then his eyelids dropped carelessly and he returned to eating his soup. Dilandau slowly clenched his teeth together until his jaw throbbed, forcing himself back from an explosive reaction. It was what he most wanted to do, but he had the feeling that it was what Van was trying to provoke, and if so he was double-damned if he would co-operate. He would not lose control.

'Here's your lunch, Dilandau-sama,' Chesta said brightly, setting down a tray in front of him. 'They must have known you were coming, they've done your favourite peppers.'

'The kitchen staff knew I was coming back!?' How much goes on that I don't know about? Why are they keeping me in the dark?

'I - I was only joking, Dilandau-sama.'

'Since when do you make jokes at my expense?'

'I didn't mean it that way!' Chesta exclaimed, stepping back. 'I just meant it was funny that we've got peppers on the day you came back. It's just a nice coincidence. Don't you think?'

Dilandau looked moodily at the food on the tray. 'I've gone off them,' he said.

'Oh… sorry, I thought you'd be really pleased.' Chesta looked genuinely dismayed.

'I'll eat them if you don't want them,' Van said blandly. 'It's a sin to waste food.' He reached out with his spoon towards the peppers on Dilandau's tray.

'Keep your hands off my lunch,' Dilandau told him, hitting the spoon away. Van looked amused.

'Dog in the manger,' he said.

Dilandau stabbed a pepper with his fork and put it in his mouth, biting down rather savagely. It was so hot it made his eyes sting, and concentrating on not letting them water was a sufficient distraction to make him feel slightly better. Sensing a minor diminution in tension, the other boys sat down and started eating in a subdued way, although the little glances they kept popping Dilandau's way continued to show how surprised and glad they were to see him again. Their curiosity was obvious. After a minute or so Guimel could not contain himself any longer.

'Dilandau-sama,' he piped up, 'are you glad to be back with us?'

'It's nice to be back where I belong,' Dilandau conceded.

'Yeah, but does it feel really weird to be back? I mean, after so long is it hard to settle in again?'

Dilandau regarded him a little coldly, trying to decide whether or not he was deliberately emphasising the length of the absence. With Guimel you couldn't be sure; he had a slight tact deficiency.

'Apart from the shock of seeing Chesta's ridiculous little dragon, I haven't found it too jarring.'

There was an odd sputtering noise and heads turned to look at Van, who appeared to find it necessary to spit some of his soup back into the bowl and cover his mouth with his napkin.

'What?' said Dilandau. 'Food not good enough, compared with the Strategos' table?'

'No,' said Van, 'no, excuse me, it's a word joke. It's a Fanelian thing, you wouldn't understand.' Few phrases are more annoying. If he had been trying to get under Dilandau's skin, he could not have done much better. Of course, it was almost unnecessary to think in terms of 'if.'

'You'd be surprised what I can understand. What's so damn' funny?'

'What you said,' said Van. 'It sounds a bit weird when I explain, but, well, in Fanelian slang, if a guy mentioned his "little dragon"… it's kind of a euphemism, or a nickname… he'd be talking about his cock.' The corner of his mouth twitched as if he were working hard to hold back his merriment. 'Or in this case Chesta's. Can I ask what's shocking about it?' He lost the battle and had to resort to smothering the laugh in the napkin again. None of the Dragonslayers suffered from such a lack of self-control as to laugh with him, but a few appeared to be biting their lips quite painfully and were looking fixedly at their plates. Chesta had simply turned a deep cherry-red and was staring glassily straight ahead of him.

Dilandau could feel his own face reddening - with anger, he screamed internally, with anger. Laughing at him, twisting his words into an idiotic, vulgar joke…

'I was talking about the stupid dragon earring he's got on,' he hissed. 'If you have such a dirty mind that you find a double entendre in that…'

'Dilandau-sama was annoyed with me for wearing it and tried to pull it off,' Chesta put in, anxious to clarify matters and clear his leader's name. 'In the showers before lunch. You can ask anyone.'

'So,' said Van, looking more highly amused than ever, 'you all saw Dilandau yanking on Chesta's little dragon in the showers?'

'Oh, shut up!' Chesta burst out, and then looked ashamed of himself. Van stared at him. That was unusually outspoken for Chesta. Maybe he had been unfair to him.

'Sorry,' said Van mildly. 'I didn't mean to embarrass you.'

'Well, what sort of thing is that to go around saying about people,' Chesta blustered. An inspiration came to him. 'Have you been reading that dirty book Biore found and getting ideas?' What a perfect way to turn the tables. Dilandau-sama would have to appreciate it, and frankly Van deserved it.

'What dirty book?' Dilandau asked, thrown off balance by this unexpected turn.

'Someone left a book in our dormitory full of weird stories about boys having sex. Together, I mean,' explained Gatti.

'I only flicked through,' said Biore, 'but playing with each other in the showers was the least of it.' He rolled his eyes expressively. 'Van-sama confiscated it,' he said, innocently, and took a demure sip of water.

Oh, but I can count on my boys when I need them, Dilandau thought. 'Suddenly your fascination with the idea makes perfect sense,' he said to Van, with acid sweetness. 'You're wishing the dragon in question was yours.'

Van was, if possible, redder in the face than Chesta had been. His mouth dropped open rather helplessly.

'I am not,' he said.

'Of course you're not,' said Dilandau, giving him his most vulpine smile.

'Just keep telling yourself that,' said Biore, jumping on the bandwagon. 'That'll make the naughty thoughts go away.' He had been extremely insulted by Van's remark about him when confiscating the book and it was lovely to get his own back.

'Gosh, it's a good thing he doesn't shower with us, I don't think he could handle it,' said Gatti, since Biore was his friend, and anyway he thought Van had been asking for it too.

'No, I think he would handle it, he couldn't stop himself,' said Biore.

'Both of you shut up,' said Van urgently. 'If you think you can talk to me like that because Dilandau's back you've got another think coming.'

'He's coming just thinking about it,' said Gatti, which was generally felt to be carrying the whole double-entendre thing a little too far, but it was hard to stop when he was on a roll.

'What are you going to do?' Dilandau asked ever so sweetly. 'Tell your brother on us?' He knew, and Van knew, and he knew Van knew he knew (which was the best part) that there was no way he could do this. It would be much too humiliating. 'It's all right, Van,' he went on with supreme condescension. 'I'm used to people having crushes on me. It does happen a lot. It's not your fault if you couldn't quite cope with it.'

'You know what bullshit that is!' Van shouted, springing to his feet and knocking over his chair with a clatter. 'Tell them it's not true!'

Dilandau raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide as red-hearted daisies. 'Don't you think you should ask yourself if it's true?' he asked, in tones of great, oily sincerity. This was brilliant. He was driving Van into a fury without ever losing control himself. I'm getting an incredible buzz out of it. It's nearly as good as a full-on fight. Maybe better, because it's so concentrated and controlled… like when you just slowly stroke instead of rubbing hard… He stopped that train of thought, feeling startled. Getting a buzz from it was one thing; getting off on it was a bit of a disturbing notion.

'I will make you so sorry for this,' Van said - almost growled.

'How?' asked Dilandau, grinning. 'Just calm down. You're getting overexcited.'

'Shut up!' Van struck the table in front of him with his fist, catching the rim of the bowl holding his soup. It flipped up and its contents splattered over his tunic and trousers.

'Surely cold water would have been more appropriate,' said Biore, not missing a beat.

Van stood still for a moment, staring down at the dripping mess, his breath shuddering slightly with a combination of revulsion and fury. He stepped back from the table, kicking the fallen chair out of the way.

'Excuse me,' he said stonily, 'I have to go and clean up.'

'He feels dirty,' said Gatti. He'd never realised Van-baiting would be so much fun. He waggled his eyebrows at Biore, who winked back.

'Use lots of soap and water, Van-sama,' added Biore.

'Yeah, scrub hard.' They both lapsed into giggles. Van shot them one last disgusted look and stormed out of the mess hall.

'D-don't expect Dilandau-sama to come and help you,' Gatti added gleefully, although Van could no longer hear him. 'Or to help you and… no, no, I'll stop, I'll stop.'

'It's about time,' said Chesta. 'You two don't know when to let go of a joke, do you?' He was afraid Dilandau-sama would think they'd gone too far. He felt they were walking on eggshells with this one. It came entirely too close to home for him, for one thing.

'And how about you?' Dilandau said, turning to Chesta. 'Thanks for helping. He wouldn't have had any more ammunition if you hadn't given him that little footnote about the showers.' He moved quickly and Chesta found himself caught in a tight headlock. He shut his eyes and waited for whatever was coming.

It was a sharp but not vicious noogie. 'But then you gave me an opening to pretty much destroy him,' said Dilandau, 'so this time I'll let you live.' He released Chesta and looked around triumphantly at the others. 'Did you see the look on his face? Well, laugh!'

Chapter Text

Van decided to stay away from the Dragonslayers for the rest of the day, furious and humiliated. He was feeling the gap in his day since he had sworn off gong to see Celena, and the afternoon felt empty and purposeless. In the end he asked Folken and received permission to go out for a solo flight - although Folken told him to take an Alseides as he was in the middle of giving Escaflowne an overhaul that made it temporarily unsafe to fly.

Of course he had learned to use an Alseides since he had been on the Vione, and he was getting to the point where it didn't feel too strange to him to be surrounded by liquid metal. Besides, he thought, it's better to be using a modern melef that my brother designed, rather than a probably unreliable antique the family got from who knows where. The Alseides is a work of art, and better still, a work of craft. (He was unconsciously quoting Folken, when they had discussed the new guymelefs over lunch one day.) It shows how far a man can come, from inheritance to invention. The future is going to be better than the past ever was; the Golden Age will look like lead compared with the brightness to come.

He flew high up, looking through the cockpit viewer at the clouds passing close above and the landscape passing far below, insulated by the machine surrounding and embracing him from the cold, from the whip and thrum of the air, from the singing of it in his ears, from the thin chilly reality of being human in the sky. He thought of his wings, wondering what it would be like to really fly now. He hadn't tried it since he was a small boy and Mother had gotten so upset about it. Perhaps he wouldn't even be able to do it; if ordinary muscles became atrophied through lack of use magical wings might too. He had never asked Folken about flying, although he suspected he had done it quite a lot.

A startling thought slipped to the front of his mind, as though it had been lurking in the rear and waiting for an opportunity. Would my wings be black now too? His hands were not free, but in his thoughts he touched the black feather hidden inside his shirt. If they were, I'd be just like him… like when I was little and I'd put on a green shirt and grey pants because that was what he was wearing and say see, now we're twins… with the top of my head about level with his knee, yeah, just like twins… The funny memory made him smile. He seemed to need a nice thought following on from 'just like him,' because for some reason that idea made him shiver.

He had not been planning to land, but now he could feel that he would not be at peace until he'd investigated this, and for some reason he wanted to check in private, with no chance of anyone seeing. The Vione was hovering at anchor above a rather bleak landscape; he realised that he was not even sure where they were. He might have some idea if it were night and he could look at the stars, but just now he couldn't be certain. It looked like cold desert or tundra down there, a broad brown inhospitable plain surrounding a snow-capped mountain some way off. A thin pillar of white smoke rising above the peak suggested the volcanic origin of the landscape. It might be near the place where the wandering continents swarmed.

Van landed the Alseides in the middle of a sweep of auburn and blond tussock grass, tawny lions' manes tossing in the wind. He lowered the stealth cloak to make himself less noticeable to anyone who might happen by - although it was hard to imagine who might have any business in a place like this - and climbed out of the Alseides, leaving it invisible. He began taking off the outer clothing of his upper body, thinking how strange it was to do this in a natural landscape so unlike the lush little garden. Here he had to take off his shirt too, and stand bare to the wind, which sent little waves of gooseflesh chasing each other across his skin, exactly like the ripples that ran across the tussock tops as they bowed and rose up again. He looked at himself carefully and critically; he thought he looked stronger, his ribs less visible and his arms less scrawny; he must be better nourished these days. But his skin was getting paler; it was weird to think that it was the summer season, but he was turning the colours of winter. It didn't feel like summer out here; this seemed like a place apart from all seasons, always bleak.

He was putting off the moment of truth, he realised. He had been bound by his mother's wish for so long that it was quite hard to put aside the inhibition against showing his wings. It was more of an exposure than nakedness.

Of course, he thought, practicality coming to the fore, here I am half naked already and I'm certainly not getting any warmer, so I may as well get it over with so I can go home.

He set his teeth and clenched his fists, prepared for the effort. It was as difficult as he had remembered; it wasn't so much a pain at first as an uncanny pressure and grinding as the bones re-arranged themselves in his shoulders and back, and the feeling of one's bones changing inside one's body is one of horror. And then the skin burst, and the pain flowered, and he screamed as the desert wind screamed. Van fell forward onto his hands and knees, panting and trying not to gag. He thought he would bleed to death; he must be torn open. After a few seconds, though, the irrational terror subsided and he realised the skin and muscles of his back were whole and unharmed. He had, after all, forgotten exactly how it felt. Perhaps it was worse now he was bigger. The pain was a fading ghost now, and he could feel his wings arching over his back, could feel the wind catching, pushing and tugging at them, could feel them as surely and naturally as he felt his arms and legs.

Folken had told him once that he could still sometimes feel his right arm, his real right arm, like a ghost inhabiting the space that had been filled by a prosthesis. Apparently this was not uncommon for amputees; the nervous system did not fully register that the limb was gone, even though the nerves it had contained were no longer sending messages. This seemed like the opposite of that; sensation and awareness suddenly extending from his body into an area previously void. Slowly, experimentally, he stretched out his wings, then bent them back close to his body. They gave some shelter from the wind, which was a relief; he was shuddering from the cold and there were even a few flakes of snow falling.

No, there weren't. A 'snowflake' spiralled down and landed on the back of his hand, and turned out to feel warm and soft. It was one of his own feathers, white as ever. A blizzard of shed feathers was swirling around him, scattering in the wind, and they were all pure white.

Van raised his head and stared at the wind-driven plumes. Particles of down and fluff blew into his face and stuck to the tears that were running down his cheeks, tears that felt boiling hot and left freezing cold trails as the air attacked his skin. One strong feeling rose up in him, a feeling of relief.

I'm not like him. I've not become like him. I'm myself, I was always myself. The tears flowed faster and a few sobs of gladness escaped. He wiped at his eyes, sniffing, and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop shivering.

Why do I feel this way? I don't understand. I want to be like Folken. I admire him. Why was I so scared? I never even realised I felt that way until just now. It's clearer and more confused at the same time.

His stomach rumbled, which rather distracted him from self-analysis. He had not managed to eat much at lunch and he was still quite hungry. Suddenly, with a jolt of guilty panic, he realised that he had not had his meds with lunch. He normally took them after finishing the meal, because they were best taken on a full stomach. Stupid! If I get sick again it'll serve me right. God, how stupid, stupid and ungrateful, when Folken worries so much about me. He always reminds me. The one day I have lunch without him and I go and forget! I let bloody Dilandau upset me and this is what happens.

Calm down, he told himself. It isn't a disaster yet. Just go straight back, get something to eat and take them with that. It shouldn't matter if I get this dose a little late. I've always been so good before. Nothing will happen if I go and make it right right now.

He pulled in his wings, almost forgetting to notice how it felt in his hurry, and bundled on his clothes. There were still white feathers clinging in his hair as he scrambled back into the Alseides cockpit.

He felt better when he had begged a couple of sandwiches from the girl doing the washing-up in the mess hall kitchen and washed down the pills with milk. Because he was still avoiding the Dragonslayers he returned to his room for a while. Unfortunately his room offered very little in the way of entertainment, once wadding up paper and lobbing it into the wastebasket from different positions around the room lost its appeal. For some reason he was starting to feel quite energetic, and his mood was lifting markedly from the anxious, muddled state he had been in not long ago. When he remembered the events of lunchtime, well, he was still angry, but it didn't feel like such helpless anger any more. Indeed, he was thinking more and more about what had happened then, while his feelings down on the desert plain were beginning to recede to the background of his thoughts. Dilandau must think he had won. It was time to disabuse him of that impression. He shied a ball of paper into the basket with such force that it knocked the whole thing over, and set off for the training hall.

As he entered, Dilandau was giving a spirited demonstration of how to kill Migel Labariel, should anyone wish to do this.

'Keep still, Migel,' he snapped. 'You could still be alive, I've got to finish you off.'

'No,' protested Migel, who had gotten out of practice at being beaten up, 'I assure you, I'm completely dead.'

'As long as you're vertical, I’m going to assume you're alive!' Dilandau retorted, and caught him on the back of the head with an upward stroke of the practice blade. 'There, now you're dead,' he said in a satisfied tone. 'That took the top of your head off.'

'It feels like it,' Migel mumbled, rubbing the place where he could already feel a lump rising. He was uncomfortably sure he was being disloyal, because glad as he was to have Dilandau back, he knew he preferred Van's methods of training.

Van did not announce himself; he simply drew his sword, and let the hiss and clatter of the movement speak for itself. At first only one or two of the assembled boys turned to look at him, but others quickly followed their gaze and soon everyone was staring his way.

'I'm surprised you're showing your face here,' said Dilandau. He snapped his fingers and held out one hand; Dalet, whose job it was now established as being, quickly passed him a towel with which to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

'Nothing the matter with my face,' said Van calmly, walking towards Dilandau. 'I've come to avenge your insults and lies. In other words, to challenge you. Of course, we don't have to have a fight. I would accept a full retraction of what you said about me and a grovelling apology. How about it?'

It would never have happened anyway, but the implied jibe about Dilandau's face made doubly sure of that. Dilandau's eyes narrowed. He threw the towel away from him.

'I might as well fight you again,' he said. 'With no-one to help you cheat, I'll enjoy thrashing you.' He drew his own sword, and the movement triggered a change in the scene; both boys fell back a step to circle one another warily. The shift was so beautifully synchronised that it looked like choreography; the circling heightened the resemblance to a dance.

I wish they'd stop, Chesta thought fretfully. It had just occurred to him that, although he considered himself automatically on Dilandau-sama's side, he might have to try to intervene in the fight if it looked as though Van-sama might get too seriously hurt. It would be disloyal to Folken to stand by while bad things happened to his little brother. But things would get so messy if he had to step forward like that; it would upset Dilandau-sama, it would raise undesirable questions about his motives, it would make him awfully conspicuous and at the moment he felt that he didn't want to attract one bit more attention than absolutely necessary.

Would Folken understand if he kept his head down? Could he say 'I thought it was more important to protect our secret, and not draw attention to myself'? Probably not. I know he loves Van-sama. It's only reasonable to assume he loves his brother much more than he likes me. And he won't like me at all if I let Van-sama get hurt… Dilandau-sama wouldn't actually kill him here, would he?

Dilandau was the first to dart forward, and the first blows were exchanged with an almost musical sequence of clashes and clangs. Dilandau made a thrust which looked certain to hit Van painfully under the arm, but he somehow twisted away from the blade before the audience even had time to stop wincing in anticipation.

The first flurry was over and they were circling again, eyes glaring, white teeth bared. Perhaps it was just because he had spiky hair in the first place, but Van appeared to be bristling, and the animalistic quality was enhanced by the fact that he seemed to be growling, low in his throat. Dilandau simply smouldered like white-hot coals. Chesta wondered whether anyone would notice if he slipped out to tell Folken what was happening, but didn't dare move. It would look odd if he were the one running to the Strategos, and anyway the hatred he would incur for being a tale-carrier would make life the next thing to unbearable. He wished he had never let Folken touch his ear.

'All this is my fault, isn't it?' he whispered to Dalet, beside him. 'It all started with my stupid earring.' He could feel his heartbeat in the earlobe.

'Don't be so hard on yourself,' Dalet replied. He was watching the fight as though he was more curious than concerned about the outcome. 'They would have found an excuse sooner or later. That's just how these two are.' He spared Chesta a quick glance. 'Anyway, it suits you. I wish I'd had the nerve to do something like that.'

'It was disobedient. Dilandau-sama doesn't like it,' Chesta fretted.

'It's not disobedient if he never told you not to do it,' Dalet pointed out. 'I'm beginning to wonder if we don't all humour Dilandau-sama a little too much.'

Chesta found this show of disaffected cynicism alarming, especially in someone who had been honoured with a job to do for Dilandau-sama.

'You're just sore because he pushed you over,' he said, and turned back to watch the fight.

'Damn' right I'm sore,' Dalet said, sounding amused. 'My whole behind is one solid, lavender and magenta bruise.' Chesta refused to respond, even with a smile. He was too intent on watching the combatants, anyway; now Van charged and Dilandau clearly had his work cut out to avoid anything being cut off. To the audience's audible horror, one blow landed, slitting the leather of Dilandau's sleeve, but a sigh of relief went up as people realised that only the leather had been pierced; by a fluke, the blade had slid straight through beside the arm without cutting it. When Van jerked the sword free Dilandau dropped back, seeming to consider his next move.

'Didn't get me,' Dilandau panted.

'Got you last time,' Van replied. 'I'll get you again.' His eyes flicked towards the scar, shining with perspiration. 'Does it still hurt?'

'Shut up.'

'I'll bet you still feel it in your dreams. Sleeping well, Dilandau? You look tired.'

'Shut up.'

'You're not at your best. You've been sick. It won't be as satisfying to beat you like this.'

'You're not going to beat me.'

'I'm going to make you cry.'

'You can't make me anything.'

'I made you sick in the first place. I put you out of action for more than a week with one cut. How long do you think you'll have to rest up from this little encounter? Why do you keep asking for it when you know you can't handle it?'

'You bastard,' Dilandau hissed. 'I'll kill you this time. Watch closely, Dragonslayers, you're going to learn.'

'Come here,' said Van casually, and slashed at him, stepping forward. It was an easy blow to block and as Dilandau stopped it he realised that Van had meant for him to do this; he had manoeuvred him into that same dangerous deadlock, Van's blade hissing down the length of his and the two swords locking at the hilts. He fought to break away, to gain the advantage, but he could only push against the pressure Van exerted and he seemed to have gotten stronger since the last time they fought. Van leaned ever closer; Dilandau could feel his breath on his face, and Van's face was rapidly filling his field of vision. He tried desperately to focus on his mouth or the end of his nose, anything but looking into those eyes… it was like that game where you tried not to think of a white bear. Van's eyes were all he could see. God, how close was he?

He knew the answer as the blade, both blades, hit his chest, flat sides on, pressed between his body and Van's. His own fingers were locked on the hilt of his sword but Van suddenly spared a hand to snatch up behind Dilandau's head and seize a handful of his hair. Van hooked his right foot behind Dilandau's left; from this stance he could topple him completely, but instead he held him, trapped by his grasp and pinned by his gaze.

Dilandau made a last desperate effort to look anywhere but at Van; at the crossed blades sliding up away to the side of his face, at the indistinct circle of gawping faces that surrounded them. Nothing was as real as the devouring eyes.

And then they moved from his view, because Van was leaning his head forward, beside Dilandau's, his cheek brushing Dilandau's, and whispering hotly, breathily in his ear.

'Last chance to apologise with some kind of dignity. Come on. Say the words. Just give in to me.'

Dilandau's voice rang out high and clear and furious. 'Look at what he's doing! All of you! Everything I said is true! Get off me, you pervert.'

'You're still on that?' Van breathed. 'It would serve you right if it was true.' The rage in him was too high, too mindless, for him to think of appearances, of consequences; he only looked for the next way, the best way to hurt Dilandau, to panic him, to outrage him. He didn't need the sword. The scar was right in front of him.

He touched the tip of his tongue to the tip of the scar and traced the length of it, to the hairline. The salt of Dilandau's sweat burned on his tongue; he felt the soft skin flinch from the touch; he heard Dilandau inhale sharply and then stop breathing altogether.

'Oh my God,' said someone unidentified in the background.

Van drew back, trying to see Dilandau's face. His eyes were tightly closed and his ashy brows drawn together in an expression of suffering, and he was blushing far too deeply for it to be just a flush of exertion. It was his mouth that Van found himself staring at, at the way his lips trembled as he held his breath, seeking control. In one movement he pushed his sword down and released his hold on it, pushing the sword from Dilandau's nerveless hands at the same time, and raised his freed hand to Dilandau's face, taking his chin in a tight grip.

He's going to kiss him, Chesta thought. Does this mean I'm psychic? I would never have guessed. Why doesn't Dilandau-sama move? It's as though he's paralysed… or he wants it… God, I know how he feels if he does… I think… could he ever really feel the way I do?

The force of expectation was so great that the onlookers almost could not understand what was happening as Van jerked back with his foot and pulled Dilandau's foot out from under him. He pushed him to the ground; they all heard Dilandau gasp for air before Van pinned his shoulders to the floor.

On his back is not the best position if he wants to force him, Chesta thought, and was astonished and disgusted at himself the next second. He could not think of this in the same way as one of the rougher encounters in a smutty book; those made him uncomfortable anyway. These were real people, and yet it seemed so unreal; he couldn't believe that Van-sama would violate Dilandau-sama in front of all of them any more than he could believe one would kill the other. Surely not, he kept thinking, surely not… he didn't kiss him…

'Tell them,' Van said, and put his forearm across Dilandau's throat as an indication of the punishment if Dilandau would not. 'Tell them that what you said about me isn't true.'

Dilandau's eyes were still tightly shut; it was the only way he could think of to protect himself now. He bit his lip and said nothing.

'Say it,' said Van, and shoved against Dilandau's windpipe, making him choke.

'It's not true,' he said desperately. It's the first night all over again. Anything for this to be over.

'Say you knew you were lying.'

'I knew I w-was lying.' Get off me you bastard get off me let me go…

'But you knew what you were talking about.'

'Wh-what?' In his confusion Dilandau made the mistake of opening his eyes.

'Tell them… it was your fantasy, not mine.'

'No!'

'I'll tell them what you said when we were alone in my room. When I first came here.'

'I didn't say anything!' Van leaned on his arm and Dilandau's protests were cut off in a choking gurgle.

'I'll tell them what you asked me to do. All your dirty ideas… you hated me more because I wouldn't touch you.' Van wet his lips, waiting for the next idea. No, maybe that was enough for now. Time to just close in for the kill.

'Tell them you wanted me.'

Dilandau could only look defiance, and even that was weakening, blurred by the tears in his eyes.

'Say it.' Another dig. Dilandau's mouth opened in a soundless gasp of pain.

'He can't say anything if he can't breathe!' Chesta rushed forward and grabbed at Van's shoulder. 'Let him go! You're choking him.' Dilandau-sama might hate him forever for doing this but it was better to have him alive to do the hating.

Van seemed not to hear Chesta at first, so intent was he on staring at Dilandau; then his head slowly turned and he looked up at the blond boy for a moment in an unseeing way. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes looked entirely black.

'L-let him up,' Chesta stammered. He had gone and made himself conspicuous after all. Van-sama and Dilandau-sama would both hate him. He would have to go and hide under Folken's bed for the rest of his life.

Van slowly got to his feet and stepped away from Dilandau, who took several long, croaking breaths with his hands to his throat. Chesta crouched beside him.

'You're all right, Dilandau-sama,' he said. He glanced up to check what Van was doing and saw with some surprise that he had picked up his dropped sword and was walking away, leaving the room without a word.

Dilandau rolled onto his side, coughing a little. Chesta patted his back, not sure if he was doing the right thing.

'He didn't win,' he said softly. 'He didn't get you to give in. You faced him out, Dilandau-sama. Your will was stronger.'

Dilandau put his hands over his face. He had been about to say it.

Chapter Text

Chesta was more nervous than usual about sneaking out of the dormitory that night. Slipping out from under Dilandau-sama's nose was quite a different proposition to just walking out when it was only the fifteen of them sleeping there. The difference was psychological as much as practical. It had been an extremely difficult afternoon and evening. Dilandau-sama wouldn't speak to anyone; he went and took a shower, then sat on his bed in his underwear, staring at nothing. His neck was bruised. After a while his hand moved absentmindedly up to the scar on his cheek, and he began to run one finger repeatedly down the length of it. The boys gathered around his bed, uneasily.

'Dilandau-sama,' Gatti said after a while, 'do you know it's nearly time for dinner?'

'I can still feel it,' Dilandau whispered.

'Well… yes, you have some bruises… they'll fade in a little while.'

'I can still feel the blade…'

Gatti looked up at the others, eyebrows raised to denote What the hell do I say now?

'He's a serpent,' said Dilandau. 'His forked tongue tears me.' He was trembling very slightly, so little that you might not notice until you looked closely. The pupils of his eyes had contracted to pinpricks.

'That's only your imagination, Dilandau-sama,' said Biore, trying to help Gatti out. 'Come on, why don't you get dressed for dinner?' The idea of prosaic things like getting dressed and having dinner was the best antidote he could come up with for such vaguely mystical utterances.

'He'll be there,' said Dilandau, surprising them all with a fairly relevant answer.

'We'll go in first and check for you,' Migel offered. 'If he is we'll make him leave. He has no right to eat with the rest of us after that.'

'We did it to him first,' Dalet pointed out in an undertone, and was loudly shushed.

'I can't eat,' said Dilandau. 'My throat hurts.' He was still tracing the scar, mechanically, except that now he was drawing his fingernail down the length of it. It was beginning to redden.

'We'll bring you something back,' Chesta said. 'Why don't you have an early night?'

'What if we get in trouble?' Gatti murmured. 'I suppose Van-sama can get away with ducking in and out of the schedule, but if we're not all where we're meant to be, when we're meant to be there, the Strategos is going to start asking questions.'

'He'll understand this once,' Chesta said.

'Why? Just because he was nice to you once doesn't mean he'll go easy on us.' Gatti glanced at Dilandau to see if he appeared to be listening, which he did not, and continued in a whisper. 'I mean Dilandau-sama could get in trouble. This doesn't look good for him. He provoked Van-sama in the first place.'

'I think you and Biore helped with that quite a lot,' said Dalet. 'I wasn't about to get involved with that.'

'We were just backing Dilandau-sama up!' Biore said indignantly. 'It's what we do.'

'You did make it worse,' said Migel.

'Whose side are you on?' Biore demanded.

'We're all on the same side! We're Dragonslayers,' Chesta interrupted them. 'Please, let's not fight about this. Dilandau-sama has an excuse to miss dinner, he's been sick, he can just say he needs to take it a little easy for a few days so he doesn't have a relapse. Who ever checks up on us anyway? Don't worry about it. Let's just look after him tonight, and I bet he'll be fine in the morning. He's very resilient. Look at how fast that cut has healed.'

'It won't stay healed if he keeps worrying at it like that,' Gatti said, with a troubled look at Dilandau. 'Shouldn't someone stay with him and watch him? The rest of us can smuggle back enough for two people to eat.'

'I'll stay,' said Chesta firmly.

'You really are changing,' Dalet said. 'You'd never have put yourself forward like this a while ago.' He looked at Chesta rather speculatively.

'I just want to look after Dilandau-sama. That's the same as always,' Chesta said. ‘And you didn’t use to be so cynical.’ He was fairly sure now that he didn't think Dalet was entirely to be trusted. It wasn't that he thought he was treacherous, just that he was clearly the type to ask the wrong kind of questions - i.e. the rather perceptive type that Chesta didn't want asked.

So he had stayed with him while the others went to dinner, and very depressing it was too. After a while Dilandau seemed to notice that he was getting cold, and crawled into bed. Chesta had not quite dared to speak to him, much less try to make him stop picking at his scar. He seemed so remote, as though his eyes were focused on something only he could see. Chesta sat on the next bed and watched him. Apart from the stroking of the scar, he lay as still as if he were dead. It seemed as though he could continue like this indefinitely.

It gave Chesta a nasty start when he suddenly spoke. 'Why are you still here?'

'We didn't want to leave you alone,' Chesta faltered.

Dilandau closed his eyes and rolled over, turning his back to Chesta and pulling the covers up high around his shoulders. 'Draw the curtains,' he said.

Chesta had obeyed. The rest of the evening had passed almost as if Dilandau-sama were not there, except that everyone was so acutely conscious of the scarlet-curtained presence that they would all have heard if he had so much as stirred. He did not touch any of the food the others had brought back from dinner, although Chesta was glad of the opportunity to eat a bread roll and a couple of cold sausages during silent study. He was so tired by now he thought he would pass out if he didn't keep himself well fuelled with food.

Chesta got out of bed with his heart in his mouth. It was a little later than he would normally have made the attempt; he wanted to be doubly sure everyone was asleep. After a day like this it might have taken them longer to nod off. He decided to go out via the locker room and training hall, so that if anyone woke and asked where he was going he could say he just wanted the toilet. The problem was that he had to walk right by Dilandau's bed to get to that door. He moved as silently as he could, pausing between steps to make sure he was unobserved, and eventually gained the relative safety of the locker room without incident. From there on it was almost easy. He was so familiar by now with the quickest and least obtrusive way there, with the patterns of movement of the sentries and the few other people who were likely to be about at this time of night. He felt almost as though he was simply at the end of a long line which Folken reeled in at night.

He tapped softly on Folken's door. It took slightly longer than usual for him to open it. Folken was in his dressing-gown, a loose, soft dark green garment, and had a pen behind his ear. He closed the door quickly behind Chesta and put his arms around him; Chesta felt the tension fall away from him, his limbs going almost limp. He could relax completely like this, and be protected; he could lean against Folken's broad chest and be supported. He could almost fall asleep right here.

Folken kissed his forehead. 'I have to ask you to forgive me,' he said.

'What for?' Chesta murmured.

'I'm busy tonight. I'll still have time for you, don't worry, but there are things I have to finish first. There's been a landslide that blocked a pass our infantry were going to go through to enter Freid, so they have to take a different approach, and the fact that they'll probably enter the country at a different point means I have to make rearrangements major or minor to all sorts of other plans, and… well, it would bore you to explain it all, but I have a couple of hours' work left to do. Can you stand to wait? Or am I in the doghouse?'

'Of course I don't mind waiting. I know how important your work is.' Chesta looked up at him seriously. 'I'd never think I had a right to complain about having to wait for you. Forgiving you isn't even in the question. Is this one of your straight-faced jokes?'

'Not really,' said Folken. 'It does seem somewhat unfair, with you running the risk of coming to me every night, for you to have to sit around while I fiddle with bits of paper. I always want to give you more compensation than that.' He traced the side of Chesta's face with his fingertips. 'How's the ear?'

'It's all right. Getting better. Dilandau-sama doesn't like it.' Chesta looked preoccupied. 'I - I actually want to talk to you about Dilandau-sama, but I don't know if you'll think it's appropriate. It isn't me telling you what I think you ought to do, or anything like that. I know you know better than I do about all this. But if I'm worried about something, I can talk to you, right?'

'Of course you can. Anything,' Folken said tenderly.

'And I will give you compensation for listening to me babble on.'

'I bet you will. Can I have a kiss in advance?' It should only have been a quick, light kiss, but it ended up lingering, and Folken slid his hands down over Chesta's back to cup around his behind, drawing him closer, gently squeezing the smooth, compact curves of his body.

'I thought you wanted to get on with your work.'

'I do, but it's so hard to remember that when I'm touching you.' Folken sighed and stepped back. 'You'll have to help me. I know this sounds cold. Please just sit on the couch and don't talk to me. I'll turn my back to you, and think chilly, sterile thoughts, and try to get this mountain of paper out of the way.' He gestured towards the stacked paperwork on his desk. 'The worst of it is that I have to approve every decision anyone else makes. Even when the work itself has been done I still have to read everything and sign it in at least three places. I bet you didn't know this army was a bureaucracy.'

'Looks horrible,' Chesta said, with feeling. 'I'm glad all I have to do is follow orders.'

'And I envy you that sometimes. Go on… sit down… if you're bored, you can read any of those books piled up there, although goodness knows whether you'll find much of interest in a heap of treatises on aerodynamics and ballistics and divinatory engineering…'

'Where are my books?' Chesta asked, making himself comfortable.

'There's one in each pile - second from the bottom, usually. Hiding in plain sight.'

'Then I'll read something I am interested in and not bother you.'

It was painfully difficult to concentrate at first, when he was so conscious of the quiet sounds of Chesta's breathing, and of the soft rustle of turning pages, but a sense of urgency made Folken force himself to keep his mind on the work in hand. Things should not be going wrong at this stage. They were supposed to be riding the crest of a wave of beneficient fate; its momentum should be unstoppable. Folken didn't worry so much about sabotage or espionage as much as he did about misfortunes that seemed to happen by chance. If a lot of little things started to go wrong in unpredictable ways - that was the worrying word, unpredictable - it was a sure sign that there was something unaccounted for in his preparations, and Lord Dornkirk would not be pleased at all. There was the landslide; if that were all he might have written it off as one of those things that just happen, but the weather was turning strange as well, unusually thundery and cool for this time of year.

Rumours were reaching him of signs and portents, and while he understood the science of genetics too well to think that the occasional birth of a two-headed dog really signified anything other than an incestuous local canine population, two-headed dogs and the like accompanied by comet sightings when none were due and reports of dragons in areas from which they had previously retreated suggested that something was up. What, exactly, he had not yet found out, and Lord Dornkirk was reviving his complaints that he couldn't see the future clearly, so it was of the first importance to make sure that everything he could be sure of was taken care of and squared away as it should be. Eventually he succeeded in immersing himself in his work quite conscientiously, and lost track of the time.

When he eventually set aside the last piece of paper and put down his pen, thinking as he did that one of the few true advantages of a mechanical right hand was that you never got writer's cramp, he realised that one reason why he had not been distracted by sounds from Chesta was that he was hardly making any now. The page-turning had stopped and his breathing was slower and quieter. Turning in his chair, he saw that the boy had fallen asleep, his head resting on the arm of the couch and the book slipping from his relaxed hands onto the cushion. Folken put his arm over the back of the chair, rested his chin on his arm and simply looked at him for a few minutes.

What struck him most were the disturbing contrasts in Chesta's appearance; how young he was, but how tired he looked with those tender bluish shadows under his eyes, and how innocent he looked, sleeping with his blond hair tousled and his rosy mouth half open, but how frankly, outrageously blue was the art covering the two visible pages of the book also half open in his hands. Folken recognised that book; he had read it himself with a vague feeling of astonishment overlaying his rising arousal. It was almost all pictures, beautiful, delicately-drawn yet startlingly explicit dreams-on-paper illustrating a series of encounters between various boys and young men, all loosely linked together by what might charitably be called a story about a rather dissolute sorcerer who kept a sort of male harem in his enchanted castle-in-the-clouds. Exactly why he did this was never explained, except that he obviously enjoyed it. It was not the sort of story in which motivation matters much. Folken might have lost interest were it not for one boy in the harem who he found bewitchingly reminiscent of Chesta - except that this boy was actually resistant to seduction and it was the sorcerer's attempts to conquer him that made up most of what passed for the plot, with his eventual surrender, of course, providing what might very aptly be called the climax.

The whole thing was laughably unrealistic, of course, and he was only reading it in an attempt to catch up with Chesta's ideas about sex, which sometimes made him feel rather callow and inadequate. He could not quite rid himself of the feeling that Chesta must be expecting more than he was providing. He felt he had never had anything wonderful to offer to begin with, besides enthusiasm. And wasn't he really just damaging Chesta, spoiling him for the future? He was still reproaching himself for the whole business of the earring. Adding bits and pieces only adulterated his beauty. There was a rather lovely picture in the book of the Chesta-like boy sitting coquettishly on a silk-draped bed, dressed only in looped ropes of iridescent pearls. It was such a sweetly opulent, decadent image; that was what he had found so erotic about it. But you could only have things like that in fantasies, in pictures; he was surprised at himself for trying to realise something like it in everyday life. He knew he knew better. And it had turned out just as badly as you might expect. Chesta really didn't seem to mind. That was the confusing part.

Folken glanced at the small clock on his desk and found that it was a quarter past midnight and he was, frankly, tired to death. Perhaps I'm getting old, he thought with a half-smile. I used to think nothing of pulling an all-nighter to finish some design or work a train of thought through to its conclusion. I had nothing else to take up my time, once Nariya and Eriya were tucked in. Probably Chesta had the right idea, going to sleep. If Folken could overlook the changes for the worse that he felt were his doing, he was quite adorable like that. He seemed to be hopelessly sentimental about sleeping people. The first night he had had Van back, when he was still groggy from the initial heavy cocktail of drugs and could barely manage to stagger to the cot at the foot of Folken's bed, Folken had sat up most of the night watching him with a warm sense of contentment and hope.

I must try to keep feeling that way, he told himself. There's no reason to be so concerned. I am still doing everything I can to make things turn out right. It's bizarre to think that my situation then seems enviably uncomplicated to me now.

He rose from his chair, arching his back for a moment to relieve the stiffness of long sitting, and picked his way through the piles of books to carefully lift Chesta in his arms. He did not wake up, but nestled in against Folken's chest with a soft unconscious sigh. Folken carried him to the bed, and with some difficulty and trepidation got him in under the covers without disturbing him. He slipped in beside him and tried to settle; he expected to be restless but sleep descended quickly.

A dream began in which he was back in Fanelia. It all looked just as he remembered it when he was about fourteen, before Father fell ill, when the only hint of trouble was the occasional look of sadness in Mother's eyes, when he had been comfortable in his own body all the time. In the dream, he was his present age; he was the King. He had two good whole arms. He sat on a throne and Chesta, honey-scented and dressed in not much more than a length of cream-coloured silk, sat on his lap, with a book open on his knees. For some reason, though, it was one of Van's old storybooks about dragons and heroes. That echo of childhood made him feel rather ashamed that, in the dream, he was becoming aroused, his waking erection pressing up hotly against the boy's warm lazy weight filling his lap.

Folken raised his right hand to stroke Chesta's skin properly at last, and to his intense disappointment it turned out to be a skeleton arm, bleached grey bone. He watched with horror as the graveyard fingers ran down Chesta's arm; the boy sat there placidly as though quite unaware of the touch; he rubbed away an itch under his nose and turned a page. Folken wanted to draw back the dead arm, to break it off at the shoulder and throw it away from him, but he could not control its movement and it crept down to stroke Chesta's thigh. Chesta turned the page again, to a lavishly coloured illustration of a fair-skinned, fragile boy embraced in the coils of a great black and purple serpent. Chesta's fingers brushed over the picture and the serpent seemed to move, its coils sliding oilily over one another, undulating in sinuous rhythm. Folken stared at the living picture, cold horror welling up in the pit of his stomach, expanding to fill his chest. Chesta turned his head and looked up at Folken, and the shadows under his eyes were shaded with purple tattoo, teardrops of ink suspended on his soft downy cheeks. This, somehow, was the most terrifying thing of all; it froze Folken's heart.

'Folken-sama…' he whispered, and kissed him, a heavy, moist, wine-flavoured kiss on the lips.

Somehow the kiss changed the dream. The tattoos on Chesta's face melted into liquid ink and flowed away like pearlescent tears; the creamy silk slipped to the floor and somehow as it fell Folken's clothes were gone too; the book was gone, somewhere or other, and his arms were both firm flesh again. His impressions grew indistinct but intense; Chesta knelt before the throne and his sleek golden head was bowed over Folken's lap, his warm wet mouth softly licking and lapping, teasing and tasting, before it settled to a deep, steady, hungry pull; Folken felt he was being blissfully swallowed whole, engulfed in living heat, the lambent warmth flickering and intensifying and spreading through him until his snap-frozen heart melted and his blood boiled. He buried his fingers in the slippery softness of Chesta's hair, at once caressing him and holding him down, and gave in completely.

He woke up thinking he was still dreaming; what brought him back to reality was the fact that his dead right hand could no longer feel the rough-silk texture of Chesta's hair. At that point the throne disappeared and he knew he was in bed; Chesta was under the covers quietly and devotedly making his dream come true. Feverishly pushing back the quilt, Folken gazed down and felt the peculiar twist of pleasure that came from sight on top of sense of touch; seeing the swollen, flushed shaft disappearing into Chesta's soft mouth, seeing his most intimate skin shining with the wetness of Chesta's kisses; seeing the boy's expression so gently and utterly intent on pleasing him. Chesta had lit the bedroom lamp before beginning. He had wanted to see what he was doing, or had wanted Folken to be able to see. How many people could be that perfect?

'Stop,' Folken whispered, gently pushing at Chesta's head.

'Mmph? Why?' Chesta looked up from under his lashes, and continued delicately licking, the purplish tip of Folken's erection while he waited for an answer.

'Come up and kiss me, pet.'

Chesta obeyed, moving up on hands and knees astride Folken's body, and kissing him with the same gentle deliberation, softly tickling his lips.

'I kissed you when you were asleep,' he breathed, 'but you didn't wake up.'

'I felt it in my dreams.' Folken slid his hands down over Chesta's back to squeeze and separate his buttocks. 'Put me inside you,' he whispered. 'I want you to do it.'

Chesta sat up, a little unsteadily, and reached beneath and behind himself to guide Folken in. His eyes closed and his parted lips trembled a little as he slid the warm, gently pulsing tip into place and held himself poised just on the brink of penetration.

'Hold on - wait…'

Chesta's eyes flickered open. 'Stop sucking it, don't put it in - you don't know what you want tonight,' he complained.

'Just hold on for a moment.' Folken leaned over to open the drawer of his nightstand and fumbled out a small white tube. 'Rub that on it,' he said, feeling ridiculously awkward. 'To - to make it easier for you.'

'You're very considerate tonight,' said Chesta, looking slightly amused, to Folken's further embarrassment.

'I felt horrible thinking about how sore I must be making you,' he explained.

'It's not that bad. You think I'd keep letting you do it if I didn't like it?' Chesta was squeezing out a liberal, not to say extravagant, amount of the clear gel from the tube; it felt strangely cold, although his hands warmed it quickly.

'What if I ordered you?' Folken felt hypnotised by the movements of Chesta's hands. It was hard to speak when he was this excited, but somehow he needed to know.

'You did just now, put me inside you, you said. How's this feel on your cock? Or - hold on - little dragon, that's got to be a name you won't mind me calling it. Let's get this little dragon really slippery.' His hands slid up and down rapidly; Folken was wondering if he could last long enough to get inside him.

'Where'd you learn to call it that? It's - it's ready right now, if you are…'

'My giant dragon,' said Chesta with fervent flattery, and took it inside him in one smooth movement, with a sweet, low moan and a gentle shudder. He seemed so overcome by the invasion that he sat still for a moment, eyes tightly closed, steadying himself with one hand on Folken's tense, flat stomach.

'All right?' Folken whispered. His steel claws were digging into the mattress again; he could not allow them to grip Chesta's thigh as his good hand was, and it was taking all his self-control to wait for Chesta, to prevent his hips bucking and thrusting with all his force.

'Of course it's all right… oh, God… you're my dragon…'

'Ride the dragon…' And don't laugh at me for saying something like that. 'Ride him up and down…'

'Yes…' Chesta's cheeks and lips were crimson in the lamplight, deeply flushed with excitement and exertion. 'Folken, can you…' He fumbled for the hand whose thumb was rhythmically rubbing the soft indentation of his groin and guided it across. 'Here, rub my… my little dragon… make him spit fire…'

'Good?'

'Yes!'

Their bodies laboured against each other, slowly, heavily, now more rapidly, Chesta leaning back even as Folken rose up on his elbow, then sat up fully, supporting Chesta's back with the cold palm of his metal hand while his hips pushed up and around, up and around, matching his thundering heartbeat, feeling sweet heat building higher and higher inside him. He licked at the beads of sweat on the boy's chest and neck, still fighting for control; trying to wait for Chesta, trying to give him the orgasm he deserved before letting himself go completely. He tightened the grip of his good hand, rubbing faster and rougher.

Chesta was biting his lip, his hands clawing at Folken's back and shoulders, grabbing for purchase as they slid on sweat and the traces of warm lubricant gel. In the end he locked his arms around Folken's neck and bowed his head over his shoulder, panting wordless hot puffs of breath against his skin, breath that became gasps of rising delight until thick pale spurts broke against Folken's stomach and chest and he collapsed against him with a weak cry of joy.

'Chesta… darling, sweet…' Folken needed only a few more quick thrusts to launch himself into dizzy bliss. He had to slam his clawed hand down to the mattress to keep from tearing at Chesta's narrow back as they clung together at the last moment, before collapsing in a hot sticky tangle of limbs. For some time they could make no sound more intelligible than the rasp of heavy, exhausted breathing. Chesta tried to speak first, while he was still out of breath.

'Ohh… oh… oh ffff… Folken… I - I think I'm dead.'

'No… no, don't worry… you're all right… you're safe with me.' He absent-mindedly petted the back of Chesta's sweat-soaked hair, feeling dreamily weak and spent. If only time could stop and a moment like this stretch out forever.

'That was quite nice,' Chesta said, and giggled at his masterly understatement.

'Try not to be silly, pet. Just rest with me a moment. I want to listen to your heart beat.'

They both waited, feeling rather than hearing the slowing pulses in their chests. Folken closed his eyes to the lamplight and emptied his mind; there was no time so blessedly free of thought, of doubt, of regret, as when he had just poured everything he felt into Chesta.

'Not dead after all,' said Chesta, kissed him warmly on the cheek, and rolled off him before Folken was quite ready to accept being separate again.

'I wish I could live inside you,' he groaned, rolling over to hold him closely again.

'I couldn't walk around with you stuck up me,' Chesta whispered back, nuzzling into his neck.

'Do you take any of this seriously?' Folken asked, suddenly hurt and impatient.

Chesta looked dismayed at the change in his lover's tone. 'I'm - I'm sorry, Folken-sama… I was just being silly because I'm so happy… and I thought we were having a joke about the little dragon thing… I thought if… if I acted sentimental you would be annoyed with me.'

'Why?' Folken looked into Chesta's eyes, stroking his hair back from his face. As his hand passed over his temple, he saw a purple bruise, the edges blurring out just beyond the hairline. 'Chesta, what's this? You're hurt… God, I didn't hit you, did I? I was trying so hard not to… I can't even remember touching there… did I do that in my sleep?'

'Oh, no, no no,' Chesta said, looking embarrassed and gently moving Folken's hand away from the tender bruise. 'That's nothing to do with you.'

'Did you have an accident - fall over?'

'Well, no.'

'Did someone hit you?'

'I'm a soldier, Folken-sama, getting hit happens!' Chesta tried to laugh it off, but Folken would not let him.

'Tell me what happened. Your training shouldn't involve getting beaten around the head. Tell me right now, did someone hit you?'

'Well… yes… Dilandau-sama, today.'

'He hit you?'

'He hits all of us. He always did, that's perfectly normal for him. Don't you know that?'

'Well - yes, but what possible reason could he have had to hit you today?'

'I was disrespectful.'

'I can't believe it.'

'Well, I was.'

'When did this happen?' He'd been so busy today that he hadn't checked any of the pet-project surveillance yet. How stupid, how utterly stupid. There wasn't enough of his mind to go round. Having to worry about Chesta too was overstretching him badly.

'When we were all in the locker room before lunch. It wasn't only me, he was annoyed with Dalet too.' Chesta's tone was perfectly matter-of-fact; he seemed to want to reassure Folken. 'Look, it doesn't even hurt unless you poke it or something. I've had much worse smacks than this. Why are you looking so upset? I mean, you’ve always known what he's like. I guess it never bothered you before.'

Folken was having trouble explaining his reaction to himself. He'd had a moment of irrational annoyance that, when he'd been trying so hard to avoid marking Chesta's body in any way, Dilandau had gone and marred his beautiful skin so carelessly. But that wasn't the core of it.

'I mean,' Chesta pressed on, 'are you upset about Dalet getting hit too? And all of us getting hit for ages before now? Or do you only care about me, now, because I'm your… pet?'

'Well… I… I don't know… it's not that I think it's all right for other people to be abused as long as you're all right… but I think it had to happen to someone I love for me to realise how wrong it is.'

'I see,' said Chesta, looking as though he did not see at all. Folken wondered if he had noticed the 'someone I love.' For some reason he was nervous about telling Chesta directly that he loved him, or believed he loved him. Slipping it in obliquely like that was easier, except he was not sure it got the message across. Or perhaps Chesta knew he was loved and took it for granted, as easily as he accepted all Folken's physical tenderness. There was no way to be sure without starting a conversation that might end very badly for him.

'But Folken-sama,' Chesta said anxiously, 'you're not going to say anything to Dilandau-sama, are you? Please don't.'

'Why are you defending him?'

'Well, firstly won't people wonder why you're saying something about it now when you never did before?' Chesta looked very earnest about this. 'And I wasn't even going to say anything to you about it, only you asked. It honestly isn't a problem. Please don't say anything.'

'But you said you wanted to talk to me about Dilandau-sama. You said you were worried about something to do with him. Isn't this it?'

'No… I wanted to tell you I'm worried about him. It's - it's not what he's doing. That's normal for him, I'd worry if he wasn't like that. I think you might get angry with me for saying this, but it's something about your brother.'

'What about Van?' Folken asked, frowning.

'I - I really don't want to say this, you understand,' Chesta said, stalling. 'I hate speaking ill of people. I know it's usually not fair, I mean, there's usually a perfectly good reason for things, and I'm sure there'll be a good reason for this that I just don't understand, I'm only worried because I don't understand and I’m sure you could, you know so much more than I do.'

'This is becoming oddly reminiscent of the first day you came here. You look as though you're nerving yourself up to tell me something outrageous. Spit it out, Chesta, you know I don't breathe fire. What's Van done to upset you?'

'It's not me,' Chesta protested, 'I told you, it's about Dilandau-sama. If it was just me I wouldn't say anything.'

'Has Van been bullying him again?' Folken asked wearily. 'I hoped we'd seen the last of that. But really, Chesta dearest, I think this may do Dilandau good in the long run. He's never had to cope with anyone standing up to him in that way before. It was hard for him to cope with initially because of the shock, I'm sure, but he should be over that by now. And Van has settled a good deal since then.'

'You didn't see what happened today,' Chesta said darkly.

'He hasn't injured him again already, has he?'

'No… well, they had a fight… Dilandau-sama did sort of start it… it's very embarrassing because I was involved too. You're going to be really angry with me about something I said.' Although Folken's arm was still around Chesta's shoulders, the boy had drawn his own arms back against his chest, a defensive gesture, although his hands were clasped under his chin in a pleading manner.

'Chesta, have I ever been really angry with you?'

'I don’t think so, but I've been trying hard not to annoy you.'

'Just tell me what happened. I promise to hear you out and be reasonable.'

With a distinct air of trepidation, which Folken found a little hurtful as it seemed so untrusting, Chesta unfolded the story of the day. When he came to his attempt to turn the tables on Van and divert attention from himself, he cringed as though half-expecting to be struck. Folken insisted that he continue, making a considerable effort not to show how much this news annoyed him, to prove his point about being reasonable. Chesta was obviously not sensible in every situation, and his loyalty above all to Dilandau seemed to be his worst blind spot. Folken found himself wondering what Chesta would do in a situation where he had to choose between Dilandau's and Folken's wishes. Still, it all sounded like a fairly minor matter, the kind of verbal harrassment often directed at an unpopular boy, until Chesta came to the fight, and what Van had said, done and made Dilandau say.

'It - it wasn't true what Van-sama said, was it?' he asked Folken. 'I mean, if Dilandau-sama had made a pass at him he would have said something to you, right?'

'It's certainly not true,' said Folken, thoughtfully, 'at least not that it happened on the first night. I don't think they've been alone together at any other time. And you'd say you've never seen Dilandau behave as though he was attracted to him?'

'Well, of course not!' Chesta said indignantly. 'So was Van-sama just giving Dilandau-sama a taste of his own medicine?'

'It's hard to be sure,' Folken said. 'He doesn't tell me everything. I suppose it's equally possible that you touched a nerve with what you said. Perhaps Van has been reading your book, and does have feelings in that direction, but the teasing made him so angry and upset about it that it got twisted round into aggression.'

'What, seriously?' Chesta looked stunned. 'But the other night he was talking about how he was attracted to Serena.'

'Celena,' Folken corrected him.

'Whoever. See, you were right, I did forget. So if he likes girls he wouldn't be interested in Dilandau-sama that way, would he?'

'I really don't know,' Folken said. 'I understand there are people who can go either way. That's a very disturbing thought.'

'I'll say,' said Chesta. 'I don't think Dilandau-sama would like Van-sama going after him.'

'And I don't think Dilandau is at all the kind of person I'd want Van to get involved with.'

'Why not?' Chesta demanded, sounding offended on Dilandau's behalf.

'Have you forgotten what's on the side of your head? I know he's important to you, but you must concede that Dilandau is not a particularly nice person.'

'You're saying that because you don't understand him,' Chesta said. 'You need to live with him to understand him. He really cares about us. He's hard on us but if anyone else tried to hurt us he'd never rest until he'd punished them. Dilandau-sama takes care of us, Folken-sama, he's made us what we are today. I was nothing before I came to him! I was such a weak little baby, I didn't have anything to take pride in or anyone to look up to, and he changed all of that. When he disciplines us, he's showing he loves us. He's a wonderful person.'

'Chesta,' said Folken wearily, 'I have known Dilandau since he was a small child. It may not have been a close relationship, but I've observed him enough to know what he's like. I don't deny that he has a very strong sense of loyalty, or that he's protective of those under him, or that he's a destructive genius inside a guymelef, or that he's a charismatic leader. But I know very clearly that he is also narcissistic, sadistic, hysterical and as self-centred as a gyroscope. The qualities that make him a good captain of the Dragonslayers are not necessarily the qualities that would make him a good…' He faltered, looking for a word.

'Boyfriend?'

'If you will… for my brother.'

'I suppose they are too much alike,' Chesta said musingly.

'That's a very peculiar way of looking at it.'

'Well, when people fight that much it's usually because they're too much alike. Van-sama actually said something about it once, that you hate your own qualities most when you see them in others.'

'I think you're just making a generalisation,' Folken said, rather crushingly, since he didn't really have an answer for that and didn't want it to be as perceptive as it sounded.

'Well, I know you know more about it than I do,' Chesta said humbly. 'That was only an idea. Sorry.' He looked up at Folken beseechingly. 'Are you angry with me? For my part in it?'

Folken sighed, impatiently. 'What would be the point? It wouldn't change anything. And I don't even know that you really think you were wrong, only that you don’t like displeasing me. It seems that as far as you're concerned anything is justifiable if it's for Dilandau.'

'It's not like that,' Chesta said plaintively. 'I made a mistake because I wanted to help Dilandau-sama, yes, but I know it was a mistake. I had no right to talk to Van-sama like that. He should have knocked me down for being disrespectful too.'

'And I suppose you'd think he was wonderful too, if he did?' Folken said sourly. 'Would you think more of me if I roughed you up a little occasionally?'

'I - I'd understand if you had a reason. You're so patient with me. I know I'm really lucky that you're gentle with me, it's so much better than I deserve.'

'Chesta!' Folken was so exasperated by his self-deprecation that he inadvertently shook him. 'I will not listen to you saying things like that. It's ridiculous, it's masochistic. I really don't think you understand who cares about you more. How can you see abuse as proof of love and not realise that I'm gentle with you because I love you a hundred times more than a selfish creature like Dilandau ever could? I hate myself when I hurt you. I hate thinking of the toll my lust must be taking on your body, I hate to see how tired I make you with all this clandestine late-night nonsense that I can't do without, I hate to see you cringing and ducking your head because you seriously think I would take my anger out on you physically, and I hate to see you treating Dilandau like a little tin god when you're worth ten of him!' He realised he was almost shouting into Chesta's face. 'And I hate myself for raging at you like that,' he finished lamely. 'I'm sorry.' He let go of Chesta's shoulders and sat up with his head in his hands, unable to look the boy in the eye.

'Please don't hate yourself,' Chesta said faintly, behind him. The mattress creaked as he sat up too and gingerly touched Folken's back. 'I think you're wonderful already. Folken-sama, you're a hero. Look at everything you've done for Zaibach.'

'And look at everything I've done for Fanelia.'

'But you had to,' Chesta said, clearly puzzled by the bitterness in Folken's voice. 'You had a good reason.'

'What do you think my good reason was, Chesta?'

'I… I don't know, I… don't get angry with me for saying it again, but I know you know more about it than I do. I can't judge your reasons.'

'You are judging them, as good. Without knowing anything about what I'm really like. I treasure your good opinion of me, Chesta, but if I wasn't such a coward you would know the truth and despise me just as you should.'

Cautiously, Chesta put his arms around Folken and leaned his cheek on his shoulder. 'Then please don’t ever tell me about that. I want to always love you.'

'It isn't me you love, it's your idea of me.' You love me. Oh, my God, you love me. Why do you love me?

'But if me loving you makes you even a little happier, then it's worth it, isn't it? What I hate seeing is how miserable and lonely you are inside, always. I can't believe you're a bad person. Bad people don't love people and look after them the way you do. You may have done bad things, but just don't tell me about that and I'll love you for all the good there is in you. Anyway, if you were bad you wouldn't feel sorry for anything you might have done.'

'What you're offering me is completely unfair to you.'

'It's what I want. This is all the sentimental stuff I didn't want to say in case it put you off me. I didn’t know if you wanted someone to love you, or just to have sex with you and take your mind off your day. I know I make you feel better that way. If loving you helps too, I want you to believe I love you before anything else. When you're being all self-hating like you do, please just say to yourself "but I can't be completely rotten, because Chesta loves me." If that counts for anything, I mean.'

'I absolutely must not accept that,' said Folken, 'and I think it's further proof of my rottenness, as you put it, that I want to accept it so much. You really shouldn't keep comforting me, Chesta, I don't deserve it.'

'Why did you start it all with me if you didn’t think you deserved it?'

'I don't know. I really don't. I think if I were honest I would have to say it was just that I got very excited and stopped thinking with my brain.'

'You wouldn't be a man if you didn't occasionally think with something else.' Chesta kissed Folken's shoulder. 'You could say it was your heart.'

'Could I indeed.'

'Well, do you love me?'

'I love you as I never expected to love anyone. If you think being loved by a thing like me is worth anything. It strikes me as more of a curse than a gift.'

'This is when you say, "but I can't be completely rotten, because Chesta loves me."' Chesta paused. 'And Van-sama loves you too, you know.'

'He shouldn't either. He doesn't really know me.'

'Who really knows anyone?' Chesta asked. 'You and I both think we know Dilandau-sama, but we've each got a completely different idea of him. I think all you ever do know is your idea of someone. Perhaps you're being too hard on yourself. Perhaps if you told me, or him, about whatever it is that you think is so unforgivable, we would still love you anyway.'

'He wouldn't,' said Folken. 'He really wouldn't.'

'Well then don't tell him. Don't hurt him that way. Make him happy, and make me happy too, and redeem yourself that way.'

'How can I redeem myself for lies when making you happy means telling you lies?'

'I don't know. Don't you like paradoxes?'

Folken took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. 'I think this is one of those late-at-night conversations in which one gets badly out of one's depth. It's probably better for both of us to try to go to sleep. We can talk about it again when we're not so tired and emotional.'

'Or not.' Chesta was ready to let it go.

'Or not,' Folken agreed. He lay back carefully and settled Chesta beside him, guiding the boy's tousled head to his good shoulder and pulling up the covers to keep him warm.

'Folken-sama, what do you think you'll do about Van-sama and Dilandau-sama?'

'I don't know yet. I'll think of something. I need to study the problem before I decide.'

'I'll trust your judgement.'

Folken reached over and put out the lamp. Darkness settled in the room, and quiet came with it. If only we had gone right to sleep after making love, he thought. I'd be happily unconscious now and wouldn't have all these things to think of. And all these things I won't think of. I don't want to make up my mind. I'm starting to see the shape of the future. Van and Dilandau… perhaps it runs in families, who knows. The business with Celena baffles me as much as anything else. How can I intervene without showing I know more than I should? It would destroy Van's trust in me. I need him to trust me, he needs to stay, if he leaves everything will become unstable. That's honestly the reason. His trust in me is what keeps him here and contributes to the success of the plan. Once it's all over, once we achieve our goal, I'll tell him the truth and accept what comes. And Chesta… well, I've done it all to give them happiness. I didn't expect to find it myself. This is all some caprice of Fate, and it will probably slip away from me as easily as it arrived. I must just treasure it in the present, do as he says, and hope for him to end up better off. No more war, no more suffering, no more subjugation, having to live for others' purposes… if nothing else, I can give him a better world to live in without me.

Half an hour ago I was vigorously sodomising this boy, defiling him, and rejoicing in every second of it because it gave me a few moments of escape from my own problems. But I lie here thinking I care about him, and want to give him a better world, and sacrifice my own happiness for his. I may have established some sort of new record for emotional hypocrisy.

I'll have to have some kind of talk with Van, anyway.

Chapter Text

The brothers watched each other over the dining table. Van was watchful because he had the feeling Folken was going to spring something on him, was building up to say something undesirable. It was there in his eyes, in the line of tension assumed by his jaw. Van felt that he had to be very careful. The idea had occurred to him that Folken might know about what he had done and was going to criticise him for it. But which transgression did Folken know about; the fight or the flight? He had been so emotional yesterday that some of his memories seemed confused. He was sure it had been very wrong to spread his wings. Mother would not like it, Folken would not like it. Folken had inherited Mother's eyes, that deep claret colour, and Van was wondering whether he would see the same light of sorrowful reproach in them. He had never been able to please Mother; he was never any consolation to her. Her elder son had been so precious to her that she braved the dragons and went into the forest after him and left Van behind. You didn't have to be a genius - like Folken, of course - to work it out.

Folken watched Van, wishing his eyes could tell him more. All he had was the soundless surveillance footage - which had been designed only to show where people were and what they were doing, not to betray subtleties like what they said to each other and their tone, because when he had designed the system he had never expected to need that information. Of course, it would have been more useful still if he had had a machine for telling him what people were thinking. And then there was what was before him, Van looking edgy and keyed-up, shifting between eating as if he had been starved and pushing the food around his plate until it mixed into mush. Yesterday's duel had looked bizarre on the monitor this morning. Because of the angle at which the boys stood to the viewer, you could not see the lick that Chesta said had taken place while they stood locked together in that strange entangled position. Van's head moved closer to Dilandau's, but his face was invisible. Lacking visual evidence, Folken had found himself doubting Chesta's word; it was so hard to believe such a thing of Van. But why should Chesta lie so maliciously? To help Dilandau by getting Van in trouble, of course. No. I can't believe that of him either. Not my Chess. It isn't in him to manipulate me like that. I am the one who uses people, not Chesta.

'It's a funny thing,' Folken said abruptly, breaking the heavy silence that had extended for most of the time since Van had come in and they had greeted each other, 'but I was thinking of Balgus today. I had such a clear mental image of his face, with that huge scar where he lost his eye - and of course his whole body was criss-crossed with scars, a net of them. He was really such a fearsome-looking man, but I can't recall either of us ever being frightened of him at all. We had never known him to look any different; the scars were just part of him, and he was our friend.' He took a sip of wine, giving Van the opportunity to say something if he wanted to. He let the opportunity pass, rather sullenly.

'When I think about it, he must have suffered terrible injuries all his life,' Folken went on. 'It's a wonder some of them didn't kill him. I found myself wondering how I would feel if I were so extensively and visibly scarred. This claw is one thing, but I can conceal it. The marks on my face are quite another, because I chose them. I suppose Dilandau could tell us how it feels, although I daresay his attitude to it is quite different from Balgus's.'

'Balgus was never vain,' Van said, in apparent agreement. 'But Dilandau doesn't even know what it's like to be in danger for his life. He needs a teacher… like Balgus,' he finished, rather in the manner of an afterthought, without which the implication of the sentence would have been rather different.

'Well, you know, you and I carry on Balgus' teachings, the elements of his style and philosophy as a warrior,' Folken said. 'So does anyone he trained. If I think about it, every day I can catch myself in habits of thought and behaviour that I know were imprinted upon me by Balgus. He gave me the self-discipline that has gotten me where I am today. Of course, he also gave me a few habits and ideas I've had to train myself out of. He was dedicated to the code of honour to the point where he sometimes made himself vulnerable by refusing to seize an unfair advantage. I'd like to live in a world where that strategy was effective, but I'm afraid I have to be more pragmatic than that every day. And some of his ideas I've simply come to disagree with, based on what I've learned for myself.' He glanced at Van, trying to see if there was any reaction to this discussion of the mentor he had so recently and painfully lost - especially since one instance of Folken's pragmatism had been the cause of that loss. Could he make that mental connection, or would the implanted ideas prohibit it? His face only indicated, perhaps, pleasant reminiscence, tinged with nostalgia.

'I think of Balgus every time I catch myself slouching,' Van said. 'I can hear him barking at me to stand up straight and try to look as if I'd been "brought up, not dragged up".'

'All those Balgusian phrases,' Folken agreed, smiling. '"Cold water makes a man of you." That was a favourite. Of course, a hot shower gets you much cleaner than a cold bath, but then according to Balgus too much washing makes you weak.'

'"It's the sweat that keeps a man clean",' Van quoted. 'And "hard work never killed anyone". He should've written a book. Advice to young men. What were some others?'

'"Just ignore it and it'll go away",' Folken suggested. 'Oh, and my favourite, "stop it or you'll go blind." I was sixteen before I found out that wasn't true, and the cruel irony of it was that by then I didn't want to any more.' He raised his clawed right hand expressively. Van blushed and blinked in confusion.

'What do you mean it's not true?' he said.

'I'd hoped I was the only person that gullible. Van, do you seriously think masturbation makes you go blind? If that were true the entire male population would be sightless. Or at least wearing very thick glasses.'

'I wouldn't,' said Van, sounding stung.

'Don't tell me you never.'

'Well, not since Balgus warned me about it! Anyway, you just said you don't.'

'Training myself to automatically use my left hand when I went to the toilet, so as not to accidentally hurt myself, was difficult enough; I was discouraged by that and I was so horrified by my right hand that I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. For a while I tried rubbing against a pillow, but it wasn't good enough. It was just frustrating. And so I suppose I simply suppressed all thoughts of it in self-defence. I was so unhappy and preoccupied for most of the time in the very early days that I very seldom felt aroused anyway. I even stopped having wet dreams. And later I was far too busy. Am I embarrassing you? We haven't really talked about anything so personal before, but I think brothers should be able to be honest without being ashamed. We could even have a little laugh about it, I suppose. It wasn't at all funny at the time, of course; the most humiliating moment of my life to date was when he caught me in that little outhouse behind the kitchen gardens with, if I recall, a fistful of Mother's cold cream. I was…' he frowned, thinking '…fourteen. It was sheer bad luck. I hadn't latched the door properly and he didn't know I was in there. He gave me a full-scale lecture, being very concerned about my health and morals, and I more or less wanted to die, but really, apart from furtively misappropriating toiletries for slightly unsavoury purposes, what had I done wrong?'

'So - so it's really not dangerous?' Van asked hesitantly. He looked as though one of the certainties of his world was being undermined.

'Absolutely not. I'm inclined to think that for a normal boy it's rather healthy. It lets him come to grips, if you'll pardon the expression, with his sexuality and get comfortable with it before he becomes seriously involved with anyone else. It also lets him relieve any frustration he might be feeling without involving someone else which could have serious consequences. It doesn’t do any physical harm as long as he's sensible, and of course it feels wonderful. Feeling wonderful never killed anyone. Or blinded them. I hope you can excuse my heresy, my subversion of the Balgusian creed.' He smiled gently, wryly.

'Well - well, how do you mean sensible?' Van asked. He still looked acutely embarrassed, but was clearly trying to take this in a calm, mature manner.

'Obviously, if you overdo it it becomes unhealthy, like anything else. Moderation keeps you healthy. It's extremes, like constantly, obsessively touching yourself, or total, morbid abstinence, that do the damage.'

'But you have to abstain,' Van said, looking thoroughly worried for Folken's sake. 'Do you think it's harming you?'

'I think I'm all right,' Folken said judiciously. 'As I said, the dreams stopped and the feelings largely went away. I accepted that sex was not going to be a part of my life a long time ago, nor normal relationships of any kind. I've rather been set apart from the rest of the human race by my condition. Except, of course, I hope my relationship with you can still be a normal one. I sometimes almost find it easier to get along with people who aren't human - with Nariya and Eriya, for example.'

'That's right,' said Van, 'are they back yet? You said I could meet them, and I'd really like to.'

Right now I don't know if they'd be safe with you. Supposing you took against them as you have against Dilandau? 'Not yet,' Folken said. It didn't seem possible to tell Van the whole truth about anything any more. First he told him the truth about masturbation, then he told him a string of total lies about his own sexual experience, or lack thereof. At least, he gave the impression that nothing had changed since he came to that acceptance of celibacy, and omitting to mention such a huge change was surely equal to quite a large direct lie. He was becoming so conscious of his lies; it was getting harder to think of them as an objectively planned strategy for an important goal. Personal was not the same as important, but it kept seeming personal.

'Oh well,' said Van easily, 'I expect it'll be quite soon. You'll be glad to have them back too, won't you?'

'Yes, of course.' I am glad to have them back. I've seen them several times since their return, and they are as beautiful and strong and fearless as ever. I am so proud of them that my heart aches with it. My heart… that's the thing. I am seeing them differently. I love them like daughters, I think. Thank goodness. I couldn't believe what Van thought…

'You've gone all quiet,' Van observed.

'Just thinking.'

'What about?'

'Love, and desire, and how easy it is to mistake one for the other. People make themselves terribly unhappy that way, Van. Another terrible mistake that is often made, particularly by young men, is to assume that the desire for sex equals readiness for sex. They rush ahead and get into physical relationships, and either find themselves emotionally involved in ways for which they are not prepared, or else have shallow, exploitative liaisons and fall into a pattern of promiscuity that is never justified or redeemed by any real tenderness or connection to another.'

'Oh,' said Van, looking a little overwhelmed. 'Um - I'm not going to do that, don't worry. I'd never let you down like that.'

'Well, it's yourself you would be letting down,' Folken pointed out gently. 'You are capable of better, and you deserve better. I suppose I was thinking of your feelings for Celena; of how you quite wisely backed off when you felt you were becoming too intimate. I want you to understand that feelings of desire for another are not wrong - they are nothing to be ashamed of, or suppressed - but they don't have to be acted upon directly. Perhaps you would feel differently about spending time with Celena if, knowing what you now know, you were able to satisfy yourself physically, and didn't feel it had to be all or nothing?' And Dilandau can have a little relapse and disappear for good, for all I care. And will you make the connection? I can't tell. If I spaced them out by a few days, as I did this time, you might not. You're really not terribly observant. I suppose it's because you're conditioned to accept whatever I tell you; it reduces the overall likelihood of you thinking in a questioning way.

Van shook his head emphatically. 'Wouldn't work. I mean - if we're being honest, and you really don't mind hearing - I was having wet dreams every night, so the, um, the feelings were certainly getting out, but it didn't make me feel any better. I told you, brother, it wasn't because I was scared of going too far, it was because it was distracting me from what I have to do for you.'

'Well, you can't live for me your whole life,' Folken said, feeling a little annoyed. He had just offered Van a perfectly reasonable compromise; why did he have to be so stubborn? 'And just because I can't have a normal relationship, do you think I'd want to deny you that happiness?'

'I - I know, brother… but I don't think either of us can think about things like that until we've fulfilled our destiny,' Van said, looking sincerely dismayed at having said the wrong thing. 'I never meant you'd try to spoil things for me. I know you only want me to be happy. And it really does make me happy to serve you. I - I want to dedicate myself to that first, and then when it's done I could think about how I'll spend the rest of my life, and who with.'

'And in the meantime,' Folken said bluntly, 'do you think you're never going to feel any stirrings of desire? You're never going to have to deal with that? Ignoring strong emotions is very dangerous, Van. They can become deflected and perverted into other shapes. It's not unknown for sexual drives to be sublimated into aggression. Why do you think Dilandau loves a good fight so much?'

'What,' said Van, struggling to keep up, 'you mean Dilandau's attracted to someone he can't be with, or that he's denying himself? That doesn't sound like him at all.' He paused, thinking about it. 'I like a good fight, what are you saying about me?' He paused again. 'Are you saying something about me fighting with Dilandau?' His mouth dropped open and he stared in wordless indignation for a moment. He had never expected the attack to come from this direction. 'It is not like that! Why does everyone think it is? Did someone say something to you? One of them? They did, didn't they? They're all trying to undermine me! They hate me, and it's not fair! He made fun of me and they all laughed! They're the perverts, not me, they're the ones who think of those things.'

Folken raised his eyebrows. 'What are you talking about?' he asked.

'They all - ' Van stopped, and started again, leaning across the table and speaking rapidly in a low, intense voice, as though afraid he would be overheard. 'There's this book and I bet they've all read it. It's - it's full of dirty things, brother, things you probably wouldn't even have thought of. I confiscated it. I - I read part of it to see what they were talking about. It's disgusting, honestly, I can't get it out of my head. I mean it upset me so much. That's why.' He sat back again and folded his arms defensively.

'You're not making very much sense,' Folken said. 'This book you've confiscated - what is it about?'

'About sex, obviously.'

'Sex doesn't have to be dirty, Van.'

'No, but this is! It's about boys, doing things to each other, the whole story is just an excuse to describe them groping all over each other, sucking each other's cocks and butt-fucking and - I'm sorry, Folken, I know you don't like dirty language like that.' Van looked ashamed of himself; he also looked deeply agitated, so tense you could almost hear his nerves twanging. His eyes were very bright and there was a high colour in his face.

'It's all right,' Folken said, 'I understand you didn't mean to be offensive. What bothers me is not the words but the way people use them. Fuck is such a violent verb. It seems to degrade something that I want to believe is more complex and beautiful. Terms like cock and dick always seem to be used in a vulgar spirit. They almost seem to insult the body. That's why I'm uncomfortable with them.' And also because I am a hypocrite, and can't admit that what I myself do is fucking of the first order. I'm too scared of my own cock to call it by any honest name. Little dragon, indeed - I'd almost forgotten that term. A monster in my pants, how appropriate.

'Well - well that's just what this book is like,' Van said. 'I mean - it doesn't exactly make it sound violent and vulgar, it sort of sounds very excited about it and like it wants you to be excited too -'

'Were you?' Folken asked mildly.

Van was once more struck dumb. He stared at Folken with such outraged shock and obvious guilt that he really felt quite sorry for him.

'Don't say anything for a moment,' he said quickly. 'Just listen to me. If you were, it's all right. If thinking about that kind of thing made you want to touch yourself, it's all right. And if you want to use that book to help you masturbate, that's all right too. You're not being a pervert. You're just being human. People like sex. It's healthy! If you weren't interested at your age, that would be abnormal. And reading about it, and fantasising about it are, as far as I'm concerned, simply part of growing up. Don't let yourself get the idea that you're disgusting. You really aren't, and I would hate for you to be unhappy because you thought so.'

'But,' said Van, in a small voice, obviously offering the last piece of contrary argument he could think of, 'it's boys and boys. Isn't that wrong?'

'No. If you like boys that's fine.' Not that I'm really sure I believe that, whatever Chesta says, but the less you worry, quite frankly, the better.

'I - I like girls too,' said Van, as if hoping this was a mitigating factor.

'Good! You'll have the best of both worlds.'

'Now you're just making fun of me,' Van protested.

'I'm only trying to make you see that you don't have to take it so seriously. Or rather, do take it seriously, it's important, but don't get so wrought up about it. Enjoy it. Be happy. That's what I want for you, remember?'

'I - are you serious?' asked Van. 'About just enjoying it?' He seemed unable to believe that such a thing was possible. Authority figures simply did not say things like that.

'Yes. Go ahead. Get another book if you'd like. I'm not sure where people buy them, but I daresay you could find out. I'd offer to make enquires for you but I'm sure you want to take care of that for yourself. It's a very personal thing.'

'Well, yes,' said Van. He frowned in thought for a moment. 'Folken, is it actually normal for brothers to have conversations like this?'

'Oh, no. As far as I know it's highly unusual.' Folken had the decency to look mildly sheepish. 'I hope I haven't said anything very inappropriate. I only have experience of being an older brother to a little boy. I'm still working out how to take care of a young man. Anyway, I hope I've been able to set your mind at rest.'

'I think if Balgus could hear us he'd knock our heads together and tell us to take a ten-mile run and have a bath in ice water… but I do feel better. I suppose.' Van flashed a brief, nervous smile. ‘Um – we don’t have to talk about this any more, do we?’

‘Not unless you have questions. I’ll do my level best to answer them.’

‘No, no, that’s all right.’

‘Good. That’s very good.’ Folken looked at his plate as if it held inspiration. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot to ask. How was your flight yesterday? Good to get out in the open air?’

‘I wasn’t in the open air, I was in a guymelef,’ Van said, quickly.

‘Do you enjoy flying an Alseides?’

‘It’s all right.’ Van tried to think of something specific to say; he felt that if he couldn’t give satisfactory answers he would somehow be giving himself away. ‘It’s got a very responsive steering system. You don’t have to give it as much of a push as Escaflowne.’

‘We’ll soon be upgrading to the new model, the Oreades,’ Folken said. ‘They’re still being manufactured, but it’s a design I’m rather proud of; considerably more powerful and versatile. Of course, things are going so well that they may never have to be deployed, but it would be improvident not to prepare for all possibilities.’

‘That’ll be interesting,’ Van said politely. 'Have you found a way to make the cloaks work in flight mode? Why won't they work then, anyway?' For the rest of the lunch hour he asked so many technical questions about guymelefs that there was no opportunity to discuss anything else. This seemed to make him feel a good deal more comfortable.

When Van was about to leave, Folken stopped him at the door with a hand on his shoulder.

‘One more thing, Van. I’ve just been wondering how you are getting on with Dilandau, now he’s back from his sick leave.’

‘He’s… been getting on my nerves a bit,’ Van said. Folken wondered for a moment whether he, too, was going to lie by omission. If he did, there was something very wrong indeed. ‘We had another fight. But no-one got hurt this time.’ He was obviously holding back a lot, struggling with the compulsion to be completely open with his brother. It made Folken wonder. There might be other things he had not told him; things about which Folken had not thought to ask him directly.

‘That’s something, at any rate. Please try to be patient with him, Van. Self-mastery isn’t easy, but you will need to learn to overcome your personal feelings when they threaten to become disruptive. My advice would be to ignore him as much as possible. Perhaps you might even let him think he’s getting his way sometimes. Channel your annoyance into something positive instead.’

Van looked as though this was the last thing he would like to do. ‘But someone ought to stand up to him,’ he said. ‘He just makes me so angry. I want to break him.’

‘He’s cracked already,’ Folken said dryly. ‘Do you really think your efforts are necessary?’

‘I mean break him as you do a horse. Master him.’

And ride him? Oh, come on, Folken reproached himself. It’s Dilandau. Van has better taste than that, surely.

‘Good luck,’ he said dubiously. ‘But for my sake, please don’t go over the top.’

Van walked back to his room feeling more muddled than anything else. On the one hand, he had a strange feeling of being set free. Suddenly, it appeared, nothing that he really wanted to do was wrong. He was beginning to remember his recent dreams, but this meant that what they were about wasn’t wicked or dirty after all. He wasn’t sure exactly what he would do now the ban on self-love was lifted, since his early experiments two or three years ago had been in only the most tentative stages when they had been rather horribly arrested by Balgus walking into his room without knocking as usual. What had made it so much worse was how mutual the embarrassment had been; Balgus had looked so genuinely appalled and that made him more ashamed. He had been thoroughly scared off from trying anything of the sort again. He wasn’t sure he knew exactly what to do; wasn’t sure what he could do. It was time to start trying things out again, he supposed, seeing how his body responded. There was a lingering sense of guilt around such thoughts, but that was just silly; if Folken said it was all right then of course it was.

But why would Folken say that? It was, just as he'd admitted, a very unusual thing for an elder brother to advise his younger brother about. In fact, thinking back over the conversation - he had to do that now, while it was fresh in his mind, because in a few hours he would probably not be able to remember it exactly, only the gist and his emotional impressions - he had an odd sense that Folken had deliberately steered the conversation in that direction; had wanted to bring up the subject and had introduced that of Balgus for the purpose, as a stratagem. That, Van thought, was not exactly respectful to Balgus' memory. It all began to seem rather dubious.

The problem was, he couldn't think why Folken might want to do that. It was ridiculous to suspect someone of something when you couldn't think of any motive they could have.

I'm getting so suspicious of everyone that I'm even doubting him, looking for hidden agendas so hard that I start to see them where perhaps there aren't any. Really, it must just be because all that kind of thing has been on my mind so much. It's like something is bubbling up from underneath. Silly of me. I'm just tense, that's all, and he saw what was wrong and gave me some kindly advice about it. He's very perceptive. He must know what's wrong. He must know better than me. And he… he's trying to free me from… I'm so hemmed in by the beliefs I was brought up with…that's right, isn't it?

This last thought was interrupted by a sudden sharp pulse of pain in Van's head. He stopped unsteadily and put a hand to the wall just in case, the other hand pressing against his forehead until the worst of it passed. It did pass, after all; within about a minute it had faded to nothing more than a dull headache, the kind he had so often these days when he was worried about something.

Well, there, you see, that's why I shouldn't be dissecting this in my head, overthinking it. My head is telling me right there that it doesn't want to be bothered with that kind of nonsense. I ought to pay more attention to what my body's telling me. I'm not clever like Folken. I shouldn't try to be. I'm lucky to have a brother like him, someone so understanding, not trying to make me feel guilty about things. He didn't say 'you'll make me sad,' he didn't say 'you'll go blind,' he said 'it's all right'.

His head felt a lot clearer now; this must be the right way to go. Well… perhaps not clearer… more comfortable, as though sharp edges were softening and harsh light was dimming.

I can't help feeling like I know too much about him now, though. It was almost as though he was giving me pointers - the thing about the pillow, and the cold cream - I never asked for details! In a book is one thing, but when someone you respect talks to you about that stuff it's really very… well, I didn't know what to do with my face. I certainly didn't want to share my Balgus-walking-in-on-me story. He was just trying to be kind. It's not his fault if he's a little awkward or odd sometimes, it's as he said, he's been set apart from most people. Poor Folken! Imagine being afraid of part of your own body, feeling as though your own hand might hurt you. You wouldn't feel at home in yourself.

Now, I must pull myself together. Go to training. They'll just assume I was lying low this morning. They won't say anything about me not being there. No-one has to know where I was, and I was really careful to keep in cloud cover. If Folken knew he would have said something.

Surely no-one had seen him leap from the outer catwalk of the fortress and fly.

Chapter Text

Chesta was unsure of how much to worry about Dilandau-sama. At times that morning he had seemed fine, quite normal, his forceful self. He had made some very biting comments about Chesta's pierced ear, which was much less inflamed now. He had led them through a vigorous exercise routine, saying they had all gotten pasty and weak without him to make them stay in shape (which was untrue and unfair, but no-one was about to say anything). He had boxed Migel's ears for moving too slowly.

But there were also times when he seemed to lose his focus, when the pupils of his eyes contracted as though he was looking into strong light and his face lost all expression. He would forget what he was doing, apparently. Things that would normally have been extremely important to him were also forgotten. After his pre-lunch shower, he had dressed but only gotten as far as shirt, pants and boots, because he was moving so slowly, almost as though he were asleep on his feet. The lunch bell had rung while they were all staring at him anxiously, and he had looked at them as though waking and said 'What?' Then he had led the way to the mess hall without attempting to put on his shinguards, his overskirt, his jacket - he left those precious layers lying on the end of his bed like a snake's cast skin.

The worst of it was that it was impossible to say anything solicitous like 'Are you all right?' To imply that you thought Dilandau-sama was not all right was a serious insult and would only be met by sharp chastisement and a sharper slap. Everyone tried to look as though they did not even notice when he appeared to fall into a reverie with his fork halfway to his mouth, and held it there until the piece of fish on it was stone cold.

It was the repetitive stroking of the scar that got to them all the most. Every one of the fifteen thought to himself at some stage of the morning, If only we knew what he was thinking… and then many mentally drew back with a shiver, deciding that they did not really want to know.

Dilandau did not entirely know himself. He did not seem able to think about any one thing for very long; his mind felt scattered, tangled. Much of the time he ran on autopilot, with varying success, while the part that felt like the true himself hung suspended somewhere not far off looking on with unutterable scorn.

-He's beaten you already. The only interest now is seeing how long it takes you to admit defeat. Why did I ever love you? You're pathetic. Pathetic, boy. His mark's on you. You're his creature now. Admit it. Give in. You know you're going to. I think you want to.

-I won't. I can't. If I did, I wouldn't be me.

-You're not, any more, in any case.

-No! I'm still Dilandau! I'm still strong. Even if my face is ruined, there's nothing wrong with my body, it's still perfect, still untainted. And I still have the Dragonslayers. I can see the loyalty in their eyes.

-I can see the pity and the fear. Fear for you, not of you.

-There is nothing to be afraid of! I'm fine!

-Remember what it felt like. He got on top of you. Wasn't he heavy? Wasn't he hot?

-I refuse to think about it.

-You can still feel where his serpent tongue snaked up the side of your face. You feel it again every time you close your eyes.

-No I do not. It was hours ago, yesterday. I've washed my face five times since then. There is no trace left.

-You lay there and took it.

-I was still standing then! You're making me remember it wrong. You're making it seem worse than it was.

-What's he going to do next?

-Nothing. I won't let him do anything. Goddamn pervert. No-one's ever had the nerve to force themselves on me. No-one's ever made me lose control.

-What would you call what you're doing today, lover? You've never been able to control yourself where he's concerned. You never wanted to. When you were the strong one, anyway.

-Shut up shut up here he comes.

The other boys all noticed Dilandau tense up as Van walked into the training hall. Before that he had been sitting meditatively by the sword rack, sipping water, apparently unaware of anything before him. Now, without really changing his position, he seemed to become poised, ready to spring to his feet, ready for action. Or for flight.

Van did not even acknowledge him, and far from approaching him, he went over to the far end of the hall where the weights were kept, and began stretching. After a few minutes' watchfulness, the Dragonslayers came to the conclusion that he was keeping himself to himself, and continued their exercise without paying him much more attention. No-one was about to speak to him unless they were spoken to.

Dilandau stayed on his bench, the cup of water held motionless to his lips, and watched Van as prey watches a hunter.

In the changeover between training and rest period, Dilandau slipped away almost without anyone noticing. He was going out the door when Guimel called to him, 'Where are you going, Dilandau-sama?'

'Just out for a while,' he replied, rather vaguely. 'I want some time by myself.' He shut the door behind him.

'I hope he doesn't get cold,' Gatti said, shuffling his deck of cards. 'Look at that - he's left his jacket again.'

It was thrown over the end of the bed anyhow, not neatly folded as Dilandau would normally have placed it, or told someone to place it. Chesta picked it up and straightened it out, holding it up to himself to fold the sleeves across the body. It would need to be cleaned; the lining had a strong, rank smell of old perspiration. He stood for a moment looking at the jacket in his arms, his weary eyes becoming unfocused so that he saw only a blur of red and black. This jacket stood for so much; he felt sure that at any time in his life, the sight of red and black would make him instantly think of Dilandau-sama, of his strength and ruthless integrity. And he had let it fall unheeded… He stepped closer to the bed to lay down the garment and his foot struck something on the floor with a ringing sound.

Dilandau's diadem was on the floor, halfway under the bed.

Dilandau stood on the exterior catwalk, leaning forward with his elbows on the cold safety railing. The thin air ruffled his hair and cooled his bare forehead. He was feeling vaguely feverish, though he had no other symptoms, so that was a pleasure. He would be all right, he soothed himself. It was just difficult to make the transition back to normality. He just had to hang in there, and things would get easier.

Far below was the world of ordinary people; of farms and towns and harbours, of schools and roads and shops. From up here it all just looked like an unlabelled map, no sign of any individual person, yet every one scurrying along down there thought he was important, if only to himself. Every one was at the centre of his own little universe. Dilandau did not know where his centre was any more. He felt his mind drawn down by the line of his sight, down through layers of chilly vapour, down to the brown-green earth that looked so soft with haze and distance. How long would it take you to fall to earth? How would you feel while you were falling? And how hard would it hit you when you landed? Would you have enough time to think about any of it? Would there be time for it to hurt?

He put his hands over his face and rubbed at his eyesockets and cheeks. Those were the sort of thoughts he ought to avoid. It was nice and peaceful to be out here alone, and he was managing to keep that nagging other voice quiet. Sometimes the voice with which he answered it did not feel like his own either. He was losing all points of reference, that was the trouble. He straightened his back and pushed his hands back through his hair to clasp at the back of his head, expanding his chest and taking deep slow breaths of cold sharp air.

'Are you practising posing out here?' Van stepped out of the shadows so quietly that Dilandau wondered in a panic whether he had been there watching all along. He managed not to turn with a visible start, and only looked coldly at Van for a moment before turning back to look out at the sky.

'No,' he said sullenly. 'Leave me alone.' He took hold of the railing so his hands would not tremble, and pretended to be very interested in the view. Van surely could not have seen him with his guard down, weary and slumped like anyone else. No-one ever had. He was very careful about the way he presented his image to the world. But here he was in his shirtsleeves; he had let himself slide. What was going wrong with him, making him lose his grip on everyday things like that? He tightened his grip on the metal as if that would help.

'What are you looking at?' Van asked, in a conversational tone.

'Nothing.'

'There's a lot of it out there.' Van came closer. Dilandau would gladly have left, but the other boy was now slightly in the way of the nearest door back inside, and he did not want to have to step around him or take the longer way because of him. He remained where he was and prayed for Van to get bored and go away. He closed his eyes and suppressed a shudder as he stepped right up behind him, and then his eyes flew open again in surprise and panic as Van pressed against his back and put his hands to the railing too, on either side of Dilandau's. He leaned forward to look over Dilandau's shoulder, seeing as nearly as possible what he saw. He rested his chin there quite casually, as though oblivious to how Dilandau had tensed up, to how his breath was now coming in short tight shivers. He felt entirely hemmed in by Van, by the warm oppressive mass of his body and the brushing of his dark hair against Dilandau's pale cheek. He was trapped.

'A lot of nothing,' Van repeated. 'That's what it's like, way up here in heaven.' He put one black-leather hand over Dilandau's. 'Aren't you cold?'

'N-no.' The denial shot out automatically.

'You're shivering.'

Denying that would be pointless. Van could feel how true it was. Dilandau kept silent.

'Maybe you're a little scared.' Van removed his hands from the rail and stepped back a little, although not far enough to let Dilandau move away from the edge. He remained frozen, staring out at the clouds, but he distinctly heard the sound of a zip being unfastened, and the heavy, leathery rustle of Van taking off his jacket. It dropped to the floor, one of its shoulder-plates making a clang against the metal. Dilandau caught his breath at the sound. He blinked rapidly, wishing to see through the back of his own head, to know what Van was doing back there. And then Van stepped close again and he could hardly think for panic. The arms on either side of his were covered only by pale-honey skin; they were wiry thin but the shapes of muscles were distinct.

'It is kind of scary, isn't it?' Van said. He was speaking very quietly; higher volume was not necessary when his lips were so close to Dilandau's ear. 'So very high up, and knowing that all that keeps us up here is those magic rocks. Can you really trust magic, I always wonder? Magic that you don't understand? If you have none of your own, you're always at the sorcerers' mercy.' He covered Dilandau's hands with his own again, and slid them gently up over his wrists and forearms, a soft one-way stroke towards the body. His breath was a small warm zephyr against Dilandau's temple; the greater wind of the world was knife-cold. The gentleness of the movement bewildered Dilandau. He had been ready for force, for pain. It threw him off his guard a little, not in the sense of relaxing, but of not knowing what to brace himself against.

'We're angels, you and I,' Van murmured, 'up above the world. It's a special position - I know you feel that. We have the freedom of the air in those marvellous flying machines. We can fly without wings.' His hands slid on upwards, tracing the tense rise of Dilandau's biceps, then slipped away back to his shoulderblades. 'I can feel where your wings would be, if you had them.' The hands re-emerged from under Dilandau's arms, meeting over his chest, flattening his linen shirt against his goosebumped skin, and gliding warmly downward. 'And I can feel your heart beat, you mortal angel.' Now he embraced Dilandau around his waist, holding him tightly. Dilandau gazed down at his arms in bewilderment.

He really wants me. I was only mocking him, but it's true. Good grief. I'm really not used to that from males. What's wrong with him, to treat me as he has if that's how he feels? He released his grip on the safety bar and put his hands to Van's arms, uncertain whether he was going to try to pry them apart.

'But what would you do without your shiny red guymelef?' Van still held him, but he seemed to shift his footing, take up a new stance. 'Dilandau, angels and demons are so close. And sometimes an angel falls.'

It happened too fast to stop, and yet every movement was distinct in Dilandau's perceptions; how Van suddenly heaved him upward, released one arm from his waist and caught his leg to swing him over the barrier; how he threw him bodily into empty air.

And then he was falling, so fast he could not believe it, head downward, then heels, whipped over and over by the currents of the air, arms and legs spreadeagled and flailing, his voice torn from his throat by the cold wind so that he could only feel himself screaming. He knew as surely as he had ever known anything that he was about to die, and it turned out that you had plenty of time to think about it after all.

Something more material than the shredding wisps of white cloud shot through his peripheral vision and he hit the ground with a boneshaking whack. Dying did not hurt much at all. With his eyes screwed shut, he could not even feel any injury, although he did not feel disembodied. It felt as though he was gently rising now, going to heaven, he supposed. Real heaven, where he would have peace. There was warmth around him, warmth and pressure.

There was also cold wind in his hair, whistling in his ears, and the drag of gravity on his body had not stopped, it was only being impeded by a stronger force. Dilandau opened his eyes.

He could feel his body rising because he was being carried upward, still very much alive, in the arms of Van Fanel. It was hard to hear anything through the wind, but he could feel through Van's chest that he was breathing hard, panting with effort as he…

Dilandau's eyes widened, trying to take in something unreal.

… as he flew, beating mighty white feathered wings that sprouted from his back. His shirt was hanging in tatters.

They were climbing back towards the floating fortress. The impact he had felt had been when Van caught him. He had thrown him to his death and then saved him.

He caught Van's eye and found himself falling into fiery darkness. He could not look any longer; it was too terrifying to keep his eyes open when there was so much nothing above and below them. Dilandau shut his eyes again and ducked his head against Van's labouring shoulder.

After a long time they landed on the metal catwalk again, Van dropping to his knees as Dilandau crumpled under him, arms clinging around the winged boy's neck, blind and gasping. His mind was so full of fear that there was no room for thought at all; he could not even tell that he was out of danger and unlock his arms.

Van waited, watching him. After a moment, he adjusted his hold around Dilandau's body, one arm encircling his back and the other hand cradling the back of his neck. He bent his head and whispered in his right ear, 'Dilandau, you can calm down now. You're all right.' And, because it was right in front of him and he suddenly felt tempted, he briefly brushed his lips against the scar.

Dilandau's eyes flicked open as though he had been switched on. He stared at Van with wild, dark red eyes, still breathing as if he had run a race. Sweat was breaking out all over him, but at least it was warm, not the sickly cold sweat he knew too well. Van still had wings. That was not some kind of near-death hallucination.

'You're a demon,' he managed to say, pulling back his hands reflexively. 'I knew it, I knew it. What do you want?'

'A little, easy thing,' Van said. He was not whispering in Dilandau's ear now, but looking into his eyes, bending close enough to his face for the breath of his words to break against Dilandau's lips. 'I want you to admit who's really in charge. I want you to admit you know your master.' Closer still; it was not exactly a kiss but the tip of his tongue traced the course of Dilandau's lower lip. 'I want you to say you know you can't stop me… whatever I want to do…'

'Never!'  Dilandau screamed it in his face, trying to blast him with sound. 'I'll never - I'll never- get off me, you bastard!' He kicked wildly and knocked one of Van's legs from under him, rolled and pushed and found himself straddling the boy's body, looking down at his startled face; he hauled back and slapped across that face as hard as he could, first with his right arm, then with his left. He was preparing to strike again when Van, a livid red handprint on his left cheek and a white one blushing to red on his right, seized both his arms and shoved him away so that he tumbled against the safety railing. He grabbed the rail and pulled himself up into a half-crouch, gasping, expecting to be blindsided before he could prepare himself, but Van was crouching there looking pained.

'You bent it right back under me,' he moaned; it took Dilandau a moment to realise he meant one of his wings.

'Serves you right for sticking it out in the first place,' he said pointlessly, and scrambled for the door. Van did not give chase, but he could not slow down; he pounded along the corridors looking for any place that offered a haven, and hurtled through a door marked 'Toilets.' There were two more doors inside that and by mistake he took the one labelled 'Female'; fortunately there was no-one inside and he was able to slam into a cubicle and drop onto the seat, fighting for breath.

Actually, he thought, it might have been a good move to come in here; most of the Vione personnel were men or boys, and there were only a few women's toilets. It was one of the places Van would be least likely to search for him. He straightened up a little and looked around the cubicle with a trace of curiosity, just wondering whether women's toilets were in any mysterious way different from men's. Everything looked the same except for a blue bin behind the toilet itself, the use of which he did not care to enquire about. Dilandau slumped down again, leaning against the cistern, with his hands over his face. It was catching up with him exactly what had happened.

'Fu-uuuuuck,' he moaned. 'Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.'

How could I leave myself open like that? Why didn't I figure out what he was going to do? Thinking he was trying to make a pass at me… well, it still feels like he was. Maybe that's how demons do it. Scare you half to death and then fuck you the rest of the way.

He shivered, remembering the heat of Van's body and the flame of his tongue. What would he have done to me if I hadn't fought back? But I did. Oh, hell yes I did, I fought back. His heart was still thumping at panic speed, but his breathing was getting back to normal, and he felt able to open his eyes and raise his head, taking stock of his situation. He had nearly died but he was not hurt at all; his body felt fine.

Actually, it felt surprisingly good. Perhaps it was just the adrenaline backwash of having passed through total terror and survived, he was all warm and tingly.

Well, what do you know. I'm getting hard… I was starting to think it'd never happen again. He fumbled for his zipper to release himself, and gazed down with deep admiration.

'Hello, darling,' he whispered, stroking up the length of his warm waking erection with the tips of his fingers, just tickling to begin with. 'You want me to love you again?'

The stall door was locked. To hell with anyone who came in. This was the first untroubled pleasure he had had in days.

Van made his way back to his room rather quickly and guiltily; as he had drawn in his wings the last shreds of his shirt had fallen off and he felt peculiar and conspicuous wearing his jacket over bare skin. He had a strange ache in his shoulder, from the pull on the attached muscle as his wing had bent back, he supposed; he hadn't realised that the feeling would continue after the wings were gone.

It had all been so strange; he hadn't known what he would do next from one moment to the other. He had gone to the catwalk intending to try to sneak in another little practise flight and seen Dilandau standing there, so alone, so vulnerable, and somehow the whole thing just rose up unbidden in his mind, each step revealing itself to him as he went. Getting that close to him, holding him prisoner that way, had been so exciting that he had been surprised at how steady his voice and his hands were. Scaring Dilandau with sex worked so brilliantly; it only came second to throwing him off the fortress because, well, it would be hard to see how anything could beat that. He had gotten in his flying practice and brought Dilandau that precious bit closer to submission. All right, so he had flared up at the last minute, but that had been sheer desperation, not proper willpower. Fighting him hand to hand had been… I just wish I'd had my wings back in already, so it could have gone on longer. So I could have beaten him back down and felt him under me, and made him call me master…

He closed the door of his quarters and leaned back against it. He was hot and sweaty, partly from exertion and partly because the moisture of Dilandau's skin had rubbed off on him in the scuffle. A nice shower, a clean shirt, and he would go in to dinner and look at Dilandau in a way that said Wait for next time. You haven't beaten me by a long shot. It sent a new flush of warmth through him to imagine how Dilandau would react. Not only warmth; growth, hardening, heat.

All right. All right, so there is some sex in it, in this little game I'm playing with him. It doesn't mean I'm going to give him anything. It certainly doesn’t mean he's got any power over me. The opposite. It's having power over him that gets me up like this, not him, surely. It's not like getting excited and flustered with Celena. This is something stronger and fiercer.

He glanced in the mirror before he stepped into the shower and found that, although the slaps had not left bruises, there were three little red scratches on his left cheekbone where Dilandau's nails must have caught him in passing. He stood looking at them for a long moment.

So that's his mark on me… maybe I could have got something out of that. Gone to Folken with my shirt all torn and my face scratched, look brother, look how Dilandau assaulted me… no, I want to beat him myself, no need to play that card. It's not in his hand either. There's no way he'd admit what happened. Our little secret.

In the shower, with the warm water playing on his skin, stinging the scratches on his face, he experimented with gently touching himself with soapy fingers. Guilty pleasure came as easily as a thick lather, and he found that, thankfully, he did not really need to be gentle; it was so hard to be gentle. He leaned back against the tiled wall whimpering with delight.

Clean and dirty at the same time…oh, yes…

This was such a new feeling for him, the power of arousing and satisfying himself, the relief of giving way to his dammed emotions and experiencing them to the full. To begin with he had been thinking of nothing in particular, only concentrating on touch, but then Celena rose up in his mind, lips red and sweet with berry juice, and he took and tasted and devoured her, his imagined actions growing both more confident and more forceful as he surrendered self-mastery, and somehow when he reached this phase it was Dilandau's body he wanted to picture, Dilandau's body he wanted to touch and taste, Dilandau's body he wanted to drive himself into, discharge himself into, overrun and conquer with the force of what he felt. In a blind, rushing moment, everything gathered and focused at some central depth, his slipping grip on the heart-beating heat in his hands tightened desperately, he half-choked and cried out breathlessly as every sensation of pleasure exploded.

The intensity of it all shocked him a little. He was left panting in the wake of it, still experiencing little shivers of bliss, staring at his hands, at the white streak in his palm being washed away by falling water. His legs felt weak; his back was still pressed to the wall and he sank down slowly, sliding into a sitting position in which he could go limp without falling and hurting himself.

'My goodness,' he said aloud, and then started to laugh at the weakness of such an utterance as a response to what he had just felt. 'Oh, God…' He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and lazily turned his face up to the shower spray.

That's what they don't want you to do? What they don't want you to feel? Why? He's right, it's wonderful… better than dreams… can everyone feel like that? Why in the world couldn't I get into that feeling with Celena? It would have been… actually, maybe it would have scared her. Or hurt her. The way I was thinking… I wouldn't have been very gentle. It's a lot easier to imagine being that rough with Dilandau, I wouldn't feel bad about it, so I suppose… oh, I don't understand. When I told Folken I didn't feel that way about him I think I thought that was true. But other times I've felt… I don't know. I can't seem to remember it all at the same time. The first time I saw him, he got on my nerves, I just wanted to wipe that look off his face, so sure of himself, so aware of how perfect he was, looking at me and my brother like we should think he was perfect too. Is that even enough to explain how strongly I felt, straight away? I've never wanted to break someone like this. All my feelings are so much stronger since Folken… since I decided… since I've been here. Is it part of growing up? Or has Dilandau just triggered something in me that I didn't know was there?

Do I want it to be like something in that book? He thought of the things he had read, the strange, fascinating acts those dirty boys performed on one another, tried to imagine how it would feel if he could somehow make Dilandau take his dragon in his mouth, suck it and stroke it… he'd probably just bite me, not safe. But… but I like thinking about it… or doing it to him… some way he couldn't stop me… he'd be so mad and so humiliated if I could make him come. And spit it back in his face… and… and kiss him through it…I want to kiss him properly, and make him take it. That's the thing… I don't want to force him while he's fighting. I want him to give up and beg me. I want to take him to the point where he doesn't want to resist me any more, where he knows he can't, where he knows we are going to do it and nothing in the world can stop it happening any more than I could stop myself coming just now. That's all I want… for him to be mine, and for him to know it.

That's a pretty big 'all,' of course.

Chapter Text

Chesta was trying not to fall asleep himself while he waited for the others to drop off. He had thought that thinking over the events of the day would help with this, since they had certainly been confusing and worrying, but his brain kept telling him 'No, not interested, I'd rather sleep.' Still, he persisted; he had a pretty good incentive to stay awake.

There was something up with Dilandau-sama and Van-sama, that much was obvious. He wondered if it would be diplomatic to ask Folken what he had actually said to his brother. When Van had been so quiet and unobtrusive after lunch Chesta had felt very hopeful that he might be going to change his tune altogether; he was no longer so naïve as to hope that he and Dilandau-sama might become friends, but at least they could settle to an armed truce. But what was all that at dinner?

Dilandau had seemed all right when he came back from his little walk alone; in fact he had been strangely cheerful, although he was jittery and inattentive. He noticed his jacket lying on the end of his bed and put it on casually, leaving it unzipped, then wandered around the dormitory starting conversations with people and walking off without finishing them. It was odd, but at least he was coming out of his shell. He seemed unworried about going to dinner. As soon as Van had entered the mess hall, though, he had seemed to want to hide. He bent over his tray and started eating faster as if planning a quick getaway. Van had collected his dinner and taken it to an empty place at the end of the table, but instead of sitting down, he had left the tray on the table and walked back to the seat Dilandau occupied. Chesta had been sitting next to him; Dilandau did not look up, but Chesta did, trying to speak to Van without using words, to say Please just go away. You've done enough. Give him a break for one meal at least. He couldn't even catch his eye; he was only looking at Dilandau.

Van put his hand on Dilandau's shoulder, and he froze with his spoon in his mouth. Although he did not move his head, his eyes rolled in Van's direction as though they were pulled by invisible threads. Van leaned down, cupped one hand around Dilandau's right ear, and began to whisper, so quietly that Chesta, sitting in the next chair to Dilandau’s left, could not make out what he was saying. Whatever it was made Dilandau's eyes widen and his cheeks redden; then his face became set and waxy, as though he was trying to hold back from any visible reaction. Chesta, watching closely, thought that he blinked more often than he normally would, and his right eye twitched once, but otherwise he did a good job of appearing unmoved. Van seemed to whisper for a long time before reaching some conclusion; whatever it was, it broke Dilandau’s composure enough to make him give a small gasp; not much more than a short sharp inhalation. He looked furious with himself for letting that much slip.

Van straightened up and walked away, looking well pleased with himself; he did not speak to anyone else, but sat down and started eating. Dilandau sat motionless a moment more, then Chesta saw him swallow; he had been holding the same bit of food in his mouth the whole time. Somehow that bothered him even more. Dilandau-sama, afraid to swallow?

‘What was that all about, Dilandau-sama?’ he asked in an undertone.

‘Nothing,’ said Dilandau hoarsely. He wiped at his ear. ‘Nothing.’

‘If – if he was threatening you…’

‘Shut up.’ Dilandau spoke quietly, unusually for him, but his tone was emphatic. His eyelid twitched again. ‘Just shut up about it, Chesta, he isn’t your problem.’ The quietness unnerved Chesta further, but he could not think of anything he could do.

‘If I can help you in any way at all, please tell me straight away,’ he said, although it felt hopeless.

‘Of course you can’t help me,’ said Dilandau bitterly. ‘Forget about it, Chesta, just go along in your happy little mushroom-head world.’

Hurt by the rebuff, Chesta did not try to mention it again. But he could not forget about it. What does he mean, mushroom-head? he thought inconsequentially. That was still niggling at him as he lay in bed, waiting. He had gotten into a habit of seeing the routine of evening as an enjoyable countdown, because every stage passed brought him closer to Folken, but when everything was so tense and strange that did not help much. It really did bother him that Dilandau-sama apparently thought he was blithely oblivious to what was going on; that Dilandau-sama seemed not even to be conscious of his devotion and concern. Firstly, he had to admit that he resented being written off that way, and secondly, more importantly, if Dilandau-sama did not realise that Chesta of all people was deeply worried about him, he must feel terribly alone with his problem, alone with Van. And there was nothing he would let Chesta do, nothing of which he believed him capable.

Does everyone just think I’m a mushroom-head who’s incapable of being unusual or interesting or unexpected in any way? he wondered mournfully. And why mushroom? Folken doesn’t think of me that way, anyway. He sees the real me and he loves me. I just wish he’d let me know the real him so I could love him too. I’m sure I would. My Folken-sama… one reason why I started to love him was because he saw me, and thought I was special. Dreamily, he traced his fingertips along the side of his face, mimicking the way Folken touched him before they kissed. And oh, the way he kisses me… as though my mouth tastes delicious… as though he’s soooo hungry… sometimes he bites my lip, but only if he’s getting carried away, and he always stops himself. He’s always careful. I want him to kiss me as though he’s not afraid of leaving a mark. I want him to make love to me without holding anything back. I’m sure I could take it. I want all of him, good and bad.

Of course, right now I’ll settle for what I can get.

The dormitory was quiet now; the only sound he could distinguish was soft, slow breathing. No-one snored, mainly because they had been trained out of it by Dilandau-sama. Anyone who had snored when he arrived either woke up struggling for breath with a pillow pressed over his face – or in a couple of cases had passed out and needed artificial respiration. When Dilandau-sama felt like having a joke he would sometimes say that was what had gone wrong with Guimel; too long without oxygen to the brain. The thing was, it had been Dilandau-sama who had resuscitated him, who had fought for his life while the rest of them stared and fluttered in horror, and when he came to, had rolled him on his side and rubbed his back until he was breathing steadily and had calmed down. Then he had pulled him up by his pajama lapels, stared into his face and said ‘Don’t ever make me do that to you again. Got it?’ He shook Guimel. ‘Got it?’

‘Got it,’ said Guimel. ‘Dilandau-sama,’ he added, just in time. That had been the second night, when they were all still learning the rules. Dilandau-sama had ordered them all back to bed, saying they had no excuse to be up; but Chesta had watched from his pillow, and he had sat on the edge of his bed watching Guimel, who slept next to him at the time, right through the night – or at least up until Chesta fell asleep. He counted that as one of the most important, certainly most memorable, nights of his life.

Well, come on boy, make this one memorable as well. I think they’re all dead to the world. Chesta slipped out of bed as silently as he could; even the bedstead didn’t creak. He was getting good at this now. He left the covers pushed back, so it would look as though he had just stepped out for a moment and was coming back soon, and started to pad towards the locker-room door. He was halfway out into the gangway when a sleepy voice stopped him.

‘Chess, where you going?’

Chesta swallowed his heart again (at least, it felt that way) and turned to see Dalet half-sitting up in bed, blinking at him and pushing his bangs off his forehead.

‘I’m just going to the toilet,’ he whispered. ‘Did I wake you up?’

‘Not really,’ Dalet grumbled. ‘I can’t sleep. Can’t stop my brain. I was just sort of drowsing, and then you moved and I snapped back awake.’

‘I know,’ Chesta said, still in a whisper. ‘I think everyone’s jumpy. I’m not feeling the best myself. Just lie back down and you’ll be asleep in no time.’

‘Yes, Nanny,’ said Dalet, sounding amused at Chesta’s soothing tone. He settled back in bed.

‘I’m just going to the loo.’

‘Yeah, you said. G’night.’

‘Good night.’ Chesta waited a few heartbeats, then made his way to the door without further incident. Nothing like that had happened before, and it had nearly thrown him. But it was no big deal, he told himself as he slipped through to the training hall. Dalet had sounded pretty sleepy; he would probably be out like a light by now. He might not even remember the conversation; sometimes if people talked to you when you were half asleep it seemed like a dream afterwards. And there was nothing remotely suspicious about going to the toilet at night. Everyone had to go sometime. He felt less worried about it as he drew nearer Folken’s door. And then he was through, and in Folken’s arms, and he knew he would be completely taken care of.

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Pen behind your ear. You’re busy tonight too, aren’t you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Folken. ‘I shouldn’t have been. A lot of reports were delayed today; there were mishaps, misunderstandings, you name it. I didn’t get the information I needed until late this afternoon and I’m still working through everything.’

‘Then it’s not your fault, so don’t be sorry.’ Chesta kissed him softly on the chin.

‘I can’t help feeling that I’m missing something somewhere,’ Folken said, almost to himself. ‘Something I’m getting wrong. I thought I was controlling all factors.’

‘Folken-sama,’ Chesta said sternly, ‘you can’t control everything. Sometimes things happen for reasons that have nothing to do with you. I know it’s hard to believe, but there it is.’ He paused, with an admonitory finger raised, looking around Folken to the work stacked on the desk. ‘That looks as though it’ll take as long as the other night.’ He made a peevish face.

‘Nearly,’ said Folken, with a rueful smile.

‘Do you mind if I hop straight into bed instead of sitting up? I’ll probably just doze off again. And you can come and wake me up when you’re ready.’ He tried to smother a yawn as he spoke, but it inflated the middle of the last sentence.

‘You really are tired, my poor pet. Go on, but kiss me goodnight first.’

Chesta fell asleep with the feeling of a kiss on his lips, and woke to another. With his eyes still closed he reached up to put his arms around Folken’s neck and draw him down closer. He felt much more rested than he had expected; still sluggish, because he was just waking up, but not so painfully tired as before. Just a catnap must have been enough.

‘Good morning,’ Folken whispered in his ear.

‘Are you being funny, like calling one a.m. morning?’

‘No… four thirty… your usual wake-up call. Don’t you want to wake up? Can’t I see those pretty eyes today?’

They blinked open and Chesta stared at Folken. ‘You let me sleep all the way through?’

‘Well, you looked so comfortable, and I thought it would be nice for you. I know you’re getting worn out. You’re only human. It won’t always be like this, I promise. Do you feel better for having a few hours’ decent sleep?’ Folken propped himself up on one elbow, head resting on his hand, and looked down at Chesta fondly.

‘I – I do, but it isn’t fair to you.’

‘I have to sleep too. I am at least half human too, you know. It probably did me a world of good.’

‘Well – well, is it really worth it, my coming here, if we don’t…?’ Chesta trailed off; Folken looked hurt. ‘I don’t mean I don’t think it’s worth it if you don’t ride me, that’s not it at all. I mean is it worth it for you.’

‘Sweetest Chesta, how can it be worthwhile for you and not for me? Just to have you here with me is a luxury.’ Folken kissed him on the forehead, then the mouth, a gentle, nuzzling sort of kiss, loving, tempted, but not demanding.

‘Well,’ said Chesta decisively, ‘there’s still lots of time before I have to go. Do you want to get in the shower, or stay here?’ He sat up, pulling his nightshirt off over his head.

‘You don’t have to,’ Folken said uncertainly.

‘Look at me. I want to.’ Chesta sat back on his heels, legs apart, putting himself on display for his lover. He always rather enjoyed doing that; it made him feel so wicked.

‘But I don’t want to exhaust you. It would be selfish to make unfair demands. I should think of your health.’ Folken seemed to be trying to convince himself.

‘This is for my health. You can’t get me this excited and then stop.’ Chesta flung himself down on top of Folken and kissed him deeply. ‘My balls’ll turn blue,’ he said as he surfaced for air.

Folken laughed softly. ‘I happen to know that isn’t true,’ he said.

‘I thought it was.’

‘It’s not. You have to learn quite a lot of biology to be a sorcerer. You can bet that I looked up everything that related to my own anatomy.’

‘There goes my argument, then,’ said Chesta, sounding dismayed. ‘I don’t know what I’m talking about.’

‘Don’t worry, I find you very persuasive anyway.’ Folken gave him a gentle, lingering kiss. ‘I want you to tell me if you can’t cope,’ he said. ‘Understood? I couldn’t forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Chesta said impatiently. ‘Nothing ever happens to me anyway. Everyone thinks I’m boring.’

‘Everyone’s wrong, then.’ Folken leaned back a little, looking at Chesta’s face. ‘You look upset. Did someone call you boring?’

‘I shouldn’t care what people call me,’ Chesta said dismissively. ‘It’s childish.’

‘It’s human,’ Folken said. ‘All right, it’s something you can train yourself out of, but I spent a long time, when I was older than you, still feeling terrible about the things people said behind my back. There was a lot more to be said about me than about you. Do you want to tell me?’

‘I wouldn’t have cared if it was anyone else,’ Chesta said, ‘but it was Dilandau-sama.’

‘Not him again,’ said Folken wearily.

‘He called me a mushroom-head,’ Chesta said sulkily. He put his head down on Folken’s chest for comfort, and felt the slight tremor of amusement.

‘Did he? I think that’s rather sweet. My little button mushroom.’ Folken stroked Chesta’s smooth blond cap of hair.

‘Oh, don’t, I hate it.’ Chesta raised his head, aggrieved. ‘Why am I a mushroom-head? It reminds me of what my father used to say when he was reading the paper, about the government, “they must think we’re mushrooms, because they keep us in the dark and feed us bullshit.” And then my mother would tell him not to say things like that in front of me,’ he finished lamely.

He pulled away and sat up, drawing his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around them, pouting. Folken kept silent for a moment. He knew from personnel records that Chesta’s parents were dead (the slim file labelled 'Caravel, C.' had become a treasure of his), but they had never talked about it. It was the first time Chesta had mentioned them, and he was not sure whether that was because he found it painful to talk about them, or because he seldom thought of them any more. He was not sure it was his place to say anything about them. Something else about what Chesta had said concerned him too.

‘Do you feel you’re being treated that way?’ he asked. ‘Kept in the dark?’

‘No,’ said Chesta, looking puzzled by him. ‘I only remembered because Dilandau-sama said mushroom. It was a word-association thing. Mum used to say Dad’s foul mouth and subversive talk would be a bad influence on me,’ he went on, smiling, ‘but I guess I turned out bad enough without his help. It’s just that mushroom-head isn’t a very flattering thing to be called, is it.’

‘He might have been being affectionate, in his odd little way.’

‘That isn’t his odd little way. What happened was, I could see he was upset, and I asked him if I could help. “Of course you can’t help,” he said, “just go on in your happy little mushroom-head world.” Like I didn’t understand anything. How can he think I’d be happy when he’s upset?’

Don’t I make you happy? Folken wanted to ask. Instead he asked ‘What was he upset about?’

Chesta looked uneasy. ‘Van-sama.’

‘Still? I talked to him at lunchtime. I think I sorted some things out for him. He should get less aggressive.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Chesta. ‘I mean, he hasn’t done anything aggressive, but he said something to him and I could see it shook him up.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I don’t know, he was whispering.’ Chesta dropped back on the pillows and frowned at the ceiling. ‘Did he say anything about how he feels about Dilandau-sama? I still don’t understand that.’

‘I don’t think Van understands it himself. Put it this way, there is something happening there, but I wouldn’t call it an attraction exactly. It’s not so much that he’s really interested in Dilandau, as far as I can see, as that he’s simply feeling rather hormonal and overcharged at the moment, and needs an outlet for it.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Well, I told him to masturbate more.’

‘Are you joking?’ Chesta turned his head to stare at Folken.

‘No, I thought that would help. It’ll get it out of his system. He wasn’t doing it because he thought it was bad for him. Now, well, he’ll satisfy himself and he should be able to relax a bit. You’re looking as though you’re not sure I’m right.’

‘Well, of course you must be, you know more about it than I do,’ Chesta said. ‘But… I was just thinking… you and I have sex, right? And every time we do makes me want to do it more. It gets you further into my system. I always want more.’

‘It isn’t the same thing,’ Folken said, ‘although thank you. It’s quite a different situation.’

‘Well, you can see that, but do you know if he can?’ Chesta looked worried. ‘And – look, did you really say “masturbate more”?’

‘Well, not that exact phrase, but the word was used. Was that a mistake?’

‘Most people don’t say “masturbate”.’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to tell my brother to wank. It sounds dreadful,’ Folken said defensively. He gave Chesta a troubled look. ‘Am I being strange?’

‘You’re being oddly prim, considering the context,’ Chesta said. ‘You know, like you do.’ He spoke carefully, not wanting to give offence.

‘Oh, I don’t. I’ll prove it. You’re right, there’s lots of time left. I’ll suck your cock, I’ll lick your asshole, I’ll take you from behind and – stop giggling, I’m trying,’ he protested.

‘But it sounds so funny when you, of all people, try to talk dirty.’ Chesta tried to hide his smile behind his hand. ‘I think you’re really more of a “little dragon” person. It’s all right, you’re probably a good influence on me, language-wise.’

‘I just feel stupid now,’ said Folken, embarrassed.

‘You, the biggest genius in Zaibach? Never. Come on, Your Velvet Hardness.’

Chesta was just lifting the covers to get back into his own bed when a voice spoke quietly behind him.

‘That’s the longest I’ve seen anyone take to go to the toilet.’

He looked over his shoulder wildly and found Dalet propped up on one elbow in bed, looking at him with one eyebrow raised ironically.

‘What do you mean?’ he hissed back.

‘You’ve been out of bed all night. Where were you really?’

‘No I wasn’t. I came back. You were asleep already.’

‘Um, no. Because, when you went off to the loo, I looked at my alarm clock as I lay down and thought “oh God, it’s only eleven-forty five, will I never get to sleep.” And I woke up again, later, and thought “what time is it now?” and it was three-ten or something ungodly like that, and since I’d woken up enough to look at the clock I looked over at your bed and surprise, surprise, you weren’t in it. I wasn’t alert enough to put two and two together, though, I dozed back off. And I woke up again about half an hour ago, still no Chesta in sight, so I thought I’d just lie here and see when you decided to make an appearance. What were you doing all that time?’

‘I fell asleep sitting on the toilet,’ Chesta lied desperately. ‘I’ve only just woken up and come back. I’ve got a seat-print on my bum like you wouldn’t believe. It's embarrassing so I didn't want to say.’

‘Oh,’ said Dalet. ‘I suppose that explains it.’ Chesta relaxed. ‘Except why did you come back in through the corridor door?’

‘Come on,’ he said, sitting up, but still whispering very quietly so as to wake no-one, ‘admit it. There’s something going on with you. You’ve changed. You’re a lot ballsier than you were. You do things and say things you’d never have thought of before. Before what, I want to know?’

‘Well, you’ve changed too,’ Chesta said, stalling. ‘Why’s that?’

Dalet shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Do you know what it feels like? Like Dilandau casts a spell on all of us.’

‘Dilandau-sama,’ Chesta whispered fiercely.

‘Whatever. And when he went away, it was like it wore off me, bit by bit. I started seeing things clearer, and asking a lot of questions about why things are the way they are. Whether the people at the top deserve to be there. Why Dilandau-sama’s such a god to us. I haven’t got it cracked yet, but I keep wondering all the time. Once I wouldn’t ever have thought of it. And you, you’ve got it even stronger than me. You do things I’d never dare to; I just think things and sometimes say them, but you do things. The earring, and sneaking out at night, and having a secret life – you’re amazing. What’s really going on, Chess?’

Chesta stared at him, astonished. This wasn’t an accusation. Dalet was looking at him with pure admiration. He thought this was thrilling. He would not accept some boringly plausible story. Something in what he said gave Chesta an idea.

‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ he said solemnly.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m a secret agent.’ It sounded silly to him even as he said it, but Dalet’s face lit up.

‘Like a spy?’

‘Ssh! No, not exactly. I’m just – look – you know the Strategos? It all started when I went to see him.’

‘It did start about then!’ Dalet agreed excitedly, quick to put the pieces together.

‘Well, he’s chosen me to do some… special assignments for him. I honestly can’t tell you any more, Dalet, it’s need-to-know. I shouldn’t have said this much.’

‘But I do need to know! I’ll go crazy if you don’t fill me in on the rest of it. Come on, Chess, please. I won’t tell anyone.’ Dalet clasped his hands and made an exaggerated begging face.

Chesta put his hands to his head wearily. He didn’t have his story planned. Suddenly, with a vague sense of alarm, he felt a slight, warm leakage from his rear. It happened, sometimes, of course; it had just never happened in such a situation before. Cream of Folken, sliding down my leg. Oh God.

‘I have to go to the toilet,’ he said automatically. The blood-temperature trickle was moving down his thigh, heading for the back of his knee. What if he moved and it dripped? What if Dalet saw? He would see if he just stood there and let it run down to the floor.

‘You can’t fob me off with that now.’

‘No, I really do.’ Chesta turned rather stiffly and hurried to the door, walking with buttocks clenched, his mind humming with suppressed panic.

‘Chesta!’ Dalet hissed after him, but he was through the door and into a cubicle, hoisting up his nightshirt around his waist and gathering a handful of toilet paper to mop up the incriminating evidence. He heard feet padding across the dormitory floor and hastily shut and locked the door. He had never been quite so embarrassed in his life.

‘Chesta, you in there?’ He could see Dalet’s feet through the gap under the cubicle door.

Oh, don’t talk to me when I’m doing this. ‘Go back to bed, Dalet, you’ll wake everyone up.’ At least he had gotten himself cleaned up.

‘I won’t if we’re in here and we talk quietly. You can’t just leave me hanging like this! You’re doing secret missions for the Strategos. It’s amazing. Why’d he pick you?’ To Chesta’s surprise, there was no insulting emphasis on the you.

‘Well…’ he said, slowly, lowering himself onto the toilet seat so that any further leakage would go where it could do no harm, ‘it was, um, because of the initiative I showed, going to see him by myself like that.’

‘Oh, I wish I’d thought of it!’ Dalet said. ‘So he just offered it to you?’

‘Yes,’ said Chesta, warming to the theme. The nice part was, he could tell a lot of the truth in disguise. ‘I guess he just thought I had the special qualities he needed for this.’

‘What does the Strategos want you to do in your nightshirt?’

For a moment Chesta thought he was sprung, and then he realised Dalet was just curious.

‘Of course I don’t actually do it in my nightshirt. I go there in my nightshirt, and change when I get there. Into suitable gear for the job.’

‘What are you actually doing?’

‘You know I can’t tell you.’

‘Is it something to do with the secret catgirls? Or is that just a rumour?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ Chesta replied. He had a feeling that was going to be a useful line.

‘That means it is, right? I mean, they’re real?’

‘My lips are sealed.’ If only my ass was. Ow, no, that’d be awful.

‘Could we swap lives, please?’

‘No. I like this one.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ said Dalet wistfully. ‘It must feel great to know what’s really going on. And knowing the Strategos chose you, that he trusts you with that… he’s one of the ones I do respect. He is just… well, you know he’s one of the greatest inventors ever, don’t you? He's got a great mind.’

‘Of course I do. I admire that.’ And I, of course, get to appreciate his body, too.

‘And you’re right under him, is that right?’

‘Uh, sometimes.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Well, I don’t work with him directly every night,’ Chesta said. Whoops. Needed a little fib there.

‘But you do sometimes? That must be amazing. You’re really getting to know him, I guess.’

‘You’re really making the word amazing work hard, you know,’ Chesta said with some amusement. ‘I thought you thought he was spooky and cadaverous.’

‘I was just emphasising why I didn’t think you would have gone to see him,’ Dalet said apologetically, ‘but I can see I was all wrong about you. Do you guys only talk about mission things, or other things too?’

‘I didn’t know you were such a fan of his,’ Chesta said. He half wished he could see Dalet’s face; he sounded so impressed. Then again, he wasn’t sure he liked someone else being so impressed by Folken.

‘Well, I’ve always been interested in how our melefs work,’ Dalet explained, ‘and I think that’s what I really want to do, the kind of design work he does. Really know how things work inside, and build those fantastic machines. And you’re getting the opportunity to learn from him, you lucky bugger. Who do you have to sleep with to get a job like that?’

‘Dalet!’ Chesta was startled. He was sticking close to the truth himself, but Dalet seemed to keep accidentally stumbling on it. To his own surprise, he was blushing.

‘Kidding, kidding. Although, hey, are you getting any catgirl action? A little pussy?’

‘No! I wouldn’t be allowed to. This is really important stuff, Dalet, we can’t kid around. You’ve got to understand it’s serious. You can’t talk about it to anyone, okay? And I can’t talk about it any more to you, I could actually be putting you in danger.’

‘Okay,’ said Dalet, obediently. ‘I hear and obey, oh voice from the toilet. Are you ever coming out of there, or are you nesting?’

‘Coming out,’ said Chesta. The danger seemed to be past. He stood up, flushed the toilet, and opened the door. Dalet was leaning against the wall by the washbasins, looking at him with bright-eyed enthusiasm at odds with his sleep-rumpled appearance. He always just slept in his undershirt and shorts from the day before, and his bangs were all pressed to one side. He was really quite cute like that, not trying to be poised as he did during the day, Chesta thought, and instantly felt guilty.

‘It’s actually kind of nice telling someone a bit about it,’ Chesta said as he washed his hands.

‘I bet. It’s no fun having something like that if you’ve got no-one to show it off to, is it?’ Dalet reached over to the peg on the wall and handed Chesta a towel to dry his hands. Chesta looked at it in surprise.

‘You don’t have to do that for me,’ he said.

‘Oh, don’t be weird. As long as I’m not calling you Chesta-sama it’s not a big deal.’

‘You wouldn’t, would you?’

‘Hell no. You wouldn’t want me to, would you?’

‘Hell no.’ Chesta paused thoughtfully. ‘Just so long as you don’t call me mushroom-head, I’m happy.’

‘Mushroom-head?’

‘That’s what Dilandau-sama called me.’

‘He’s got a nerve, hasn’t he? Okay, you’ve got a bowlcut, but I wouldn’t say you look like a mushroom.’

‘That’s what it’s about? My haircut? I thought he was saying I had mush for brains. God, I feel better knowing that!’ Chesta laughed out loud with relief.

‘Ssh, you’ll wake everyone up.’

‘Right. Right. We’d better sneak back.’

‘After you, mister secret agent.’

Chapter Text

Animal magnet thug

Pulls me out of myself

I need a dragonslayer

Who can save me from myself

- 'Dirty Creature,' Split Enz

The night that Chesta had slept away in Folken's bed, Dilandau had been afraid he would pass without sleeping at all.

He was feeling feverish again, which made him horribly afraid that his illness, whatever it was, was coming back. He most certainly did not want to go back to the infirmary. That would be like giving in, or running away, or admitting - at any rate, it was something he did not wish to do. He felt as though admitting the possibility of a relapse would make it come true.

It's all because of him. He makes me feel this way. He turned his pillow over to get the cool side under his cheek, and pressed his face against it, wanting the coolness to spread into the warm line of the scar, and his burning ear. I'm probably allergic to him or something. Allergic to demon spit. Dirty bastard.

He had to keep thinking quite forcefully and emphatically, because any time he let the words of his own thoughts die down, the words Van had whispered to him came roaring back up like fresh fire. The worst part was that of course now he could think of retorts; now it was far too late.

-Today was the beginning of the end for you, my Dilandau. You've begun your fall, and it's a fall into my arms.

-No! You won't take me by surprise again. Shut up. He had been unable to say that. He had almost been unable to breathe.

-I'm so excited about this… knowing exactly how I'm going to conquer you, to break you, and knowing that in the end you'll come to me and surrender.

-I never will.

-I can't stop thinking about what it's going to be like. Can you? Can you feel us getting closer? Can you feel your heart beating in my mark on you?

-Leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone. I don't want to think what you make me think. He was astonished at himself wanting to plead.

-It's inevitable, my Dilandau. The two of us… we draw each other. I am the earth and you are my pale moon. I am the sun and you are a planet that will one day be drawn into my fire.

-No… for God's sake, stop the bad poetry. You must have written this out before you said it. If only he had had a sarcastic thought like that to protect him, but his mind had shut down.

-There's no hurry. I enjoy the anticipation. It will happen. You'll be mine. I just thought you'd like to know. He had stopped speaking; for a moment Dilandau had felt only the warm tickle of his breath, buzzing in his ear. He thought it was over, thought he would be released in a second; and then felt the hot tip of Van's tongue touch his earlobe and trace a moist trail up along the rim of his ear. He had disgraced himself; the sound of his breathing had betrayed his shock. Van heard it. By the same token, his breathing changed tellingly, there was such a satisfied little sigh as he straightened and turned away. No-one but Dilandau would have noticed.

And he had had to sit there for the rest of dinnertime trying to behave normally, if he could remember how. Chesta had said some damn' fool thing about helping him, as if there were a thing he could do, as if he had any idea what was going on, an innocent like him. And as if there were any way in hell Dilandau would admit weakness and ask for help! From an inferior, a subordinate, someone for whom he was responsible. The only person to whom he could possibly have complained was the Strategos, who of course wouldn't give a shit because it was his precious brother doing it, so that was as much use as a jelly sword - and in any case if he were going to complain he would have had to do it much earlier. He had let it get too far now to be able to stand the humiliation of involving anyone else.

As soon as they had returned to the dormitory he had gone into the locker room and scrubbed at his ear with soap and water until it felt raw; then he had found some alcohol swabs in the first-aid box, so he had tried to sterilise it. He couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that any trace of Van on his person gave his enemy power somehow. Nor could he rid himself of the suspicion that all he had achieved was to give himself a very sore ear. After all, what did a lick matter compared with the scar? It was feeling tender again. It seemed to him that it was only healed on the surface, that inside it was still a fresh wound. Sometimes he felt it prickling, itching, burning afresh. Sometimes he felt the cold blade slit his skin and the first blood well. Most often, he felt that sliding serpent kiss.

However, he was asleep before Chesta made his exit for the night. The day had left him exhausted; that was one of its few compensations. The other joy had deserted him again. He slept without dreaming and woke very reluctantly.

Dilandau was by nature a morning person. He was fully alert immediately after waking up, and typically bounded out of bed eager to face the challenges of the day, with very little sympathy for anyone still yawning and rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. Just lately, that had changed, and this morning he was more strongly inclined than ever to lurk behind the safety of his red curtains, pulling the covers over his head to shut out all light, and try to pretend he did not know it was morning, the rising bell was ringing and the day had to begin. The sensation of dread was overwhelming; the feeling that no matter what he did, something he would hate would happen to him today.

It doesn’t have to happen. It doesn’t. Stay with the Dragonslayers. Don’t go anywhere by yourself. If you see him, don’t speak to him. Don’t listen to anything he says. Don’t let him draw you into a fight. Don’t, above all don’t let him touch you. He has too much power if he touches you. These were not calming or reassuring thoughts. He lay there holding the quilt bunched under his chin, listening to the sounds of the Dragonslayers getting up and dressing. They were doing it without him telling them to, of course, but it was unaccustomed for them not to have him chivvying them along – no, of course it wasn’t. They had had all that time while he was sick to get used to that. They had managed without him.

Footsteps approached his bed and hesitated before the curtains. The lights were on out in the dormitory now, and he could see a shadow, but the ripples of the material made the shape indistinct; he could not guess who it was.

‘Dilandau-sama?’ It was Migel.’Did you hear the rising bell?’

‘Yes,’ he said. A pause.

‘Um – Dilandau-sama, I thought it sounded like you said something, but I’m not sure.’

‘I said yes, I heard it. I’m not deaf.’

‘Oh.’ Another pause. ‘All right. Um, just checking. Sorry, Dilandau-sama.’ The footsteps retreated.

I’ve got to get up. He can’t imprison me here. What am I going to do, lie here all day?

Oh my God. What if I did, and while they were all out, he came and found me. No, no, I mustn’t let that happen. He scrambled out of bed and got dressed in a hurry, making up for lost time. When he had brushed his hair, he couldn’t find his diadem. What had he done with it? When was the last time he had had it on?

This is ridiculous, I always wear it, I put it on first thing in the morning every day, I take it off last thing at night and I put it here hooked over the headboard. Where it isn’t. Panic rose up in him; it was such a small thing, but if he was falling apart on small things he could not trust himself with great things. He threw back the curtains.

‘Who’s taken my diadem?’ he demanded. They were all ready, all dressed; they stood in a cluster in the gangway, anxiously watching his bed. Such a useless little mob of staring faces.

‘No-one’s taken it, Dilandau-sama,’ Chesta said hesitantly.

‘Then where the fuck is it? I haven’t put it anywhere. So why can’t I find it if someone hasn’t taken it? How do you explain that?’

‘I found it yesterday afternoon on the floor,’ Chesta explained, in the tones of one hoping to defuse a bomb. ‘I don’t know how it got there, but I put it away in your footlocker. I’m sorry if that wasn’t the right place, Dilandau-sama, but I thought it would be safe there.’

Dilandau stared at him, still breathing rapidly. ‘Who put it on the floor, then?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, Dilandau-sama, I only found it.’

‘My diadem, on the floor,’ Dilandau said, turning to the footlocker and throwing it open. It was right there on top of his trenchcoat. ‘My diadem on the dirty floor. Every pretty thing I’ve got is getting soiled and spoiled and ruined.’ He grabbed a fold of the curtains and tried to polish the diadem, fumbling it in his agitation. He gave up and rammed it on, discovering from the cold of the metal how hot his face had become.

‘Well,’ he said brightly, turning back to the Dragonslayers, ‘I hope like hell it isn’t going to be that sort of day!’

It was worse than that. Van was everywhere, all the time, and he never did anything. That was the torture of it. Dilandau would see him, and tell himself not to look. But then he had to look, to see what Van was doing. He felt even less safe otherwise. He would take his look and then glance away quickly. But sooner or later, Van would always look up just as he was looking, and their eyes would meet, and Van would give him the smallest, slightest smile, holding him for whole seconds before he broke the link and looked away. It was terrible. He would not say anything; he would not approach Dilandau. The only respite came at lunchtime, when he went to eat with his double-damned brother.

In the afternoon it got worse still. Now when Dilandau sneaked a look at Van he would find Van already watching him. Smiling. He would never have thought that one day he would hate for someone to look at him. He had always loved the attention of admiring eyes. But these eyes, these dark shining eyes, deep reddish-brown rimmed in obsidian black, seemed to see everything he had ever wanted to hide. Under their gaze, he felt the prints of every time Van had touched him were visible and glowing as though his hands had been dipped in luminous ink. He hardly knew what he said or did that day. If he had had no dreams last night, he was in a febrile dream now, the kind that makes you afraid to go back to sleep.

In the end, Dilandau was not a person built for endurance. He had a low threshold of boredom, a short span of attention and an even shorter fuse. It had often seemed to him in the past that he lived an accelerated life, experiencing the world at a more rapid, more intense rate than ordinary people. It was part of his superiority. Now it was his weakness. He could not believe how fast this treatment was wearing him down, how desperate it made him for any way to get out of the situation. His nerve was stretching painfully thin and he found himself watching and waiting for the moment when it would break.

It came as he was taking off his jacket, beginning to undress for bed. Perhaps it was the sound of the zipper, evoking a moment on that catwalk; perhaps it was nothing but the fact that he had reached his limit. The torment did not build to a climax; in fact he had seen the last of Van for the night at dinner, and he had had the whole of silent study period to wind down – or rather to continue to agonise and fulminate. It was quite simple when it came; there was a moment of exquisite tension and then, snap, he was out on the other side and feeling perfectly calm, because now he knew exactly what he was going to do.

He should have thought of it earlier and saved himself a lot of worry. It was simple. It was the only way out bar suicide, which he would not have contemplated for a second. There might be a certain appropriateness to a life lived entirely unto oneself being ended by one’s own hands, but poetic justice held little appeal for Dilandau. No. This was the way. He had been resisting seeing it because it was so terrible, but oddly, once you had accepted it a lot of the terror went away and you were able to be quite sensible about it, even to think that perhaps you had gotten a little hysterical and it would not be so bad after all. At least it was his decision.

He looked at the jacket in his hands, considering, and put it back on, zipping it up firmly and fastening the hook-and-eye at the neck. He took stock of himself, running through a mental checklist of uniform and grooming. He had held it together that way today. He was in good form. Yes. Still beautiful. I still make this uniform look so damn’ good. He will see that. He would have to be blind not to.

He looked around the room at the Dragonslayers preparing for bed. They looked very young to him, very childish; look at Chesta and Dalet, for God’s sake, giggling about something together and trying to be quiet; look at Guimel yawning his head off, look at all those boys stripped down to nightclothes, soft and defenceless and with no idea of what he was about to face. Lucky idiots.

He headed for the door without explanation. Someone was bound to ask, and they did.

‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said. Of course they wanted to know where.

'Just out for a while,' he replied, hearing the echo in his mind. 'I want some time by myself.'

The door closed behind him, and he was out in a shadowy corridor. He straightened his belt, checked that his overskirt was not twisted to the side, that his hair was smooth, that he looked as near to perfect as he still could. Then he set out.

It was not far to walk. He knocked at the door.

‘Who is it?’ Van called from within.

‘It’s me,’ Dilandau said. There was a silence.

‘Come in,’ said Van.

Dilandau opened the door and stepped into Van’s quarters. The place was much as he remembered it, except that now it looked inhabited. Van’s dressing-gown was draped over the back of the desk chair, the gorgeous red dragon worked on its back displayed to Dilandau’s envious eyes. His uniform jacket, overskirt and shinguards were in a disorderly heap on top of the footlocker. Van was lying on the bed, apparently reading; he lay there on his stomach with his back to Dilandau, as if he were not even there. He did not give the impression of even having looked up.

‘I’ve come to surrender,’ said Dilandau. He nearly choked on the words.

‘You’ve what?’ said Van, eyes still on his book.

‘Come to surrender. To let you do what you want. If that’s the only way to make you stop this campaign of harassment and sabotage, that’s what I’ll do. I really don’t care that much any more. I just can’t be bothered to live with that shit. So here I am. I give myself up to you.’

‘What do you mean?’ Van asked idly.

‘You know damn’ well what I mean.’

‘But I want to hear you say it.’ Dilandau could see only the side of his face, but he seemed to have that smile.

‘I mean… I mean I know you want me. You want to fuck me.’ If you want me to spell it out, I’ll spell it out as bluntly as I know how. ‘So come on. Here I am. All for you.’ He unzipped his jacket and let it slide off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor. He unfastened his belt, his overskirt, let them drop with a strange feeling of finality. Should I strip off completely? Is he going to want to do that for me? What I’m showing him is enough for starters.

‘Terribly sorry,’ Van said, and turned a page. ‘Not interested.’

‘What?’ Dilandau stood in a little pile of cast outer garments and stared at Van in pure disbelief. ‘Are you serious? I, Dilandau Albatou, am standing here telling you that I’m willing to have sex with you, and you say not interested?’

Van rolled halfway over and gave him a look that was half bored, half amused. ‘You’re willing?’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry, that’s just not good enough. I was looking for desperate. Go away and come back when you’re ready.’

‘Then I’ll never come back,’ said Dilandau. ‘This is the only chance you get.’

‘So you say,’ said Van, rolling the rest of the way onto his back, and returning his attention to the book, holding it open above his face. ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

‘You cannot tell me you don’t want me.’ This was the final insult, worse than Dilandau could have anticipated. ‘I know you do. All that shit you talked about being drawn together, the way you groped me, the way you licked me, you want me and you know it!’ He stamped over to the bed. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you, damn it!’

Van looked at him, smiled, and looked back at the book.

‘VAN!’

‘That’s the first time you’ve called me by name,’ Van said contentedly. ‘You always refused to do it before. Don’t think I didn’t notice. I wanted to hear you say my name so much; not just to repeat what I told you but to call my name of your own accord. But it’s still not perfect. I want to be Van-sama to you.’

‘You want so many things that you’ll never get,’ Dilandau snarled. He leapt onto the bed, swiping the book to one side and planting a hand either side of Van’s head on the pillow. ‘I know you want me,’ he repeated, looking down between their bodies. ‘I can see you want me. You’re rock hard.’ It was true; the shape of it was clearly visible, straining against the leather of Van’s pants.

‘That’s not for you,’ said Van, sounding amused again. ‘That’s been up for a few minutes now. I was kind of rubbing against the bed. Tell me, did you ever read this book? It’s pretty good. Let me read you the part that reminds me of you.’

‘Shut up,’ Dilandau said through set teeth, ‘just shut up.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Van, shrugging. ‘I’ll read in my head.’ He raised the book again, between his face and Dilandau’s, blocking him off.

‘You can’t ignore me,’ Dilandau said. ‘You can’t refuse me. You cannot refuse me! I made up my mind to come to you and I am not going away without – without…’ He lost track of the sentence. It was unbearable to be ignored, it goaded him so intensely that he could not even think of how reluctant he had been. There was a point to prove now. He stared down between their bodies, at that insolent bulge in the black leather. He reached down and touched it, felt the pressure of it, felt it surge to new hardness at his touch. Van did not say anything, remaining hidden behind his book, but Dilandau caught the tiny change in the pitch of his breathing.

I will get a reaction out of you. You will do what you’re supposed to. He shuffled backwards on hands and knees and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Van’s trousers, gently dragging them down a little. He bent his head and touched his tongue softly to the pale-honey skin of Van’s abdomen, just under his navel, and traced a slow circle around it. Still no reaction beyond the subtle shift in breathing. He pressed the tip of his tongue into the navel itself; sometimes pressure there could produce interesting sensations. If Van felt anything of the kind, he gave no sign.

Dilandau released the waistband, letting it ride back up, then slowly, deliberately unfastened the top button. The tab of the zip was between his thumb and finger; he drew it gently towards him, up over the straining peak, rising higher as the restraint on it was released. Still moving slowly, he spread the front of the trousers as wide open as possible. Van’s erection was now covered only by regulation cotton undershorts, the flap in the front closed by a button under serious pressure. It looks bigger than I was expecting. What’s that supposed to mean? When did I ever think enough about it to have an expectation?

Of course it was not the first time he had seen another boy naked, or even the first time he had seen another naked and aroused; everyone had times when the body lacked a sense of occasion, and when you shared a shower with fifteen other boys every day of your life you could not avoid glimpses. But what he had seen had never been personally relevant before, except in the case of his own body. There could be nothing more familiar and comfortable than that. This felt utterly strange, alien; frightening and fascinating.

Maybe he’s different. Maybe that’s why Folken gave him his own room and shower, so we wouldn’t see something abnormal, something demonic about his body. Or maybe of course he has feathers instead of hair down there. I want to see. He lifted the waistband of Van's shorts and tugged them down. For some reason he closed his eyes as he did. So I'll see the whole thing at once when I look. Like unwrapping a present, when you want it to be a surprise… He opened his eyes, wetting his lips as he did so.

There was nothing visibly abnormal about what he saw, the thick, engorged shaft rising from a nest of coal-black curls, soft skin flushed deep red shading to warm magenta at the head, a delicate bluish vein visible near the base. He was almost taken aback at how familiar it seemed; the only feature he could really pick on as strange was that Van was uncircumcised. That gives me something new to play with… you're going to find out that if there's one thing I know how to do, it's play with your dick. The feeling of being on his own ground was increasing, warming and encouraging him. He knew exactly what to do; hadn't he done it to himself a hundred times over? Just a gentle touch first, fingertips slowly tracing, emphasising length, soft flattery mimicking awe.

Van breathed in sharply; Dilandau flicked his gaze upward and found Van still determinedly staring at his book, although the set look of his face indicated that he was completely unable to concentrate on anything but the way he was being touched. Dilandau softly wrapped his hand around the warm, swollen tip of his cock and drew it slowly, draggingly down, watching every moment, quietly triumphing as Van bit his lip, closing his eyes for just an instant, fighting for self-control.

Don't even bother. In the end this is you surrendering, not me. Didn't realise what you were letting yourself in for, did you? He slid his hand back up, exploring the possibilities the foreskin presented, working it back and forth with his thumb and forefinger. Van's eyes were staying closed now, and the hand holding the book was trembling. You like this. You love it. You'll admit it soon enough. At the tip of Van's cock, a little bead of some clear, oily liquid had emerged and was glistening in the lamplight. Dilandau's first thought was to spread it with his thumb, rubbing round and round over the tingling head, but somehow as he bent nearer to see what he was doing he changed his mind; he pursed his lips and softly blew. The glistening drop trembled and broke; Van's whole body trembled and he failed to suppress a soft 'Aah!' of almost panicky desire.

After all, I can do things to you that I could never do to myself, that I just don't have the reach to do… things we can only dream about separately… He kissed the tip of it, as lightly as he could, but lingering to hear Van moan. I wish I knew exactly what you're feeling. I'll just have to find out later. What he was about to do seemed so obviously the thing to do next that it did not even strike him as strange. He still wanted to tease, to flatter; with his head low, breathing heavily against the achingly sensitive skin, he rolled the rigid shaft against his cheekbone, rubbing like a cat, closing his eyes as though in bliss. Because it's so beautiful, because you are so sexy that I just can't control myself, I've got to worship you this way. Right? You like me telling you that? Damn' right you do. I can hear you whimpering. He drew back, holding it firmly in his hand, and blew softly again, directing the stream of warm air in an agonising sweet tickle around and over the throbbing head. He paused, waiting, poised with his lips parted and his eyes upturned.

You've got to look. Just look now; stop trying to pretend you don't care. As though he heard Dilandau's thoughts, Van slowly lowered the book to his side and opened his eyes, revealing worlds of desire and fear, gazing down at the unnervingly beautiful boy who gazed back with the teasing hint of a smile, and then gently took the head of his cock in his mouth, wet it with his hot, flickering tongue and sucked as though he meant to draw out Van's soul.

Van threw back his head and cried out wordlessly, his voice cracking with the intensity of what he felt. This was so exactly what he had fantasised about, and it was a million times better than he had been able to imagine with only his own hands to guide him. Dilandau was drawing him in deeper, now, squeezing with his hand as his tongue wetly rasped up and down, then seemed to coil right round. I can see his lips… right there against my cock… can see him taking me in, all the way in… God, how can he do this without gagging? Oh… pulling back again… yes, yes, round the tip, go faster, don't stop, don't stop!

Dilandau would not have stopped for anything; he was too swept up by the power he felt. Van's right hand came fumbling down and settled on top of his head, holding him down, fingers spreading and tangling amid his fine hair; the other hand was up by Van's face, half-covering his mouth, as though he were still trying to smother the little panting cries that burst out freely. Unconsciously, he was moving his hips, a gentle rhythmic rocking no amount of willpower could stop.

That’s it… that’s it… give in, Van. Oh, I should have known I’d be good at this. Let’s see him look down on me after this. A slight moan escaped Dilandau’s own throat; despite his pleasurable feeling of power, of control – working the joystick, ha – his own arousal was rising above what he could master. Why am I getting off on this so much? Because it’s like doing it to myself? Or because… because it’s so exciting to see him so excited, by me. Something like that. How far can I take him? How deep? With some difficulty in breathing, he succeeded in easing the shaft past the point of his gag reflex, down his throat, swallowing hard; Van felt the undulating squeeze of muscle, on top of wet suction, soft friction; felt himself embedded and embraced in heated pleasure.

‘Oh God… Dilandau… my Dilandau…’ Both hands caressing, gripping the boy’s head, hips pumping now, unable to hold back.

A smothered cry of protest rose in Dilandau’s throat; this was too much, too rough, he was choking. He tried to pull back but Van’s fingers were locked in his hair and the movement only caused him pain. He pushed against Van’s body with both hands but he could not disengage himself.

‘Oh yes… yes…’

Stop! You can’t use me like this, I’m not in charge any more, you’re scaring me! I can’t breathe! You’re going to burst my throat… let me go… please stop! Tears sprang out in his eyes; he could no longer suck or swallow but Van was thrusting harder, lost in bliss, feeling it build, feeling it burn. His back was arched, his head thrown back, his mouth open as he panted for air, feeling his heart beat so fast and hard it frightened and exhilarated him.

Yes… yes… I’m going to come, going to come going to come… Abruptly he jerked back, withdrawing entirely; Dilandau, half-choked, gasped for breath, felt a wash of bewildered relief, and then Van ejaculated full in his face. Sticky heat spattered over his lips and cheek; all he could do was gasp. His throat hurt; he thought he might be sick. He could not think how it had changed from him in charge, in control, to him being used and humiliated, but there it was. Van’s clenched fingers had relaxed. He was able to pull away and roll on his back, staring up at the ceiling, blinking away tears, swallowing hard.

Beside him, Van was moaning softly, whispering ‘Oh yes, yes, perfect, perfect…’

I’m glad you thought so. It wasn’t so fucking great for me. He sat up, unsteadily, pushing his hair back from his forehead, and took off his diadem, wiping the sweat back into his hairline, seeking to collect himself. If nothing else, that was one of the most intense experiences of my life. I made him lose it totally. He licked his lips nervously and almost gagged again at the unaccustomed taste of Van’s come. But… but it’s working. I’m winning. I’m winning! He turned to look at Van, enjoying the sight of him red-cheeked and dewed with sweat, a dreaming look on his face as he wound down from the high of orgasm.

‘How was that, Van?’ he asked softly.

‘So good…’ Van sighed fervently. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked up at Dilandau, blinking to focus. ‘Well, thank you,’ he said, with a half-smile. ‘Very, very good. Perfect end to a perfect day, hmm?’

‘Not the end,’ Dilandau said. ‘We’re not finished.’

‘You may not be,’ Van said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pulling up his shorts in one movement, ‘but I am. Check your face. You’ve got that peaches-and-cream look.’

‘Wh-what?’

‘You can wash up at the sink before you go, if you want,’ Van said. He was standing now, zipping up his pants, his manner casual and relaxed. ‘I’m guessing you don’t want your boys to know what you got up to tonight. I mean, I think it suits you, but you might not want everyone to see you that way.’

‘You’re joking. Are you trying to say that after that we’re not going to have sex?’ Dilandau was outraged. ‘After I did that for you, you’re not going to give me a damn’ thing?’

‘I didn’t ask you to,’ Van said, shrugging. He hooked his thumbs in his waistband and looked at Dilandau quite indifferently. ‘And I don’t know what you expect, after making me come like that. I’m not a machine who’ll just get it up whenever you want it. And if you think I’m going to let you put it in, you really don’t understand what’s going on.’

‘You bastard,’ Dilandau breathed, ‘you total bastard. You can’t treat me that way.’ He had moved to sit on the side of the bed, and he was gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles ached.

‘Hey,’ Van said, ‘I never asked you to do it. It was your choice. Don’t complain if you don’t like how it turned out.’

Dilandau rose and approached him, barely containing his rage. He could not endure this; nor could he understand how he could feel such hatred and such desire for the same person. If he had been ruled only by what his body so desperately wanted he would already have been on his knees and begging; it was pride that kept him on his feet. How could Van be so unmoved, stand there as though Dilandau was nothing special, as though he had done nothing remarkable, nothing for which many people would have given their eye teeth? He launched himself at Van, ready to bear him to the ground.

They fell hard and rolled, and Dilandau felt a sharp pain in his temple as Van got a grip on his hair and twisted; it was the right side of his head and it pulled directly on his tender scar. He could not take that; it struck directly at his weakest point with a psychological force far fiercer than the mere physical discomfort. He released his hold on Van.

‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘please let go.’

‘No,’ said Van, breathlessly. ‘No, boy, you can’t say that now.’ He rose to his knees, pulling Dilandau up with him. ‘Oh, look at you… your eyes… you have incredible eyes… shining full of tears.’

‘There wouldn’t be tears if you’d stop twisting my bloody hair,’ Dilandau groaned. In fact, it did not really hurt any more, but Van was still holding him tightly.

‘What I love,’ Van said, ‘is that you’re still so excited.’ His free hand was suddenly pressing up between Dilandau’s thighs, giving a firm squeeze to his aching, trapped erection. ‘You want it so much.’

‘So stop being… so cruel…’

‘You want me to be nice?’

‘I don’t know if you can do nice.’

‘What do you want, though? Little kiss?’ Van leaned forward, almost swayed toward Dilandau, offering his lips and drawing teasingly back as Dilandau tried to take them.

‘Van…’

‘Wait.’

Dilandau closed his eyes in desperation, unable to keep looking on such temptation when he was prevented from acting upon it. He could feel Van leaning closer, feel the moist heat of his breath, and then, when he could bear it no longer, came the kiss. He felt himself melt into it. This was right; this was the tribute he merited. I can’t believe I’ve gone down on him before ever kissing him. I can’t believe this is how I’m getting my first kisses… from another person that is… it’s not like how I kiss my hands… and stroke the kisses onto my body… he can really kiss me like that, and I think now it’s going to happen. He just has to jerk me around a little first, it’s how he is… which is hateful, but I can cope… He closed his arms around Van’s waist and drew him nearer. These were messy, clumsy kisses, both boys hoping to make up in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience.

Finally, Dilandau thought, it feels like he's treating me as I deserve, as though he has some idea of the privilege of all this. Van rose to his feet, drawing Dilandau up with him, and began to back him across the room.

To the bed, right? No? Up against the wall… well, that's all right, I asked you to stop being cruel but you don't exactly have to be gentle. What's it going to be like? What are you going to do, demon king?

Van reached behind himself to disengage Dilandau's hands, pushing his arms down at his sides.

'Do you want me to turn round?' Dilandau whispered. He was not sure how this should go, and presumed Van knew what he was doing. His eyes were once more closed in anticipation; it seemed to make the sense of touch more intense.

'No, just stay where you are.' Van moved his hand from the side of Dilandau's head, snaking round behind him, seeming to embrace; and suddenly the wall behind Dilandau was gone. Van had slid open the door behind him.

'Good night, Dilandau,' he said, and shoved him out to fall on his ass. Dilandau landed in a heap against the opposite corridor wall, his eyes blinking open just in time to see the door slap closed. He sat there staring open-mouthed. This could not be real. None of it, it had to be some bizarre wet dream shading into a nightmare. He was not sitting here in a corridor, half undressed, his abused throat aching, with smears of another person's most intimate fluids on his face, beginning to feel clammy in the cold recirculated air. Any minute now he would wake up in his warm red bed.

The door slid open again and Van stood there, outlined against the light from within. It's another stupid tease. He'll ask me back in, say he was just trying to scare me, throw me and then catch me - well, I won't put up with it this time, he's got to start treating me a lot better if he -

'Catch,' said Van crisply, and threw Dilandau's cast-off clothes at him, a heavy leather armful. 'Bye!' he added, and the door slammed again. Dilandau scrambled to his feet, throwing the clothes to the ground, and clawed at the handle, but Van had locked it from inside now and he could not move it however hard he wrenched. He didn't know the combination for the outer lock, although he gave it one good hard whack with his fist to relieve his feelings. He struck the door again. He wanted to yell out something that would make Van realise exactly what a stupid thing he had done, but he could think of nothing; he only knew how furious, how humiliated he felt, how his whole mind seemed to be one enraged scream. He pushed himself away from the door, spinning across the corridor, and kicked the wall so hard he dented the panelling and hurt his foot. He sank down, crouching on the floor with his arms over his head, and shivered with rage and anguish.

I hate him. I hate him! I hate myself! Stupid, stupid, degraded, dirty, STUPID! In a spasm of self-loathing, he beat himself over the head, tore at his hair, bit his own arm until the sharp pain cut through and brought him to his senses. He stared at the two purple semi-circles of toothmarks on the pale side of his forearm, panting.

Didn't break the skin. I could never really hurt myself like that, could I? Pretty good bite, though. I should've bitten his dick off while I had the chance. Oh, God, I had his dick in my mouth. What in the name of hellfire made me do that? What possessed me? I can still taste it, still feel the shape. My throat hurts! And - and this filth on my face - God, I'll never feel clean again! He fumbled in his pocket, finding, to his huge relief, that at least he had a handkerchief to wipe his face with.

Maybe… maybe I should just have done what he said, washed my face and gone home with some dignity. Would that have been dignity, though? Or would I just be even more his bitch?

He had a sudden mental image, himself bending over the washbasin, Van approaching from behind, ready to - Don't you dare try and make out that would have been better. I - I was lucky. I got away, he didn't fuck me, I'm still true to myself - a little bit, anyway.

-Bullshit, you were ready to go all the way with him. You have no integrity left at all. And he doesn’t even want you that much. There you were practically creaming your pants just because he kissed you, and he can turn his back on you with no trouble.

-Why am I still hard? This is painful. He put his hand between his legs, cautiously, wondering if it was possible to simply release this tension with all his old ease, and with a sinking sensation felt himself lose the erection. He touches it and it's a burning sword, I touch it and it's dead meat. I hate him. I want him. I hate him.

Mechanically, he stuffed his soiled handkerchief back in his pocket, pushed his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, and gathered his belt, sword and overskirt into a bundle. He could not fasten anything properly; his hands had started to shake. Hugging his bundle, his head down, he shuffled back towards the dormitory. Bad mistake. Bad mistake. I don't know why I thought it would make anything better. He's just won again.

Everything was quiet in the dorm. They had all gone to bed, of course, no need to wait up for him. Everything could continue perfectly well without him. He stood in the doorway gazing down the two rows of beds, at the fifteen safe sleepers. He walked slowly to his bed and dropped the bundle on top of his footlocker, then went to the locker room. If he didn't wash his face with hot water and soap, and clean his teeth at least twice before bed, there was no way he would be able to sleep. Gargling might help, too.

Dalet watched him slide the locker room door closed, then rolled over to face Chesta in the next bed.

'I wonder what that was all about?' he whispered. 'Are you going to go now?'

'Not till he's asleep, dummy,' Chesta whispered back. 'Do you think he's all right? He wasn't moving like he usually does. And why would he go out all dressed and come back carrying half his gear?'

'He drops clothes all over the place these days,' Dalet replied. 'He's getting sloppy. It's weird, because he always cared so much about looking good. That scar really is getting to him. Do you think there's anything we could say that'd cheer him up?'

'I thought you were all disenchanted,' Chesta said, frowning. 'I didn't think you cared about him any more.' It was the one thing that made him uncertain about his new friendship with Dalet.

'Of course I care about him,' Dalet said, sounding mildly insulted. 'I don't have to think the sun shines out of him to still… Chess, I'm still loyal. And I don't want him to be miserable. Dilandau-sama's got a way of sharing his misery.' He gave Chesta a half-smile, a glint of white in the dark.

'I wish there was something I could do,' Chesta said wretchedly. 'Some way to take away what's hurting him.'

'Unless your secret-agent training includes ways of miraculously making mean Fanelians and scar tissue vanish,' Dalet said wryly, 'I don’t think you've got much of a hope, beyond being nice to him.' He paused, thoughtfully. 'Unless you think we should have a word with Van-sama or something. Do you think we could tell him to back off?'

'I think we'd make things worse that way. Anyway, Folken has talked to him, and I'm sure he's got the situation under control.'

'Really? It sounds so cool how you just say his name, Folken, like oh, I talk to him every day. Does he tell you lots of stuff like that?'

'I shouldn't've mentioned it. And I meant to say Folken-sama, of course.' I can't believe I slipped up like that! Bite my tongue… 'Now sshh, because Dilandau-sama might come out soon. You should try to go to sleep, it's late and there's no reason for you to wear yourself out staying up too.'

'You ought to ask Folken-sama if you can have some down time during the day to catch up on your sleep,' Dalet suggested. 'If you're doing something so important he ought to give you some privileges - and you'll work better if you're rested, right? Anyway, I don't mind staying up to keep you company.'

'Thanks,' said Chesta, surprised at how touched he was. 'At the moment I don't think that's possible - the down time, I mean. But, you know, he looks after me. He's good to work for.' If only I could tell you how good. I don't think you'd want to hear about the physical side of it, unless you're bent the same way as me, but I wish I could tell someone how loving and kind he can be, just so someone besides me would know, just so everyone wouldn’t look at him the way he knows they do… it hurts him so much… at least you admire him.

'Will you tell me all about it one day?' Dalet asked wistfully. 'Like when the war's over?'

'I really hope I can,' Chesta said. 'I hope I can soon.'

Chapter Text

Part Fifteen

Van had expected that he would drop off into a contented sleep as
soon as he lay down, but it didn't seem to be working that way. He
was still keyed up in some way, imagining and reimagining what had
happened, wondering if it would have been better to do anything
differently. It hadn't been a perfect victory, but it had been
wonderful. He had a peculiar feeling of having been extremely bad and
thoroughly enjoying the awareness of his badness; it was the opposite
of guilt, its mirror image.

I wish I could have seen the look on his face when I came; his
expression when I pushed him out the door was priceless. And…
what he did to me… it was better than I could have hoped for. I
want more. I'll have more. He'll come back, he's got to. I've fucked
with his head too much for him to be able to stay away.

Literally, even. God, he was surprised! He was so sure of
himself, so sure of me. He knows better now. He was
letting the sense-memories come and go freely, drifting from one to
another. I kissed him… really kissed him… I tasted
myself on his lips. He touched his own lips, tickling, tracing
their borders. I want more. And you do too, Dilandau. I can’t
wait, I can’t wait until the time when I can have you any time I
want. Will you come to me willingly? Will you be my sweet bedtime
boy, or will we snatch any opportunity during the day, anywhere we
can be secret for long enough? In the shower, on that walkway, in the
garden… His conscious fantasy was blurring into a dream,
images and impressions pressing upon him with feverish intensity; he
smelled the crushed grass beneath their bodies, his hand closed over
Dilandau’s, he was there. As the pleasure mounted, he
looked up and to his shock found that Celena was sitting nearby and
watching them; his eyes were trapped by her gaze, astonished,
fearful; her mouth dropping a little way open, her hands clasped
nervously under her chin; she spoke his name and everything stopped
with a jolt, dropping him back on the bed where he realised he was
thrusting into the covers wadded between his thighs.

What a mess. He had gone off the boil now and felt a sudden
disgust for the tangle of his bed; he pulled the covers up to
straighten them and heard something clink against the wall. Reaching
down the side of the bed, he found a crescent of metal; Dilandau had
left his diadem here by accident. Van turned it in his hands, then
hesitantly raised it to his forehead.

I never wore a crown before. It doesn’t quite fit; his
head must be a different shape from mine. Loose over the forehead and
tight above the ears. It would give me a headache. He removed it
again and stared at it in the darkness, its gold glinting only
faintly. I never wore a crown… it’s so hard to remember
sometimes that I’m a king. The Vione seems like the only
real world. Serving Folken feels like my real life… as if
everything before was a strange dream, and the people I knew exist
only in my memory… is Merle still real, somewhere?

Is Merle okay? The thought came with a twinge of
discomfort. Of course she is, he told himself hastily.
She’ll be sensible, she’ll stay with Hitomi and Allen
whatshisname and they’ll take care of her. She’ll be
fine.

But she’ll miss me. She’ll worry about me.

She might run away again to try and find me. Anything could
happen to her out on her own. It’s been just us for so long,
orphans together, and she doesn’t know anyone where she is, not
properly, just a short acquaintance… she must be so lonely and
scared… A contraction of pain in the base of his skull, a
lumpy dark red knot pulled tight.

She’ll be fine, she’ll be fine. She’s smart and
tough and - and all alone… I am all alone… no, no, I have
my brother. He’ll know what to do. Folken will know. I just have
to talk to him, it always gets better when I trust him. I’m not
the clever one.

This time the knock came when Folken was just comfortably settled
on the couch, Chesta’s body a warm weight in his lap and his
mouth a melting sweet for him to taste at leisure.

‘Brother?’ Van’s voice came to them quite clearly
from the corridor. ‘Are you there?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Folken muttered under
his breath. ‘How does he know when we’re doing
this?’

‘At least this time you have clothes on,’ Chesta
whispered. ‘I’ll hide.’ He slipped away to the bedroom
as Folken quickly glanced around to make sure nothing incriminating
was on display, kicking a dirty book under the sofa and refastening
the sash of his dressing-gown.

‘Brother?’ Another tap, more hesitant.

‘Van?’ Folken replied, trying to make his voice sound
sleepy. ‘Just a moment. Coming.’ He opened the door, hoping
he looked as if he had just woken and pulled on his robe. Van was in
the corridor in his pajamas and dressing-gown, standing nervously on
one bare foot.

‘Are you all right?’ Folken asked, trying to crush his
impatience and irritation. Being without a little brother for ten
years could make you forget how inconvenient they could be, but it
stole back over him at moments like this.

‘Can I come in?’ Van asked, looking rather pitiful,
vulnerable in the chilly shadows of the corridor, which instantly
made Folken feel guilty.

‘Of course you can. Come on. Van, what’s wrong? You look
upset.’

‘I came because… because… I had a bad dream… I
can’t get back to sleep. I can’t stop thinking of things
that bother me. But I can’t really remember what.
It’s all hazy. I think - I think I was dreaming I was doing
something terrible… I scared myself.’ Van pushed his hands
through his hair, making it stand up in coal-black spikes.

‘Don’t make a porcupine of yourself,’ Folken said
softly, putting his good hand to Van’s head, smoothing the
spikes. ‘Relax now. You’re all right.’

‘I just don’t feel very good,’ Van said.

‘Has anything happened?’ He lowered his hand, just
touching Van’s cheek now.

‘No,’ Van replied, so quickly that Folken was sure he
was lying out of either guilt or fear. ‘I’m just…
lonely, I think. I miss Merle sleeping at the end of my
bed.’

‘Lonely? Do you think you would feel better if you went to
see Celena again?’

Van turned his head away from Folken’s touch, casting his
eyes downward.

‘No,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t think I’d be a
good influence on Celena.’

‘I thought you were very good with her. Just like with Merle.
You have a gift for looking after lost people, Van. The memory of
that, in you, has always inspired me.’

‘I just want to be able to go to sleep. I’ll be tired in
the morning otherwise. I’m - brother, I’m scared. I’m
upset and I can’t remember what it’s about. I just wanted
to talk to you because you always make me feel better.’ To
Folken’s surprise, he swayed forward, resting his forehead
against his brother’s chest, the gesture of a tired child.
Somewhat uncertainly, Folken put his arms around Van, softly patting
his back. He felt the tension go out of Van with a shuddering sigh;
he became a warm, limp, trusting weight against him. He realised,
again with a little surprise, that the boy’s head was much
nearer his shoulder than he had remembered; he must have had quite a
little growth spurt in the short time he had been here.

Of course, I remember that I grew like a weed when I first came
to Zaibach… I was taller than him at fifteen, but even so I shot
up. Perhaps it’s something in the water. He’s already so
different, so changed. What will he become?

‘I feel better,’ Van murmured. ‘I do.’ He
turned his head slightly, resting his cheek against the dull green
silk of Folken’s dressing gown.

‘I’m glad.’ There were three small scabs on
Van’s cheekbone; Folken touched the place gently. ‘What
happened here?’

‘Scratched myself by accident. It was pretty silly.’

‘Oh. Well, I know what that’s like.’

‘Brother?’

‘Hm?’

‘Can I sleep with you tonight?’

Folken blinked, startled. No. That’s not what he means,
surely. Good God, no. This isn’t - I mean - his feelings
aren’t like -

‘Like when I was little,’ Van went on, relieving
Folken’s mind considerably. ‘I could always run to your
room and curl up with you if I didn’t want to be alone, and I
could always go to sleep there, no matter what I was scared of. I
didn’t have Merle to sleep at the end of my bed until after you
were gone - she came because she knew I was lonely.’

‘I really don’t think it would be appropriate,’
Folken said, speaking rather carefully. ‘You’re far too old
now. If you’re having trouble sleeping, I can give you something
to take for that, just something mild to help you relax and drift
off. But there really is no room in my bed for anyone but
me.’

‘A-all right,’ said Van, lifting his head and backing
away. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘There’s no need to be,’ Folken said. ‘Do you
think I never wish I could go back to how I used to be, how things
once were? It’s a natural impulse. But one has to set it aside
and face the way things are.’

‘We can change the way things are,’ Van said,
almost rebelliously.

‘There are some things we can’t change,’ Folken
said softly, raising his steel hand. ‘And some changes are meant
to be. They’re good for us, even if they’re difficult. I
wouldn’t have expected a boy your age to have difficulty with
sleeping alone.’

‘I - I wouldn’t have, I don’t normally, you
know that, I wasn’t…’ Van mumbled, looking ashamed of
himself.

‘I’ll get you that something, shall I?’ He left Van
for a moment, closing the door to the inner room behind him, and
returned with a glass of water and two small blue pills.

‘Swallow these,’ he directed, ‘and head back to
bed, and think of something pleasant and peaceful. If you aren’t
asleep within the hour, you can complain in the morning. All
right?’ He watched as Van took the pills, sipping the remaining
water slowly to spin out the time before he returned to his room
alone. ‘That’s good. Good night, now.’ He guided Van
to the door with an arm about his shoulders.

‘Good night, brother. Thank you. I - I do feel
better.’

‘I’m glad.’ Folken shut the door behind him, quite
firmly, and breathed a sigh of relief. Returning to his bedroom, he
looked around in puzzlement.

‘Chesta, where did you get to? I couldn’t see you when I
came through before.’

‘Under the bed for safe keeping,’ said a muffled voice.
‘What did he want?’

‘A cuddle and a bedtime story.’

‘What, really?’ Chesta put his head out from beneath the
bed, a little frown of disbelief on his face.
‘Van-sama?’

‘It’s probably a good sign,’ said Folken, sitting
down and beckoning him to join him on the bed. ‘My impression is
he’s scared himself with how far he’s gone and he’ll
moderate his behaviour a bit from now on. He’s got that guilty
look he always had as a child, that always meant he’d done

something, we just didn’t know what yet. Now, I
don’t want to think about Van any more. I just want to think
about you.’

‘Am I that interesting?’ Chesta asked with a teasing
smile as he straddled Folken’s lap, linking his arms behind his
head.

‘Of course you’re interesting.’ He stroked the
boy’s downy cheek; he wondered sometimes when Chesta was really
going to begin growing facial hair, and whether it would bother him.
He certainly didn’t mind his pubic hair, unusually soft and the
dark, golden brown colour of honey, but that was rather different.

‘In some ways I know you so very, very well, and in others
we’re barely acquainted. Sometimes I think I wish I’d known
you all your life - but then probably it couldn’t have been like
this, if I’d know you from childhood. I’d always see the
cute little baby boy instead of the rather hot young man.’

‘No no no,’ said Chesta, ‘that would be
awful. Don’t even think it.’ He kissed Folken’s
mouth, softly, gently sucking at his lower lip to awaken a tingling
deep inside, then drew back and gave him one more flirtatious smile
before pulling his nightshirt off over his head, revealing himself
naked.

‘I do want to know you, though. I want you to tell me all
about yourself.’ If I really take the trouble to get to know
you, and love that boy, it’s not so much as if I’m using
you, is it?

‘All about me? Like… what I think about when I’m
alone? How I touch myself?’

‘That might be a start.’ Folken eased himself backwards
on the bed, drawing Chesta down in his arms.

‘You just want to fantasise about me fantasising about
you,’ Chesta smiled.

‘Do you fantasise about me?’

‘Of course I do! You’re my favourite one now.
Nearly my one and only.’

‘Chess… you’d never, um, done anything with anyone
before me, had you?’

‘Unless you count the time Anar Coney kissed me on the cheek
behind the school bike-shed and then lost his nerve, pushed me over
and ran off, no.’

‘So I was the first person to kiss your mouth, and touch your
body? I was the first person to make you come?’

‘Except me, obviously.’ He kissed Folken’s
neck, seeming a little bored with the subject.

‘O-of course.’ A little pause, while Chesta’s lips
warmed his skin. ‘Um - Chesta?’

‘Mm?’

‘What was it like, your first orgasm? I mean… I wish I
could have been the one… will you tell me about
it?’

‘Hmm.’ Chesta raised his head, looking thoughtful.
‘Are we talking about the first time I came as in squirt,
or just the first time I messed with myself and got a really nice
feeling? I can’t tell you about the first time with that because
I did it on and off for ages as a kid, and I can’t honestly
remember the beginning. I mean, you know how a little boy can play
with himself and get all hard and it feels great, but nothing comes
out.’ He snuggled down again, nuzzling against Folken’s
cheek. ‘Did you use to do that?’

‘Well, a bit.’ He paused a moment. ‘I remember when
I was small, I had a nursemaid, who when I couldn’t go to sleep
at night, or if I woke up upset from a bad dream, would give me a
sort of massage all over, and finish up by stroking my stiff little -
very little then - dragon. She was foreign, though I can’t
remember from where, and she told me this was what they always did
for children in her country. She would stroke her hands all over me
until I felt warm and dreamy, and finish it off with - well, a lovely
shiver, and I’d nod off right after that… but as you say,
it wasn’t coming as in squirt.’

‘I never heard of people doing that before. It sounds nice. I
mean, if it’s just stroking the kid off, not making him
do anything else.’

‘Well, I thought it was nice, but my mother came in one
evening unexpectedly to check on me, and she didn’t think so.
That nursemaid was gone the next day. I felt horribly guilty about
it.’

‘Why? None of it was your fault.’

‘Don’t you know I always feel guilty if anything is
wrong around me?’

‘That’s why you’re going to make everything in the
world better,’ Chesta said, giving him a smoochy little kiss on
the cheek. ‘My hero. I’ve never felt guilty about
anything to do with sex.’

‘You lucky little thing.’

‘I can tell you all about the first time I

really came. I was only just thirteen, and living in my
uncle’s house in Wadlen.’

‘That’s such a dismal city. It’s hard to imagine
you there.’

‘Oh, I know, everything’s covered in coal soot, and when
it rains the rain stinks and it stings if it falls on your skin.
‘Orrible. Now, you need to imagine me at thirteen. I looked
about like this, I suppose, just a few centimetres shorter, and I had
only just had that proper growth spurt where, among other things, you
develop a lot down below.’

‘I found it scary when that happened to me. I’d
always thought I knew where I was with my penis and suddenly it was
an oversized stranger.’

‘You’re not oversized, you’re exactly right.
Long and thick and lovely.’

‘Well, it looked oversized to me.’

‘You said penis.’

‘I know, can’t you see me blushing?’

‘You’re so adorably weird. An-yway… I
wasn’t scared, I was pretty fascinated. I really liked how my
body was changing. It just made me feel very sexy to know that I was
getting to be like a real man. I actually used to get hard sometimes
thinking about what was tucked away in my pants, not in a vain, oh my
cock’s so gorgeous kind of way, just thinking about the fact
that I had this body ready for sex.’

‘Thirteen-year-olds are not ready for sex, darling.’

‘Well all right, I wasn’t fully up and running,
but I could feel I was getting there.’

‘Did you know you liked boys back then?’

Chesta frowned thoughtfully. ‘That’s a bit of a funny
point. I just really liked the idea of sex in general. All my
ideas about it were really vague, although I didn’t realise that
at the time. I mean, when I imagined doing it, it was all about what
it would feel like to me, not who I’d be doing it with and what
exactly we’d do. I think I was turned on by boys and

girls - I remember one time a couple of other guys and I found a hole
in a wall that let us look into the girls’ changing room at the
public baths, and taking turns at this hole peeping in at breasts and
bottoms, and being rock hard, but in a way what was getting me
really hot was the fact that we were looking at something sexy
and getting excited together. So I don’t really know. I
was a bit of a funny bunny. I used to get hard in the showers after
PT at school. We always called that a stiffie, and it was kind of a
running joke to see who had a stiffie today, not nastily, just a kind
of friendly teasing, and I was famous for being the one who
always got a stiffie, and - look, I know this is weird
- that used to make me feel special and sexy too.’

‘I bet you were pretty sexy. You’re sure no-one
tried it on?’

‘I promise. Sometimes there was silly giggling and wrestling,
and once, once I was having a tussle with Gem Bass over the
soap and he actually squirted on my leg, but I wasn’t touching
him or anything, it just happened. And I thought that was pretty
nifty, but he was upset, and backed off calling me a fag, and I
pointed out that he was the one who came, and a couple of other guys
backed me up and he started crying. I was afraid they were
going to give him a hard time but I think everyone was so embarrassed
by the crying that they decided to let it go.’

‘I have absolutely no experience of that kind of thing,’

Folken said. ‘A prince doesn’t grow up surrounded by other
boys in that way. I had a few playfellows, but there was never that
kind of thrown-together intimacy. There was always reserve.’

‘Well, you didn’t miss that much, and you and I
can always make up for lost time together.’ Chesta pushed the
front of the dressing-gown all the way open, gazing down at
Folken’s body, the smooth muscular form of his chest and stomach
and the tangle of pale hair surrounding his waking member.
‘Ooh… that is so much hotter than anything I saw in
the school showers.’

‘Don’t get sidetracked, Chess. Tell me the
story…’ He allowed Chesta to trace a curlicue pattern on
his belly with one fingertip, but would not yet let his hand move
lower.

‘Okay… well, I was walking home from school one day, and
there was a cloudburst. It rained buckets, and I dashed into a shop
doorway to try and keep dry, although I was pretty well sprinkled
just in the couple of seconds I was out in it. I stood there watching
these grey sheets of water come down and I knew I would get soaked if
I tried to go home in it, even with my umbrella up. So I thought
I’d go into the shop and have a look round, and stay dry while I
waited for the rain to be over.

‘It turned out to be a second-hand bookshop. I’d never
noticed what it was before because it didn’t have much of a sign
out front, just an anonymous sort of place in a narrow street. It was
a narrow shop, too, but it went back a long way, with millions of
tall dark shelves and a slightly too warm fusty smell and a little
mezzanine with more shelves that you reached by a little
twisty staircase.’

‘Your descriptive talents impress me.’

‘Thank you. I got very good marks for compositions, you know.
It felt a bit like a cave. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside
but me and the man sitting at the cash desk, and when the bell over
the door went ting he looked up and seemed a bit surprised to
see me. But then he just went back to reading his book. So I wandered
around. I climbed up to the mezzanine floor because it was such a
neat staircase. Up there I was right under the roof and I could hear
the rain drumming down. The books weren’t arranged in any way so
a browser could just find something interesting easily. I was
starting to wonder how the place made any sales. Then I noticed that
in the aisle ahead of me someone had left a book open on the floor,
lying face down. I thought I’d be a good boy and pick it up and
find a place on the shelf for it. So I turned it over. Guess what I
saw.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You know The Enchanter? You know that great two-page
colour picture where Milo’s going down on Cani with his cock
dripping and Nyl’s rimming him from behind?’ Chesta was
grinning.

‘Oh my God.’

‘That’s what I thought! I’d never seen anything
like it! I shut the book, I was so surprised. Imagine my
little pink startled face. And then I thought, hot damn, and
opened it up again - got the same page again, by good luck - and I
just stared at it, and really took in what it meant, these
three boys getting it on, and my cock gave such a twitch - I’d
never got so hard so fast. Not that it takes much when you’re
thirteen.’

‘And the Stiffie King,’ Folken teased him.

‘So I sat down and went back to the start of the book, with,
yes, the stiffie of the year, and looked at every single picture -
didn’t bother reading the story yet - and I sat there with the
rain drumming on the roof above me, and my heart pounding in my ears
too, and all I could think was, I want that. I want to be one
of those boys.

‘I’d never seen a book like this before, you understand.
A kid at school had brought in a vaguely raunchy paperback once, and
we all read it and said wow, but the detail, and the fact that
it was all boys and men - it was so new, and so exciting, and I felt
like I’d discovered a hidden world. It was like magic that the
book had been there for me to find. Or it had found me. I could see
the place it had come from on the shelf, and I pulled out the book
next to it, and it was like that too. I couldn’t believe

it. There was this whole shelf, this whole row of
gorgeous dirty books. My hands were shaking a bit, I can tell you. I
couldn’t possibly look through all of them, but I grabbed three
plus The Enchanter, which took care of my pocket-money for the
week, and I went downstairs.

‘I felt really shy about offering up books like that
to buy, but I just had to have them. And I was thinking, well, they
have them in the shop, they must be in the know, they must
understand. The guy looked at the books, and looked at me, and
smiled, and I turned bright pink all over again, but he didn’t
say anything apart from the price until he was putting the books in a
bag for me. Then he said "Would you like to come into the back room?
I’ve got some more stuff I could show a nice boy like you." I
thought that was a bit creepy and said no thank you very
quickly and scampered out of the shop, where fortunately the rain had
just tapered off and stopped or otherwise I’d have got my lovely
treasures very soggy.

‘I hurried home, and let myself in, and ran up to my room and
shut the door and put a chair against it, because I didn’t want
anything to interrupt me, although I don’t think anyone
was home except the staff. This stiffie still hadn’t gone down
and I really needed to do something about it, it was getting
sore. So I sat down on the bed with The Enchanter, and I undid
my pants and let my cock pop out. And I started from the beginning
again… except this time I touched myself… I stroked myself
just like I’m stroking you now.’

A soft groan rose up in Folken’s throat at the first touch,
bringing a delighted smile to Chesta’s lips. ‘You like
this, don’t you? You like hearing about me playing with
myself.’

‘Very much. Keep going.’

‘It felt so good… I was leaning back there, with my legs
apart… imagine me… rubbing and squeezing with this

hand… and this hand cupped round my balls, just rolling
them a little…’

‘Oh God…’

‘And I could see the head of my cock all red and hot…
let me pull back your foreskin, let me see you like that… and I
saw something different from before… I was oozing out just a
little bit of that hot wet oil, that pre-come stuff… like you
are now… and I spread it out over the head of my cock, loving
how wet and slippery it felt… like this… and I was getting
rough now, because it felt so good… I was really jerking…

and I felt like one of those boys, I felt like Milo stroking
off for Nyl in the attic… and I felt the most incredible
shooting rush, and that was it. And I’m lying there…
feeling dizzy… feeling better than I ever have in my
life… and there are these white blobs spattered all over
my tummy and my shirt… and still a little bit oozing out of my
cock… and oh I felt so sexy and naughty and dirty. I
mean… it was just coincidence that that was my first time…

but it felt like that book had triggered something in me, had made me
ready.’

‘I can’t come as fast as a thirteen-year-old… I
need you…’ Folken whispered. Chesta kissed him urgently,
his tongue prodding into his hot mouth.

‘Do it to me… take me…’ Folken rolled him onto
his front, and he raised his bottom eagerly, reaching back to spread
his buttocks apart. His breath escaped in a thin hiss as he felt
himself nudged open with fingertips, probed for a moment, then gently
lubricated, the cool gel making his tender skin tingle, two,
three fingers reaching into his heat and tightness. He bit
back a yelp of pleasure as Folken touched a certain spot inside.

‘And that would be your prostate gland,’ Folken
said. It sounded as if he were smiling. Chesta couldn’t remember
him being this playful before; it was lovely.

‘It’s quite incidental, but you feel very healthy. And
that’s my medical opinion.’ Movement, pressure, stroking,
making him bite his lips, making him tremble. ‘You’re in
great shape.’

‘Oh God… Folken…’

‘Too much?’

‘No! More!’

‘If you want more… you could have my whole

hand… or the dragon?’

‘Dragon. Please, dragon.’

‘Here he comes.’ The warm head against the tight rim,
the instant of pain as he gave way, stretching to take in the long
shaft, so deep, so deep; as he strained backwards their balls
kissed.

‘Oh Chesta…’ Folken’s voice was hoarse in his
own ears. ‘Sweet Chesta…’ He could hear the boy
whimpering with the intensity of it; intensity of pleasure, he’d
been assured several times, not pain. He could feel himself on the
very brink of orgasm now, hardly daring to move. He wanted so much to
draw out the intimacy of their connection, the total embrace. On his
knees, he bent forward to kiss between Chesta’s shoulderblades,
flicking his tongue along the bumps of his spine.

‘Push,’ Chesta whispered.

‘I want to wait just a little bit.’ Reaching under the
boy’s body, his good hand wrapped around his taut cock.
‘Nice?’

‘God… yes…’

‘Do you feel like one of those naughty boys?’

‘Yes…’

Testing his control, he gently moved his hips as he squeezed
Chesta’s cock and pulled his hand down its length, giving and
taking pleasure together.

‘Folken… ride me… ride me hard… I can take
it…’

‘I want to be gentle.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You don’t?’ He pulled back slightly, then slid
himself back in.

‘No… ohh…’ Back again, further out, back in,
smacking home.

‘Sure?’ Slowly out, until only the head of the dragon
was still buried, then a deep swift thrust into the darkness.

‘Aah! Yes! Keep going!’

‘Like this?’

‘YES!’ Chesta gasped, his mouth dry as sand, as
he rammed himself backwards onto Folken’s hardness, feeling a
blissful tension gather in his balls, his bowels, his darkest
depths.

‘Oh God…’ Folken lost control, pounding himself in
again and again, mindless, burning, falling, every muscle and nerve
he possessed straining towards one desperately needed conclusion,
until he came with a shout of joy. Blindly, he slowed his movements,
coming to rest on top of Chesta’s slender body, pressing him
down on the bed. After a long dizzy passage of delight, he became
aware that the boy was straining to breathe, and reluctantly rolled
off. Chesta turned to him immediately, throwing his arms around his
neck and kissing him.

‘Did I make you happy?’ Chesta breathed.

‘So happy.’

‘I need… I need a little bit of help.’ He guided
Folken’s hand down to his cock, still hard and aching for
release.

‘On it.’ He ran a stiff tongue-tip up the underside of
the warm shaft, then gripped it firmly and rolled the head against
the soft centre of his tongue.

‘Ohhh…’ Chesta lifted his hips, quivering,
then let them drop to the bed and pressed his thighs together on the
sides of Folken’s head. His fingers groped amid the softness of
his hair, twisting and clenching, pulling him down. Taking the hint,
Folken swallowed him up, his tongue softly, rhythmically rasping over
the sensitive head as he sucked.

This must be a special type of perversion… loving the
feeling of his… his cock in my mouth so much… and
knowing… knowing soon I’ll taste him, his salty milk,
sucking him dry… He sensed the spasm running through the
boy’s tense body, heard him groan, and felt the thick spurt
against the roof of his mouth, giving him a jolt of emotional
satisfaction that was a ghost of the physical sensation of a minute
ago.

He was still sucking, more gently now, swallowing the last traces
and softly lapping Chesta clean. He eased off and kissed the tip of
it goodbye. Chesta breathed out a drowsy sigh, gradually
relaxing.

‘How was that?’

‘Just perfect,’ he breathed. ‘Thank you.’

‘It really was my pleasure.’ He raised himself on his
hands, looking down with a kind of pride in a job well done at
Chesta’s softening cock, still rosily flushed and wet with his
saliva; at the soft white skin of his inner thighs, spread wide to
admit a lover.

There were traces of blood on the sheet under him.

No. Folken blinked and looked again; the white linen under
Chesta’s soft little buttocks bore blots of red; as the boy
shifted gently he glimpsed a smear of the same red on his skin.

‘Oh God.’

‘Wh’s wrong?’ Chesta asked, lifting his head
sleepily.

‘T-turn over, sweetheart.’

‘Again?’

‘I just need to look at you.’

As he rolled onto his stomach, Chesta looked over his shoulder
anxiously, picking up on the suppressed panic in Folken’s voice.
‘What’s the matter? You sound upset.’

As gently as he could, he parted Chesta’s buttocks; blood and
semen seeped together from the reddened opening of his anus.

‘Oh God, no.’ That thin thread of crimson in the white
was like a savage accusation; looking down at his own body he saw his
skin smeared with dirty brown and guilty red and felt physically
sick.

‘What?’ Chesta craned back and glimpsed the
blood. ‘Wow. You really did ride me hard.’

‘I - I’m sorry, Chesta, I’m so sorry.’

‘Occupational hazard, right?’ said Chesta with a little
grin.

‘This is so wrong.’

‘It doesn’t even hurt that much. I didn’t realise
it was any worse than usual till you started going oh my
God.’

‘I - I have to get you cleaned up, I have to take care of you
- come on. Bathroom. Now, Chesta.’

‘Do we have to?’ Chesta half-whined.
‘I’m so comfortable.’

‘You’re injured!’

‘Folken-sama…’

‘Come on.’ He bundled Chesta out of bed and into the
bathroom, made him stand at the sink, bending forward with legs apart
while he dabbed with cotton wool and antiseptic.

‘Shee-whit - that stings,’ Chesta complained.
‘Be careful - ow!’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I have to try to get
you clean…’

‘It’s an asshole, Folken-sama, I’m not sure it
does clean.’

‘How can you take this so lightly?’ he demanded,
anguished.

‘Why are you taking it so seriously?’ Chesta responded,
looking earnestly puzzled. ‘You did exactly what I wanted and I
loved it. You haven’t upset me at all. You don’t need to be
so sorry. And a minute ago you were really having fun, you’d
loosened up more than I’ve ever seen you do sober. I thought it
was great.’

‘That I got so careless that I hurt you?’

‘I like it rough, you know that,’ Chesta
mumbled sulkily, putting his chin in his hands and pouting at his
mirror image.

‘I can’t cope with this,’ Folken whispered, leaning
his head for a moment against the back of Chesta’s thigh.
‘I can’t.’

‘Even knowing that I don’t mind a bit?’

‘Your not minding my doing something terrible to you
doesn’t make it any less terrible, Chesta. I can’t excuse
myself in that way.’

‘But - but I excuse you, I mean I forgive you - okay?
I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. And if you don’t want to
do it that way any more I understand.’ Turning, he knelt as
Folken was kneeling, and softly touched his face. ‘It’s all
right. I mean, we love each other, right? I’ll be okay.
You’ve done very good first aid. Let’s just go back to
bed.’

‘I don’t know how you can say that,’ Folken said,
shaking his head. ‘I’ve violated you.’

‘Lots of times,’ Chesta said, smiling. ‘I
like it. Remember that!’ He leaned forward and tried to
kiss his lover, although Folken drew back.

‘I’ve hurt you.’

‘Is this the face of a person who minds?’

‘Chesta… has this happened before, and I just
haven’t noticed?’

‘No, it really hasn’t. I’ve had some pains and some
leaks but never a bleed. All right?’

‘It’s so wrong.’

‘Well, think about it. Suppose I were a girl. The first time
we did it you’d have torn me and made me bleed, wouldn’t
you? Would you beat yourself up about that like this?’ He tipped
his head on one side, looking at Folken, and sighed. ‘Probably.
Please - let’s go back to bed.’

‘Let me carry you.’

‘You haven’t broken my legs.’

‘It’ll just make me feel a little better.’

Back in their bed, they nestled together quietly, Folken cradling
Chesta in his arms. He had been forbidden to say anything else about
the incident; Chesta insisted that it was unimportant. He tried to
tell himself that that was so, but it was almost impossible. He had
to try and distract himself with other thoughts, to be relaxed and
contented as Chesta seemed.

‘Chess?’ He touched the boy’s sweat-damp bangs,
stroking them back from his forehead.

‘Mm?’

‘I was just thinking of something you said before. Have you
honestly never felt any shame about sex?’

‘Nope.’

‘Even about being attracted to men?’

‘No. I mean, I really didn’t get that idea clear in my
head until I got that first lot of books. And then I knew for
certain, for ever, I wanted to be with men. There wasn’t any
doubt. And besides the dirty stories, in the back of one of those
books was a written piece… I don’t know if you’ve seen
it yet… but it made such a difference to me. It was a sort of
essay called "A Letter To Young Men," and it was all about what it
meant to be homosexual, that there were lots of people who felt that
way, and how happy we could be, and how careful we’d have to be,
and just - it was like having a kind, sensible big brother sit me
down and explain all about it, so at the end I had no doubts, no
worries, and I knew it was nothing bad. Naughty, yes, but
naughty fun. I understood myself and I felt happy.’

‘Probably hardly anyone is that lucky.’

‘I wish you could have been.’ Chesta reached up to push
Folken’s hair out of his eyes. ‘Anyway… after that,
well, I understood you couldn’t just tell all and sundry,
because not everyone accepts it… and I kept myself to myself a
bit… and I kept loving my books and daydreaming of when I’d
find him, the right one to share all of that with. It
wasn’t long after that that we got back the results of some
tests we’d taken and I was told I was being called up for the
Dragonslayers. And I came here… and eventually, I found you.
Perfect.’

‘Did you - did you think Dilandau was the one, at
first?’

‘No, Folken. He’s gorgeous but I always knew he
wasn’t for me. He’s way out of my league. So are
you, of course… but the difference is he knows

it.’

‘We’re… we’re not meant to be together,’
Folken said slowly, feeling his throat tighten painfully. ‘I
can’t stop coming back to the thought that it’s
wrong.’

‘Why? Why is it wrong?’ Chesta demanded, half
sitting up. ‘Because we’re fags? We can’t help
that! If I wasn’t with you it wouldn’t stop me
wanting men. And you! How long have you known? About yourself, I
mean?’

‘Not until I held you.’

‘I didn’t make you homosexual, Folken. Or
bisexual or whatever you are, God knows. You’re so tangled up
about it I don’t suppose you know yourself. You wouldn’t
not have to worry about it if it weren’t for me.’

‘I didn’t - I didn’t mean that - look at our age
difference, for one thing.’

Chesta shook his head sadly. ‘I know that’s weird. If I
could be five years older and you could be five years younger
everything would be perfect. But this is how it is. We
can’t change when we were born, and I can’t change how I
feel about you. When you kissed me I knew you were the one I’d
been hoping for. There’s - there’s a war on! We might never
have this chance again. If it weren’t for this whole situation I
suppose I would never have met you.’

‘So… only because we’re thrown
together…’

‘No!’ Chesta cried, slapping his hand down on the
pillow. There were tears in his eyes. ‘Because you’re
wonderful! Please, Folken, don’t dump me because
you’re scared! I couldn’t cope without you. I would miss
you so much, and feel so empty… please don’t dump me.’
He dropped his head on Folken’s shoulder, sobbing; Folken felt
the tears fall hot on his skin.

‘Chess - Chesta - no, no, I didn’t mean… my poor
darling boy, shh, shhh…’ Folken held him tight and stroked
his hair, feeling quite helpless.

‘That’s the only thing you could do that would
hurt me,’ Chesta gulped. ‘I’m - I’m sorry I
shouted at you - I’m sorry I was cheeky - please, please
don’t dump me.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘I love you so much.’

‘I love you… you must know I love
you…’

‘Then there’s nothing wrong with it.’

‘The worst part of this is that I have no idea who’s
right… you or I…’

‘B-but I’ve got an authority to back me up,’ Chesta
said, wiping his eyes and trying to smile, a rather watery effort.

‘Me and the author of "A Letter To Young Men" versus you and
your guilt. We win.’

‘I’d love to believe you.’

‘Oh, and I’m crying, so extra points for that.’

‘Chesta!’

‘Smile. Go on, give in and smile. You’re so beautiful
when you do. I feel like everything can be all right, somehow, when
you smile at me.’

Folken gave in.

‘Good Strategos.’ Chesta kissed him on the cheek..

‘You have been unprecedentedly cheeky tonight.’ He saw
Chesta cringe a little. ‘I’d like to see that set a
precedent. I think I need you to tell me off more often.’

‘I don’t know if I can,’ Chesta said, with a
half-guilty little laugh. ‘I really have to forget myself to
talk like that. I don’t think I can do it on purpose. But
I’ll try for you.’

He snuggled down at Folken’s side, and once again he felt the
warm trusting weight of a boy’s head resting on his
shoulder.

‘Good night, Chess.’

‘Good night.’

Folken stared up at the ceiling. Don’t dump me because
you’re scared. I’m so scared. I didn't see it till
you said that.

Chapter Text

Once Chesta had left in the small hours of the morning, Folken was
unable to get back to sleep. He was still feeling so guilty that his
stomach hurt almost constantly; he doubted he would be able to get
any breakfast down. His sleep had been light and unrestful, so he
felt tired on top of it. Every time the psychosomatic discomfort
eased slightly he would remember - no, would conscientiously remind
himself - of the blood, and it would stab back. He had an ache low in
his rectum that he supposed was some sort of well-deserved
sympathetic pain.

I have to get over it. Chesta says it’s not important. He
should know; it’s his body. Come on, man. You’ve unlearned
a guilt reaction before. Be reasonable about it. He forced
himself to stop thinking about it by spending a couple of hours
devising solutions for engineering problems with the new Oreades. At
least there was that, his ability to turn off the personal part of
his mind while he worked, as long as he did not get too close to the
zone where they intersected.

Van. He should have paid more attention to Van, but he was in such
a stupid horny mood that he hadn’t wanted to listen. Dismissing
it so easily… something serious could be happening in the
boy’s mind, and he had brushed off a perfectly good chance of
finding out what. With a little gentle coaxing and patience Van would
surely have confided in him and he would have known exactly where he
stood.

Setting aside the Oreades files, he turned to the screen on which
he could view surveillance footage. Time to catch up. Time to do
penance, to resume his neglected duty. Perhaps things could be set
right with Van, if not with Chesta.

As the footage of last night began to play, he felt a twinge of
impatience with the limitations of the camera. That was something
else to retool, if he ever got time. A monochrome picture, not too
sharply focused - no sound, why had he ever thought it
didn’t matter to have no sound? - and limited by the placement
of the hidden lens. The scopes on the Alseides were far better than
this; they could zoom in, for one thing.

Anyway… There was Van, lying on his bed and reading a
book. He must be doing his silent study. Folken would have preferred
it if he’d sat up straight at his desk, but he seemed to be
concentrating dutifully. For a long time the view was only of Van
doing this. Small movements did not show up too well onscreen, so if
he shifted slightly as he lay it was not apparent, and he seemed to
lie motionless except for when he turned a page. Growing a little
impatient, Folken ran the footage at fast-forward until, to his
surprise, he saw another figure spring into the frame. Taken aback,
he rewound to just before the newcomer’s entrance and resumed
normal playback.

Dilandau? Really? What would he be doing there? He
seemed to be speaking to Van, who was largely ignoring him. I wish
I could see his face, but no, he would stand with his back to
the camera. Why is he - my God! Why’s he taking off his clothes?
He’s stopped… come on, read for clues, posture, body
language… he looks as though he’s issuing a challenge.
Picking a fight. Is that the idea? Yes, I think so… he’s
put down his sword and he’s challenging Van to some kind of
bareknuckle bout. Doesn’t want any more cuts, I suppose.

Van isn’t rising to the bait. Good boy. Not interested in
a fight. But… I suppose something must happen, or what
was he upset about when he came to me?

The little monochrome Van rolled onto his back, still refusing to
attack or defend himself. A few moments later Dilandau vaulted onto
the bed, and Folken expected to see a punch thrown, but they remained
frozen in tableau for a time, still talking. Van clearly was having
none of it; he put his book between them like a screen. And
then… Folken felt his face grow hot with embarrassment and shock
as Dilandau dropped his head to kiss Van’s stomach. With a
panicky stab, he hit the pause control, stopping them cold.

My God. My God! I - I can’t watch that! Would - would Van
really - I can’t watch my brother do that! Have that done
to him. Whatever. He pushed back his chair and paced
across the room, distancing himself from the shocking view. He put
his cold steel hand to his face, trying to cool his flaming cheeks.

This is not happening. I do not have a tape of Dilandau Albatou
going down on my brother. How dare he! What’s going on?
Have I misread the whole situation? I thought Dilandau hated
him. He’s not really, is he? Surely Van pushes him off.
But - but I can’t stand to watch to find out. At an impasse,
he sat down at the dining table and drummed his fingers on the wood
for a moment.

Someone ran past in the corridor outside, inconsiderately noisy;
he straightened up with relief as a new thought came. The footage
of the corridor outside. Dilandau must leave at some stage. I should
be able to tell from the manner of his leaving what happened, some
kind of clue, without seeing anything to make me feel squeamish.
It’s worth a try, anyway. Returning to his original seat, he
changed the settings and called up the corridor camera’s
records.

There he is, going in. After that, nothing happened in the
corridor for a painfully long and suspenseful time. Then, his heart
leapt as he saw Dilandau tumble out of the door and land in a heap on
the opposite side of the corridor, almost out of frame.

Yes! Van, you little gem! He’s thrown him out! And his
things. Oh, thank God. Bless you, Van. No wonder you were upset, poor
thing. A sexual assault, intimidation tactics… I suppose he was
fighting fire with fire after that unfortunate lick incident. You
must have realised how badly you were behaving, and that’s why
you got so upset. Too ashamed to tell me the whole story, poor little
thing. The tension left his back and shoulders and he sat back
with a sigh, shutting off the monitor. There was a moment’s
peace before the pain in his stomach reasserted itself and his throat
tightened with shame.

I practically threw him out myself, when he’d been
assaulted and came to me for comfort. He needed a kind big brother,
someone to hold him in his arms and tell him it was all right, it
wasn’t his fault, and instead I said take these pills and call
me in the morning. Oh God. The shame and confusion he must be
feeling… and I can’t say anything because it’s
an intrusion. If there isn’t enough trust between us for him to
tell me about something like that, it’ll be utterly destroyed if
I tell him I watch him. And… the way he expressed himself…

as if it were a bad dream that he couldn’t entirely
remember… was he lying out of embarrassment, or was that his
true perception? His mental state could be terribly precarious - and
I can’t try to do anything to help him, to find out more about
it, without doing something that would make it all much worse.
Goddamnit! His clawed hand tightened involuntarily on the arm of
his chair, deforming the metal frame.

Dilandau sat at the breakfast table pushing his porridge around
with a spoon. He wasn’t sure he could swallow solid food; his
throat felt so tight and sore. It was like having a permanent lump in
his throat, being on the verge of angry tears. The porridge looked
far too thick and lumpy. He had not put honey on it; it was probably
going to taste awful. Across the table Migel was putting salt
on his porridge; how could he? His mouth filled with the taste of
salt and he had to take a deep breath in order not to gag.

Sitting beside him (rather carefully, as his bottom was feeling
tender today), Chesta nervously flicked his eyes Dilandau’s way
for a moment, trying to take a thorough look at him without obviously
doing so.

Where’s his diadem? He always, but always wears it.
He was so upset when it went missing before. He hasn’t said a
word about it today. And he’s just picking at his food.
Dilandau-sama’s always got a healthy appetite. What
happened last night? I can’t believe I went out. I should
have stayed in the dorm. Could’ve avoided that whole mess with
Folken-sama for one thing. But I was so keen to see him… I snuck
out nearly as soon as he was in bed. Oh, it’s not fair!
We’re both upset at the same time. He wished like anything
that he could confide in Dalet, sitting on his other side.

The rhythm of the spoon in the bowl had become almost hypnotic.
Every boy at the table was uncomfortably conscious of its chinking.
It seemed to bind them all in to Dilandau’s unknown misery,
helpless to help him. Although most of them were trying to eat a
decent breakfast, it was a strain, and some had simply laid down
their cutlery and were waiting for mealtime to be over.

The door opened, interrupting the rhythm. The spoon was still.
Every head but Dilandau’s went up, to see Van framed in the
doorway. Dilandau didn’t need to look; he knew who it would be.
A few minutes late; making an entrance. He knew so well how all that
worked.

I’ll brazen it out. I won’t even look at him.
I’ll pretend like nothing has happened.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ said
Van, his voice commonplace and polite.

‘Good morning, Van-sama,’ replied an uncertain
chorus.

I can’t do it. Dilandau shoved back his chair, almost
knocking it over as he stood up, and made for the door. I have to
go past him but I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t stay
where he is. He walked fast with his head down, unwilling to see
him. A hand touched his arm, stopped him, sent a shock through him
like a static-electricity jolt. He stood still, trembling and
sweating, refusing to look up.

‘Dilandau,’ said Van softly. It was the softness that
shocked him, the gentle tone of voice. He blinked in agitation.

‘Are you all right?’ Van went on.

‘Y-you know I’m not all right,’ he managed to
say.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What?’
Dilandau’s head came up unthinkingly and he stared at Van.

‘I’m sorry. You have every right to be mad at me. I lost
control and I was too rough with you. Please forgive me.’ His
eyes were so kind, and somewhere, in the depths of their darkness, so
mocking. His voice was soft but perfectly clear. Everyone could hear
him.

‘You left this in my room,’ Van continued, holding out
the diadem. ‘I thought you’d want it back.’

Dilandau snatched it from his hand and held it to his chest,
taking half a step back. His heart was hammering; his skin was clammy
with sweat under the leather.

‘Dilandau… please… I’m sorry. Won’t you
forgive me?’ Van held out his hand, speaking sweetly,
poisonously sweetly.

I want to scream. I want to say, fuck you! I can’t say a
word. In desperation, he flung the diadem hard at Van’s
face, turned and ran out the door.

A shocked hush settled in the dining hall. Van had managed to
deflect the diadem with a hand before his face, and it was gently
spinning on the floor where it had fallen. He lowered his hand and
looked down at it pensively.

‘I guess he needs time to calm down,’ he murmured,
seemingly to himself, and stooped to pick it up. Hooking it on one of
the straps of his jacket, he proceeded to the serving hatch, every
eye in the hall following him agog. Chesta and Dalet exchanged
agonised glances.

Van disappeared for a while after breakfast. Although Dilandau
(who they found sitting silently on his bed when they returned to the
dorm) gave no orders, the Dragonslayers proceeded to the training
hall for morning exercises on general consensus that they ought to be
doing something. After a minute, Dilandau followed them and
sat down on a bench by the wall. After a while any pretence of
exercising was abandoned, and the boys clustered at the far end of
the hall, whispering.

‘He looks totally out of it. Look at him. Do you think
he’s even aware of us?’

‘It’s like he’s in a trance.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘Well, duh.’

‘Seriously? I mean, you
think they - you know, they did it?’

‘Sounded like a lovers’ quarrel to me.’

‘I just - I mean - Dilandau-sama? You really think
he’s - you know?’

‘A fag?’

‘A poofter?’

‘A shirt-lifter?’ There were a few nervous giggles at
the naming of the love that dared not speak its name.

‘At my school fag meant a junior boy who was like a
servant for a senior.’

‘At my school it was just slang for cigarettes. You’d
have a fag behind the bike-sheds at break.’

More suppressed sniggering; the mood was a little hysterical. The
idea made them all so nervous that they had to be silly about it.

‘And you know, guys who wanted to show off about what heavy
smokers they were would say things like "I’m dying for a fag" or
"I can’t relax till I’ve got a fag in my
mouth"…’

‘Shuddup, Biore! You’re awful!’

‘You shouldn’t be making fun of him like this.
Where’s your loyalty?’

‘We’re not making fun of him, Chess.
We’re just… I dunno…’

‘ Dilandau-sama?’

‘And - and didn’t it sound
like Dilandau-sama was - you know, like Van-sama was the one on
top?’

‘Can you believe that?’

A thoughtful pause.

‘I could only believe it if it was Van-sama. Anyone
else, Dilandau-sama would be in charge.’

‘I can’t believe you’re speculating about things
like that! You ought to be ashamed!’

‘Chesta, Chesta, Chesta. I’m sure in your little world
dirty things like this just don’t happen, but maybe you want to
join the rest of us in the real, grown-up world?’

‘Hey, leave Chess alone. He’s just trying to stick up
for him.’

‘I don’t care if it’s dirty. The point is
it’s totally disloyal to Dilandau-sama to talk about him behind
his back like this. It’s none of our business.’

‘So you’re admitting Van-sama could be boning
him.’

‘I didn’t say that! I can’t believe
you’d say that! Have you forgotten what he means to all
of us?’

An uncomfortable, guilty pause.

‘Yeah… well… no-one’s saying anything about
that… it’s just, you know… you see someone in a
different light…’

‘I can’t believe he’d let someone do that to
him.’

‘What do they actually do?’

‘God, Guimel! Do the words "up the
ass" mean anything to you?’

‘I know about that. I mean… do they, like, kiss
and stuff? Like normal people?’

‘How do you expect any of us to know?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Does this mean they’re in love or
what?’

‘Is that love?’

‘Again,
Dilandau-sama?’

‘It’s all so
weird.’

‘I mean, Van-sama had his diadem.
And he was out after lights-out last night. Anyone see him come
back?’

‘I did. And Chesta too. He slept in the dorm last
night.’

‘Doesn’t mean they couldn’t’ve… you
know.’

‘Okay, obviously something’s going on, but
it’s none of our business and we’ve got no right to go
assuming things.’

Dilandau watched them through his eyelashes. His senses seemed to
be morbidly acute today; he could hear every word they said.

Chesta… trying to protect me. Well, you’re a good
boy. A good, dumb little boy I can count on. And the rest of
you… some of you… he’s taken you away from me. In a
way I never saw coming. Worthless, faithless little… but I
shouldn’t waste perfectly good rage on you. I should save it for
him. God… how could he? Where does he get the nerve to
walk in there and make it sound like we’re lovers? And he made
it sound like he was the nice one! Apologising to me! Making
it a foregone conclusion! Fuck him!

He pinched his lips together, biting them on the inside, feeling
the lining of his throat throb. I’ve got to get him back.
I’ve got to strike at him the way he struck at me. Humiliate
him. Take something away from him, something precious.

What could there be? What could I do?

‘I’d heard rumours about
Van-sama, but…’

‘What kinda rumours? And why didn’t you share?’

‘Well, this one just sounded silly. About him and his
brother too. The Strategos?’

‘I think I’ve heard this one too. That they’re
demons?’

‘Demons!’

‘Yeah, full-on demons with wings and everything.’

‘The way I heard it they’re only half-caste.’

‘They haven’t got wings. What a lot of
bullshit!’

‘They can pull their wings into their backs, like a cat can
pull in its claws.’

‘Uh-huh. Yeah. And they’ve got long tails that they can
pull in up their bums. And I’ve got a bright pink
beard.’

‘You don’t have to be so sarky about it, Dalet. The way
things are going these days it feels like anything could be
true.’

‘Where’d this rumour start, anyway?’

‘I think someone heard it from one of the sickbay
nurses.’

‘But you wouldn’t have the name of anyone who’s
actually seen either of them with wings?’

‘Well… no…’

‘Let’s stick to speculating about what we’ve seen
with our own eyes, shall we?’

‘I could believe Van-sama’s a demon, though. I
mean… look at the way he acts. And Folken-sama, look at the way
he looks!’

‘Demon brothers, right at the heart
of Zaibach’s military. Now there’s a freaky
thought.’

‘And I’ve heard tell there are nasty little gnomes in
the toilets that like to jump up and bite your balls when you’re
taking a dump. Can we please let this rumour go?’

Good sense from Migel, there… and Dalet has said a few
things in my behalf… I think they’re okay. Guimel…

well, Guimel will go where he’s pointed. Gatti and Biore, by
now, I don’t trust at all. And the others? Oh, fuck the others.
I can’t think of them now. It all comes back to Van.
Van.

The morning seemed interminable, but eventually lunchtime came
round. He sat at the table looking at his food as if he could absorb
it that way. There was an odd, off-kilter mixture of chatter and
quiet around him, as some people had evidently decided it didn’t
matter any more, and others were trying harder to show respect for
him because he had said and done nothing to demand it. It had begun
to feel unreal to him. The real world had shrunk down to a place that
only held Van and him. How would he feel if he saw him right now? He
didn’t have to worry about that for a while… he had lunch
with his brother…

Of course.

Without ceremony, he got up and left the dining hall, oblivious to
Chesta staring after him, panic-stricken, the worried looks on other
countenances, and the hushed sniggers of a few who considered this
one more piece of proof that he was going off the deep end.

As he walked down the corridors, he felt his heart begin to beat
more strongly, his blood to grow warm. It was like waking up,
returning to himself, as his sense of purpose grew. The meal period
had only just begun; he would have lots of time before Van came back,
surely - if Van did return to his room after lunch. The door.
Not locked. Yes. He slid it open and slipped inside, coming to
rest with his back against the door, breathing deeply.

His room. I’m in his room alone, his place. He can’t
see me, he can’t stop me. Oh yes. I can do whatever I want in
here. I can stab my sword through his bed. I can carve my name in the
wall. I can take his goddamn’ book and tear out every page and
stuff them down the toilet.

He drifted a little further in, looking around, his eyes wide and
bright. The room was not tidy; he observed with scorn that Van had
left his bed unmade, some balls of screwed-up paper on the desk and
lying around the wastepaper basket, wet towels on the floor by the
shower recess. His eye was caught and drawn by the one thing of
beauty in the room besides himself, the black silk dressing-gown hung
over the back of the chair, its blood-red embroidery blazoned before
his eyes. On the back, in thousands of tiny satiny stitches, was
worked a serpentine red dragon, clasping the tip of its tail in its
jaws. That silk, he thought, would feel as soft as water against his
skin.

He felt a little as though he were moving in a dream, a lucid
dream that he was able to direct and enjoy. He slipped out of his
jacket, letting his swordbelt and overskirt fall to the floor, and
put on the dressing-gown over his shirt and trousers. His bare arms
came up in pleasurable goosebumps at its cool kiss.

I want to see how I look. There was a small mirror over the
sink, but perhaps - yes. A full-length job on the inside door of the
closet.

Oh, but I’m beautiful… still beautiful… He
raised a hand to cover the hateful scar on his cheek and gazed at his
reflection for a long moment. Beautiful and dangerous, the midnight
silk in elegant contrast to his translucent white skin.

I want to feel the silk kiss me all over. Taking off the
gown for a moment, he pulled off his shirt, tugged off his boots and
shinguards and kicked his trousers and underwear away across the
floor. A little more mess in here wouldn’t show up. He slipped
his arms through the sleeves, crossed the lapels over his chest and
tied the sash. Yes. This is just right. It looks so good on
me, so much better than on him. I was made to wear something like
this. He experimented a little with the sash, trying it in a knot
and in a loose bow, flirting with his reflection.

Shall I blow you a kiss? Oh, look at you, boy…

He pushed his fingers back through his hair, white silk above black
silk, back to caress the nape of his neck and his shoulders, arching
his back like a cat being stroked. His hands stroked on down over his
chest, and beneath the layer of silk he felt his nipples rise, hard
little buttons. His warm palms swept back up, making them tingle
again. A flush of excitement was rising in his cheeks and lips, and
his eyes shone back at him from the mirror, dark wine red.

Slowly, teasing himself with suspense, he spread the lapels of the
dressing-gown open, the vee of fair, smooth skin expanding as the
silk slid away over his shoulders. His nipples were exposed,
rose-pink and tender, telegraphing little pulses of warm delight to
his groin as he tickled and pinched them.

Gazing at himself from beneath his eyelashes, he softly kissed the
palms of his hands, his fingers, sucked his fingertips and nipped at
their pads. With wet fingertips, he traced spirals around his
nipples, closing in on the sensitive centre, drawing a soft little
sigh to his lips.

He was ready for more; he wanted to touch himself as his erection
grew, feeling his cock stiffen and swell in his loving hands. He
swung the door of the closet wide so he would still be able to see
himself in the mirror, and crossed the room to sit on the bed. As he
leaned back, untying the belt, the silk slipped over his tingling
skin and made him gasp with pleasure, liquid blackness flowing away
from the flushed shaft half-standing between his thighs. Pulling the
sleeve down over his hand, he brushed it over himself again and
caught his breath at the fiery tickle it awakened, feeling like the
touch of another.

He stripped out of the gown entirely and wadded it between his
hands, crumpling it into a black rose veined with crimson, and thrust
his swollen cock into its softness. The closet door had swung back on
itself, cutting off his view; he wondered what he must look like from
the outside, rising on his knees and pumping his hips against silky
friction. He was lost in the embrace of his demon-lover. The sweet,
wicked transgression of what he was doing doubled his pleasure.

Take this, Van. I wish you could see me now.

As if on cue, the door slid open and Van stood framed in its
architrave. Dilandau’s head snapped up to stare at him; their
eyes met and for a moment he had the peculiar impression that Van was
almost ready to cry. Then a deep blush darkened his cheeks; then a
glint of anger showed in his eyes. Dilandau remained motionless and
speechless on the bed.

‘Hello, Dilandau,’ said Van, stepping into the room and
sliding the door shut behind him. ‘Well. I didn’t expect to
find you here. I came back to get the meds I’m supposed to take
with lunch; I’d forgotten them.’ He walked over to his
chair and sat down, turning it backwards so he could rest his arms
and chin on its back. In that position he regarded Dilandau for
several seconds.

‘What would you be doing if I hadn’t come in?’ he
whispered. ‘Keep going. I - I want to watch you.’

Still looking into Van’s dark eyes, Dilandau began to thrust
once more. He had lost none of his arousal in that little
intermission, and Van’s gaze on him seemed to heighten it. He
was motionless except for the tip of the thumb of one of his folded
hands, stroking over and over the borders of his lips as he
watched.

Dilandau closed his eyes and tilted back his head, losing himself
completely in feverish sensation. Everything was drawing sweetly
tight inside him; he quickened his pace, groaning, heard Van’s
startled voice say ‘Wait, isn’t that my…’ and
broke through into a spasm of delight.

His thighs were trembling; he carefully lowered himself down to
sit back on his haunches. He flipped back his head to throw the damp
strands of hair off his forehead, and opened his eyes.

‘You dirty bastard,’ Van said tightly.

‘Oh, I know,’ he sighed, ‘but it did feel so
good.’ Holding the bundle of silk in place with his left hand,
he stroked back his hair with his right, smiling faintly. ‘And
you liked it.’

‘Give it back.’

‘All right.’ With a snake-quick movement, he threw the
crumpled dressing-gown in Van’s face, covering his head; as he
struggled with it Dilandau snatched his underwear from the floor and
slipped back into it. No need to give Van any more of a free show
than he’d already had.

Van dragged the robe off his head, red-faced and glaring. To
Dilandau’s utter delight, there was a sticky white smear across
his cheek.

‘How do you like the taste of your own medicine?’ he
asked, grinning.

‘Shut up. I’ll punish you for that.’

‘And yet, somehow, I think it won’t be today.’ With
a step as light as his heart, he moved around the room gathering up
and putting on his scattered clothing. Van was still sitting on the
chair, breathing heavily and glowering at him.

‘This was a present from my brother,’ he said, holding
up the dressing-gown, ‘and you’ve ruined it.’

‘M-hm!’ Dilandau shrugged on his jacket and stretched
his fingers inside his gloves.

‘I bet you think you’re clever.’

‘Oh, I know I am.’

‘You’re nothing so special.’

‘Oh, come on, Van.’ Dilandau laughed softly. He
hadn’t felt this free in days. He wanted to hold onto it
as long as it lasted. ‘Your brother could tell you
otherwise.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, think about it. He’s in charge of the whole
Dragonslayer project. When you think about it, I have to be pretty
much his ideal, don’t you think?’ The thought had only just
come to him, bubbling up joyously inside.

‘Dragonslayer,’ Van spat the name out. ‘As if
you’d know the first thing about fighting dragons.’

‘Well,’ said Dilandau, putting his finger to his chin in
an exaggerated pose of thought, ‘I believe the first
thing is to keep clear of the head, because that end has teeth in it
and spits fire. But a close second is to keep clear of the tail,
because that end’s pointy. You’re not going to get in a hit
anywhere on the back or the flanks, because the skin’s so tough.
You want to get in under the tail and go for the soft underbelly.
That’s been my experience.’

‘Your experience? How many dragons have you supposedly
killed?’

‘Counting shared kills? Four. Did you think it was just a
snazzy name?’ He smiled mockingly. ‘Every boy in the
squadron has killed at least one, although not all of them have done
it independently. We were the scourge of the dragons of Zaibach,
until their population got too low and we had to stop to let them
recover, the big babies.’

‘You’re lying,’ said Van tightly.

‘If you don’t believe me, you can ask your brother to
let you have a look at my personnel file,’ Dilandau said,
shrugging. ‘It’s all there in black and white. Along with a
rather fetching picture. Maybe you could ask him to let you keep
that. It’s only a headshot, but you can use your imagination,
right?’

‘Get out of this room now, before I get up and hurt
you.’

‘Bye-bye, Van.’ Dilandau blew him a kiss as he headed
for the door. ‘And now? Yes, I do forgive you. I think
we’re even.’

The door hissed shut beside him; Van remained in his chair,
fighting a battle between arousal and outrage. He had never seen
anything, anything, that made him feel as the sight of
Dilandau naked had. Well, I say naked. I still didn’t get to
see everything. The confusion was mind-numbing; he was so
painfully angry, felt so… invaded, was that the right word? And
now he had to be frustrated on top of that. Dilandau had made a fool
of him.

He lunged to his feet, grabbing the chair, ready to smash it
against the desk, trying to vent some of the rage he felt. The door
opened and he was left looking foolish as he tried to pretend he was
just moving it.

Folken stood in the door way, peering in with an inquiring
expression. Van’s heart kicked inside his chest. Oh God. Did
he see Dilandau leaving?

‘Are you all right, Van?’
Folken asked. ‘You took such a long time collecting your meds I
thought I should come and check on you.’

‘I’m - I’m fine,’ said Van. With a further
kick of horror, he realised there was something smeared on his face;
he could guess what. Hastily he wiped at his cheek with the back of
his hand, hoping that had got it before Folken noticed. He was moving
into the room, looking around with a kind of fastidious
exasperation.

‘Honestly, Van, can’t you keep this place any neater? I
don’t want to sound like the pot calling the kettle black, but I
don’t have this much of a mess in my room. Your sheets are half
off the bed. Those towels aren’t going to dry on the floor. And
- oh, really.’

He was looking at the crumpled dressing-gown which had fallen on
the floor. Before Van could move or speak, he had stooped and picked
it up, shaking it out of its folds with an old-maidish look on his
face.

‘This was a present. You should try to take care of a
garment like this. What is this mess you’ve got on
it?’ He took a closer look and the air of the room filled almost
palpably with mutual embarrassment.

Folken cleared his throat nervously and looked up at Van, who
realised with acute discomfort, as he saw his brother’s eyes
focus on one area of his face, that he had not quite removed all the

‘mess.’ It must show up worse than ever against the red of
his blushing. His face felt hot enough to cook on.

‘For Heaven’s sake, Van,’ said Folken,
‘there’s a time and a place. I know I told you you could
feel free to do this, but this was not what I had in mind.’

That bastard, that bastard! There’s nothing I can
say!

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered
wretchedly. ‘I - I didn’t mean…’

‘I don’t want to hear an explanation,’ said Folken.
He pushed the dressing-gown into Van’s hands. ‘I suggest
you put that in cold water before the stain sets. Then find your meds
and come back to my room to finish your lunch. And please, exercise
some self-restraint from now on. I don’t know if you realise how
uncomfortable you’ve made me feel.’

‘It wasn’t on purpose,’ Van mumbled.

‘I expect you just didn’t think. Would that be it? Try
it next time, Van, it takes only a moment and it could save both of
us a lot of embarrassment. Being able to talk about it is one thing,
but I didn’t mean for us to share in quite this
way.’ He turned and stalked away, leaving the room.

Once he felt fairly sure Folken would be out of earshot, Van did
throw the chair.

Chapter Text

Folken sat in his room alone, making a hopeless attempt to finish
his paperwork before Chesta arrived. There was a mountain of it
tonight; some fool somewhere (possibly himself) had put a decimal
point in the wrong place and the small error had bred further errors
of increasing magnitude, that in turn generated a multitude of
corrections and cross-checks until the problem could be traced back
to its source.

He was still angry with himself, but the feeling was complicated
by being annoyed with Van. He’d been feeling so sorry for him,
and then he went and did something like that… he knew that it
was irrational to be so upset, but there was something so
wanton about it. His resolutions to be extra nice to his
brother were spoiled; the most he had been able to muster for the
rest of the lunch hour had been cool civility. A time and a place.
At least I keep my dirty little secrets separate from my life with
you, or try to when you don’t butt in - and quite frankly, you
provoked Dilandau. I don’t know if I feel so sorry for you after
all. It’d be different if he’d done anything serious to
you, but it looks as if you were fully capable of showing him the
door when he went too far.

Realising that he was not concentrating on his work, and
furthermore that his thoughts were becoming somewhat erratic, he made
a conscious effort to calm down, closing his eyes for a moment and
taking a deep breath which he held for a few seconds before releasing
it. The clock made that peculiar loud tick that it always gave as the
minute hand reached the twelve and started a new hour. That reminded
him that Chesta would probably turn up before too long.

Chesta. He had been thinking on and off all day about what it
would mean to give him up. He could not justify it to himself on the
grounds that it would be for Chesta’s own good; he had begged so
hard not to be ‘dumped’ that it was clear ending the
relationship would simply be cruel. The real justification, he
realised, was to protect himself from temptation, from further
wrongdoing, but the fear he felt of that was outweighed by the cold,
crushing fear of how miserable he would be with no Chesta. Every time
he tried to imagine a return to chaste nights alone, he would
remember how sweetly Chesta kissed him, how adorable he was with his
little gestures and odd off-colour jokes and wholehearted devotion,
what heaven it was to lie in his arms, to feel his slender young body
beneath him, his arms wrapped round his shoulders, fingertips
caressing his back, his legs spread to cradle his lover’s body,
that special little way Chesta had of stroking the soft soles of his
feet up and down the backs of Folken’s legs, making him feel
petted and loved all over… every instinct in him rebelled
against giving that up.

He’s my precious one. He’s right; we can’t
change how we feel. I just have to do all I can to be good to him,
not to let him down.

The door slid open and Chesta slipped in, the only person now who
would dare to do that without knocking.

‘Hello - oh no.’ He caught sight of the stacks of
folders surrounding Folken and his shoulders slumped. ‘Please
tell me most of that is your out pile.’

‘I wanted to have it done before I saw you, but I’m
afraid it was beyond my abilities,’ Folken said, smiling
ruefully as he turned in his chair. ‘I’m on the homeward
stretch, but it will be just a little longer.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean to complain,’ Chesta said
hastily. ‘After all, I know it’s important.’

‘Are you - are you feeling all right?’ The pain in
Folken’s stomach rose again.

‘I’m absolutely fine, Folken-sama. I’m a fast
healer. Don’t worry about it.’

‘I - I won’t - well, I want to give you time to heal
completely, so…’

‘I understand. But - we will sleep together,
won’t we? And you will make love to me, other ways?’ His
eyes were pleading.

‘Of course I will. You know I will.’

‘I love you,’ Chesta said, dotting a kiss against his
cheekbone. ‘An awful lot.’

‘Don’t distract me, now.’

‘Of course not.’ Chesta almost jumped away. ‘Being
good now! Behaving myself.’ He gave an awkward little grin and
backed off. ‘I’ll read a book. I might even go wild and
read an improving book. Something educational.’ He went
over to the bookshelf to the left of the desk and began tracing a
finger over the spines of the books, reading their titles. After a
moment he chose one and sat down with it on the couch. Folken turned
back to his work.

Chesta did not read for long before setting down the heavy volume.
‘Um,’ he said, ‘I think that’s a little
too intellectual for me.’ He got up and wandered around
the room, the sound of his footsteps mildly distracting to Folken. He
could not seem to settle to anything, but dithered from place to
place, picking things up and putting them down.

Folken heard a creaking and rustling and turned to see Chesta
trying on his cloak, a little fair head sticking out from the broad
black collar, the rest of him lost in its voluminous folds.

‘You look ridiculous, you know,’ he said with a
smile.

‘Sorry,’ said Chesta, blushing.

‘You’re a real little fidget tonight.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Hang it up again, would you?’

‘Right. Sorry!’ He hastily took off the cloak and
returned it to its hook. More padding around. Folken frowned at the
graph he was reading, trying to focus on what it meant.

‘I like this picture,’ Chesta said, behind him. Looking
round, Folken found him admiring the small framed painting that hung
on the wall behind the dining table.

‘I mean, I like the colours, but I’m not sure I
understand it. Is it one of those modern abstracts?’

‘No,’ said Folken, resigning himself to getting no
further work done and setting down his pen. ‘It’s actually
a portrait.’

‘It doesn’t look like anyone I know.’

‘It’s someone you know quite well. Try looking at it
upside down.’

Chesta shot Folken an odd look over his shoulder, then bent over
sideways, turning his head upside down like a parakeet. After a
moment he gasped. ‘It’s you! It is a bit abstract
and arty, but there’s your nose, there’s the way you used
to do your hair, there’s your teardrop - somehow it looks just
like you.’ He straightened up, gazing at Folken in puzzlement.

‘Why do you hang it upside down?’

‘It’s the right way up,’ Folken said.
‘That’s the way the artist painted it.’

‘Mental artist,’ Chesta commented.

‘No - that’s just the style of cat art. Theorists call
it Invertism. The representation of objects and people in one’s
surroundings in inverted form. It seems to be a way of coming to
terms with the unfamiliar, and in some cases of making a statement of
ownership or personal connection. Nariya did that for me when she was
just a little girl.’

‘Nariya and Eriya Nariya?’ Chesta asked. Folken had told
him a little about the twins, explaining the faint white scars of two
little sets of sharp teeth on his good arm.

‘The same. It’s really a great compliment to me; the
first sign I had that they were accepting me as someone who cared for
them. It came after months of coldness. The poor little things had
been too traumatised by the death of their parents, and the abuse of
the people who had pursued them, to trust anyone, even someone who
was obviously trying to help. They couldn’t let their guard
down.

‘I tried so hard to be a friend to them, but they
wouldn’t even speak to me, or look directly at me. I set up a
comfortable playroom for them, with beds and toys, and tried to coax
them into little games - and always ended up feeling a complete fool
as they looked through me or walked away. When I brought them food,
they wouldn’t touch it until I had left the room; I only knew
they were eating because the plates would be clean later.

‘Sometimes I would come into the room and find them sitting
very still, very nonchalant, but a ball would be rolling into the
corner, or their trapeze would be swinging, and I’d know that
they had been playing just a moment before. It was good to know that
at least they did play. I was afraid their childhood had been
destroyed.

‘Then, one day, for no apparent reason, Nariya came up to me
with a piece of paper, and said "This is from Beruberu and me, to say
thank you for all the nice things." Until then, I hadn’t even
known their names; of course they hadn’t told me. I’d been
calling them Nariya and Eriya because it was that or Hey You. I asked
them if they would like me to use their original names, but they said
they wanted to be Nariya and Eriya now. By painting my image, she was
saying that I belonged to them, or they belonged to me - that we
belonged together, at any rate. I was so touched that I almost cried.
They were different from that day on; sweet and affectionate and
obedient. It was as if they had simply decided to open a door. I
treasure that picture. It’s the second most precious thing in
this room.’

‘Really? What’s the first?’ Chesta looked around as
if expecting to see a diamond or a golden statue.

‘You, little mushroom-head.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ said Chesta, looking pleased
and peeved at the same time.

‘You are a mushroom-head, not to see it. You’re the most
beautiful thing that’s ever belonged to me. Come here and kiss
me.’ He held out his arms and Chesta climbed eagerly into his
lap, pressing warmly against him. There was something almost too
urgent in his kisses. He pulled away suddenly, looking guilty.

‘I shouldn’t be distracting you,’ he said.

‘You’ve got so much to do.’

‘I don’t mind taking a little break for you,’
Folken murmured, stroking his hair. ‘I could take quite a long
break. I think you’re well worth it.’

‘Folken-sama… there’s something I’ve got to
tell you.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t want to tell you because I think
you’ll be mad, but I do want to tell you because I want
to get it off my chest.’

‘What’s the matter? Have you murdered Emperor Dornkirk
and no-one knows yet?’

‘I-it’s not funny, Folken-sama.’ He slipped down
from Folken’s lap and took a step back, wringing his hands
together nervously.

‘Is this why you’re so twitchy tonight? You’d
better tell me. I promise I’ll stay calm. I’ve never blown
up when you’ve confessed things to me before.’

‘I - I know.’ Chesta pushed a hand through his hair,
making his blond bangs stick up in spikes. ‘Well - it’s to
do with Dilandau-sama.’

‘Oh, joy. I always enjoy hearing things about
Dilandau.’ Who had better keep his goddamn hands off my
brother if he knows what’s good for him.

Chesta’s eyes flicked up to Folken’s face, then away
again; he could not hold his gaze steady. ‘He was in a funny
sort of mood today.’

‘Isn’t he always?’

‘Well, in the morning he was very quiet and seemed unhappy,
and then he went away by himself at lunchtime, and he seemed to have
cheered right up afterwards.’

‘Why does that make you so anxious?’

‘Well. Well, when he came back, he said we’d all been
slacking off and we were going to really sweat this afternoon, and he
made us all work with the weights, and walked up and down watching
us.’ Chesta shifted position, standing like a stork with one
foot against his other knee. Folken wanted to tell him to put both
feet on the ground like a normal human being, but suppressed the
impatience; it was important to take Chesta’s feelings
seriously.

‘And when the period was nearly over, like nearly time to go
and shower before study period but not quite, he asked me to come
over with him while the others kept going, and he led me out through
the lockers and into the dorm. And he was in a really funny mood,
sort of… his eyes were all bright, and he seemed… quivery?
I don’t know. He told me to sit down on the bed - his bed. I
mean, no-one sits on Dilandau-sama’s bed. And I was
wondering what was going on, and if he was going to tell me my uncle
had died or something. And he sat down beside me and told me to take
off my jacket, and he watched me while I did, and then he said to
take off my shirt. And I did, and he was kind of smiling at me, and I
was really confused, and he… he kissed me.’ Chesta’s
voice died almost to a murmur as he made the confession.

‘He kissed you,’ Folken repeated, nonplussed.

‘He kept kissing me, and put his arms round me and pushed me
down on the bed and got on top, and told me not to say anything, and
just kept going, feeling my body, and - um… anyway, after a bit
he stopped and said "This isn’t going to work," and he thought
for a bit and then he rolled off me and said "Get on top of me and
kiss me," and I didn’t, I didn’t really know what to do,
but I couldn’t say no, and I did, and he said "Be rough with
me," and I was doing my best, but that’s not really what
I’m good at, and I could feel him getting impatient, and in the
end he pushed me off and said "This is no good. Go on and shower off,
and if you tell anyone about this I’ll kill you three ways
before you hit the ground".’ Chesta looked up from his nervously
twining fingers, trying to see Folken’s reaction. He
couldn’t read anything in his immobile face, but the knuckles of
his good hand were white where they gripped the chair arm, and there
was a creaking sound coming from the arm held by his clawed hand.

‘You couldn’t say no, eh?’

‘Not to Dilandau-sama,’ Chesta said helplessly.
Folken rose from his chair with a movement so swift and impetuous
that it frightened Chesta; then he stood motionless, looking down at
the boy.

‘Did you like it, Chesta? Did you like having his filthy
mouth on yours and his hands groping you? Wasn’t that what you
always wanted?’ His voice sounded odd in his own ears, thin and
flat.

‘Folken-sama… no…’

A step closer; now Folken towered over him, his face dark with
jealous anger.

‘Tell me the truth. Tell me how much you liked it.’

‘Th-that’s not the truth. I felt really
uncomfortable, all I could think of was you, I don’t know why he
would do something like that!’

‘Don’t you? Do you think that’s a good story to
tell me? I mean, I know what a cute little thing you can be when you
feel like it. I’ve had your come-hither looks.’

‘I didn’t! I couldn’t look like that
at anyone but you, I’d feel too shy and silly! I only feel like
that with you.’ Chesta was almost crying now.
Folken’s steel hand struck out and clenched in his hair, pulling
his head back; he bent and kissed him roughly, thrusting his tongue
deep into the boy’s mouth. Chesta yielded instantly, moaning
feebly in his throat.

‘I should wash your mouth out with soap,’ Folken said,
breaking away. ‘I could taste him in there.’

‘I… I’m sorry, Folken-sama…’

‘You see, this is why I don’t lend you to other
people. They’ll just get you dirty.’ He knew he was
speaking cruelly, savagely; he told himself that he couldn’t
help it. Chesta’s lips were trembling and his eyes brimmed with
tears; in the midst of his fury Folken was aroused beyond
measure.

‘Get into the bathroom. I have to get you clean.’ With a
firm hand on the back of Chesta’s neck, he almost frogmarched
him there. His dressing-gown and shorts were thrown to the floor; he
seized Chesta again and kissed him hard, his steel hand gripping and
twisting the back of his nightshirt. On an impulse, he wrenched
downward, ripping the thin cotton; Chesta gave a panicky gasp as the
rags of his clothing fell around his ankles.

‘Are you mine?’

‘I - I’m yours…’

‘Act like it. Get into the shower.’ Under the hot spray
of water, he scrubbed Chesta all over with soap, ignoring how he
winced as suds ran into his eyes. With a soapy hand, he grabbed the
boy’s half-erect penis and jerked it sharply.

‘You like this too, don’t you?’

‘I… y-yes, Folken-sama…’

‘Someone to be rough with you, to slap you around and tell
you what to do. I suppose I don’t satisfy you that way very
often, do I Chesta? You have to go somewhere else for that.’

‘N-no…’ Chesta was trying to wipe away the tears
streaming down his face, mixing with the water of the shower.

‘P-please… I only want you…’

‘Shut up,’ Folken muttered. He dropped to his knees and
took a new grip on Chesta’s cock, pulling it into his mouth and
sucking hard. Chesta cried out, slamming a hand against the wall to
steady himself. Squeezing the base, Folken drew his head back,
scraping his teeth along the tender skin, making Chesta wail aloud.
Another burst of deep, strong suction, and he jerked away, rising to
his feet and taking Chesta by the shoulders.

‘Turn round.’ Obeying instinctively, Chesta braced
himself against the wall. ‘Now take this. And I don’t want
to hear a sound out of you.’ Without preamble, he rammed himself
into the torn passage. Chesta grunted, and his whole body jerked.

‘Not a sound,’ Folken said, drawing back and thrusting
in again.

‘Nngh…’

‘Not a sound.’

‘Folken-sama, please! Be gentle!’

‘But you like it rough.’ He slammed himself in
again. A trickle of blood ran down his leg; he felt its heat above
the warmth of the water. It stopped him cold. He leaned for a moment,
gasping, with his hand against the wall of the shower recess. A fist
of nausea punched up in his stomach and he gagged.

‘F-folken-sama?’ Chesta murmured. ‘Are you all
right?’

‘Oh God…’ He eased hiimself out of Chesta’s
body; his erection had collapsed totally. Blood dripped on the tiles
and swirled away down the drain, diluted to rusty orange. The water
was rinsing him clean but the blood flowed from Chesta’s rear;
nothing could stop it.

‘God…’ He sank to the floor, shivering, arms
clasped across his chest. The claws of his steel hand bit into the
flesh of his good arm, meeting on bone. Five more threads of blood
wormed their way over his skin and mixed with the water.

‘Folken-sama!’ Chesta cried in alarm. ‘Please -
don’t hurt yourself!’

‘But I’ve hurt you,’ Folken whispered.

‘How could I hurt you? How could I do it again?’

‘It’s - it’s okay,’ Chesta protested, half
turning and holding out his hand.

‘Damn it, Chesta, it is not okay!’ The bloodied
steel fist hit the wall, cracking the slate tiles in a spiderweb.
Chesta cringed, flattening himself against the opposite side of the
recess.

‘I - I mean I forgive you,’ he whispered. ‘Please,
I forgive you.’

‘What kind of demon am I?’ Folken asked.
‘How can I abuse you this way? I love you!’

‘Well - well, you were angry,’ Chesta stammered.

‘People do things they don’t mean when they’re
angry.’

‘What right did I have to be angry? It wasn’t your
fault. I was just - just so jealous…’

‘Well, then…’

‘That is not an excuse!’

The water pattered down on them uninterrupted for a moment.

‘Folken-sama,’ Chesta said carefully, ‘if
you’re not angry with me any more, please don’t
shout.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Folken covered his head with his
arms.

‘Is it all right if I go and get some - some toilet paper or
something?’ Receiving a silent nod, he edged out of the shower
stall and unrolled a length of tissue, noticing with an odd clarity
how his shaking fingers blotted it with water. He scrunched it into a
soft wad and pressed it between his buttocks, wincing. He was
dripping water all over the bathroom floor; he hoped it wouldn’t
matter this once.

Folken levered himself to his feet and emerged from the shower,
approaching him hesitantly.

‘Are you - I mean, how do you feel?’ he asked.
‘Does it feel as if anything’s torn inside you?’

‘No,’ Chesta said, shaking his head reassuringly.

‘It’s just the rim. You stretched it a bit too hard.
Knocked the scab off, I guess. Isn’t that a yukky thought? A
scab up someone’s bum?’ He laughed weakly.

‘Chesta, I’m so sorry.’

‘You’re bleeding on the floor,’ Chesta reminded
him.

Folken looked vaguely at the punctures in his arm, as if he had
forgotten them and was surprised to find them still there.

‘You should put a bandage on them,’ Chesta prompted
him.

‘Do I deserve one?’

‘Folken-sama, don’t be weird. Put a bandage on
your arm.’ The wad of toilet paper was about soaked through with
blood now, but the flow seemed to be slowing. He unrolled more paper
and put a fresh pad in place. Once that was done, he felt weak and
tired. Wet as he was, he stumbled out of the bathroom and crept onto
the bed, lying down on his stomach, carefully holding the toilet
paper in place. He closed his eyes, and after a moment hot tears
leaked out. He could hear Folken moving around slowly in the
bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet. After a time he heard him
crying. He thought sleepily that he ought to go to him, but he was
really very tired.

He woke, by habit, before dawn. While he slept, Folken had covered
him with a blanket and put a towel under his wet head. He was alone
in the bed. Moving carefully, but finding he was not as sore as he
had feared, he swung his legs over the side and stood up, then went
to the bathroom. Folken was not there. The floor had been cleaned;
there was no sign of blood. He emptied his bladder, wondering what it
would be like when he had to move his bowels. That had been painful
enough yesterday. He flushed the bloody pad of paper down the toilet;
the stains on it were dry and brown. The bleeding seemed to have
stopped.

Washing his hands after flushing the toilet, he looked at himself
in the mirror, took in the dark shadows under his puffy, pink-rimmed
eyes. Last night I had a big fight with my boyfriend. Who may not
be my boyfriend any more. Maybe everything’s ruined now. He
splashed cool water on his face, hoping that would make it less
blotchy. Wrapping a towel around his body, he went out through the
bedroom and into the front room.

Folken was asleep on the couch, wearing his dressing-gown, the
silk stained with water and blood. The left sleeve had slipped down
over his shoulder and Chesta could see a neat white bandage with dots
of red soaking through. Folken’s eyelids were also inflamed and
swollen. Before falling asleep he had folded up Chesta’s torn
nightshirt and placed it on the seat of the chair. When Chesta picked
it up, he discovered that it had been neatly mended, with tiny,
almost invisible stitches. You couldn’t even see the rip unless
you looked hard for it. He hung the towel over the back of the chair
and slipped the nightshirt back on. Then, rather gingerly, he sat
down on the chair, relaxed as the momentary discomfort subsided, and
waited for Folken to wake up.

After some time, Folken’s eyes opened; he looked at Chesta as
if trying to remember who he was, then closed them again with a look
of pain.

‘Good morning,’ Chesta whispered. ‘We’re awake
in plenty of time.’

‘Good morning,’ Folken replied hoarsely.

‘Thank you for mending my nightshirt,’ Chesta said,
after a moment. ‘The stitches are really little. It doesn’t
even show.’

‘They’re sutures,’ Folken said. Both were silent
for a while.

‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ Folken said.

‘Only that I’m terribly sorry, with all my heart.’

‘I said I forgive you.’

Another long pause. Against his will, Chesta’s eyes began to
fill with tears; he sniffed and blinked fiercely, trying to force
them back, but it was no good.

‘Is - is it over between us?’

‘Chesta… I don’t see how we can go
on…’

‘I wish I’d never let him kiss me! You might still love
me then.’ He pressed the heels of his hands into his
eye-sockets, making himself see painful patterns of black light. He
felt Folken’s arms around his huddled shoulders, gentle,
cautious.

‘I do still love you. But surely you can’t love
me.’

‘Well, I do.’

‘Chesta…’

‘Shut up! I can't help it if I do! I - I won’t
let you dump me! I’ll tell everyone about you!’
Sobbing, he fell against Folken’s shoulder, hitting him weakly
with a bunched-up fist as he did.

‘I’m not dumping you,’ Folken said, his voice
trembling. ‘You ought to dump me.’

‘No.’ He tightened his arms fiercely around
Folken’s body, clinging to him. ‘I won’t let
go.’

‘Well,’ said Folken, and now it sounded as if he were
crying a little, ‘if you won’t let go of me… and I
won’t let go of you… I suppose we have to stay
together for the time being.’

Chesta sniffed again and rubbed his cheek on Folken’s silk
shoulder. ‘S’pose we do.’

Chapter Text

Dilandau woke in an ill temper. He was still frustrated and out of
sorts after the failure following yesterday’s victory. Chesta
had seemed so confused and shy throughout that he wasn’t sure he
had realised it was a question of impotence. That was something. And
there was no way Chesta would talk about it to anyone else.

The fact was, he, Dilandau, wasn’t enough any more, not
alone. He needed the feeling, at least the fantasy, of someone else
in order to become aroused. The dressing-gown had been Van’s
property, smelled like Van. He had been in his room. Van had watched
him while he worked his way up to ecstasy. He had hoped it was just
being with someone else that had got him going, but the experiment
with Chesta had proved otherwise. He’d really enjoyed the
idea of it, up until the idea became reality and he realised
he was stuck with a nervous, childish boy who didn’t know how to
kiss him in the way he needed and kept giving the unflattering
impression that he would rather not have been there at all. He’d
been entirely co-operative, but somehow Dilandau had been sure
he’d be thrilled to be chosen this way, and he so clearly was
not.

That had felt a little bit insulting. Maybe he’s just too
straight to appreciate a guy like me. Van, on the other hand… I
saw him, felt his eyes on me. He wants me as much as I want him.
Which puts me in the really shitty position of wanting to deny him,
so he’ll suffer, but that means I’ll suffer too.

He was displeased with everyone he saw that morning, not least
Chesta, who looked as if he had been on a crying jag and was moving
slowly and sluggishly.

Dalet noticed too, and tried to talk to him privately as they made
their way to the dining hall for breakfast.

‘Rough night,’ said Chesta, shaking his head.

‘That’s all.’

‘You look like hell,’ Dalet said frankly. ‘I think
he’s being too hard on you.’

‘No… he’s… he’s sorry…’ Chesta
said vaguely.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean… I don’t know… don’t worry about
it.’

‘Look… Chess… you’re my friend. And I keep
feeling like there are problems you’re not telling me about. It
makes me feel rotten to think you’re worrying about stuff and I
can’t help you.’

‘But I can’t tell you those things.’

‘What happened with Dilandau-sama?’

Chesta looked around nervously, but they were walking apart from
the others and no-one seemed to be paying attention to them.
‘I’m - I’m not supposed to tell anyone that
either.’

‘Is he in on it too?’

‘No! No, he doesn’t know anything.’

‘What did he want you for, then?’

‘I - I’m not sure… he seemed to change his
mind…’

‘Chess! Stop beating around the bush.’

‘I’m - I’m not sure how you’ll react if I tell
you. And I don’t like upsetting people, and I’m really
tired, and can’t we just…’

‘Please. I promise I won’t tell anyone. But if it’s
got anything to do with how upset you look today…’

In a very small voice, Chesta asked, ‘Would you think I was
really disgusting if I told you I’d let a guy kiss me?’

Dalet stopped walking and stared at him open-mouthed.

‘Because that’s what Dilandau-sama wanted. He wanted to
kiss. Okay? I think the idea was for us to make out a little, but I
think he got disappointed or something and it didn’t turn out.
And like an idiot I let him because I didn’t know how to say
no.’

‘Seriously?’
Dalet hissed. ‘I mean - no, no I don’t think you’re
disgusting. It’s not like it was your idea.’

‘I should’ve said no,’ Chesta said, his voice
trembling. ‘It was such a big mistake. I was just trying to be -
I don’t know, to be good.’ He looked ready to cry
again.

‘Oh, Chess - look, c’mere.’ Rather awkwardly, Dalet
put his arms round him and patted his back. Their shoulder armour got
in the way, but the kindness of the gesture still moved Chesta’s
heart and made him lean against his friend, trusting in his
support.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ Dalet murmured.
‘You just stick close to me. If he calls you, I’ll go too.
If he doesn’t like it, stuff him. I won’t let him do
anything to you you don’t want.’

‘Wh-why’re you so nice to me?’

‘Cause I like you, dummy. I know you’re a nice
person.’

‘Maybe… maybe you shouldn’t. I mean… I
don’t want you to get into any trouble. I’m not worth
it.’

‘Oh, bullshit. Besides, I bet if I let anything happen to
you, Folken-sama’ll want my guts for garters. Whereas if I take
good care of you he might give me a medal. It’s all in my
interest. Hey?’ He smiled, encouraging Chesta to smile back
through his tears. ‘Now cheer up, mushroom head. It’ll be
okay.’

They were alone in the corridor now; the others’ footsteps
had receded into the distance, except for one set running back. Gatti
popped his head round the corner and goggled at the two of them
hugging.

‘Ew, you fags!’

‘Oh, piss off,’ said Dalet
easily, releasing Chesta. ‘Chess isn’t feeling well. You
know how he gets. I’m just being Mother Dalet for a
while.’

‘Kidding,’ said Gatti, grinning cheekily. ‘Hurry
up! Dilandau’s gonna notice you’re missing.’ He
hurried off again.

‘Will you be okay now?’ Dalet asked Chesta.

‘Yes,’ said Chesta, wiping his eyes. ‘I feel a lot
better just because I talked to you.’

‘Even secret agents need a shoulder to cry on
sometimes,’ said Dalet, grinning. ‘Now let’s go before
Gatti tells everyone you’re my girlfriend.’ He grabbed
Chesta’s arm and towed him along.

Van did not have much appetite for lunch. He had spent the morning
secretly flying, which usually made him hungry as a hunter, but there
was so much angry acid sloshing around in his stomach that food did
not hold much appeal. Dilandau was in his mind’s eye all the
time, naked and beautiful, teasing him, laughing at him, hiding from
him amid folds of black silk.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten mad at him. Maybe then he
would’ve let me - but no, God no, then we probably would’ve
been in bed together when Folken came in. And so Folken thinks
I’m a compulsive wanker who squirts himself in the face. Just
brilliant. You bastard, Dilandau - no, you bitch. Wait till I
get my hands on you.

He looked up from his cooling soup to see that Folken was not
eating much either.

‘What are you looking so gloomy about?’ he asked.
Without meaning to, he made it sound grumpy and accusing. Folken put
down his spoon and gave him an unloving look.

‘I mean, what’s wrong, brother?’

Folken sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead wearily.
‘I can’t really talk about it with you, I’m afraid.
It’s personal.’

‘Says Mr I Don’t Have Time For Women,’ said Van,
bristling up a little. He was unconsciously on the defensive
today.

‘It can be personal without being about a woman.’

‘Oh, a man then.’

‘Van! Why do you have to assume it’s some sort of
affair? I happen to have a very busy and full life outside of you,
and it doesn’t always run smoothly! You might try to be a little
sympathetic instead of giving me those sulky looks.’ He stopped
and put his hand over his eyes, breathing out slowly. ‘I’m
sorry. Sorry, Van. I should really be apologising to you for
yesterday as well. This personal matter, which I’ll admit is
causing me a good deal of difficulty, has been making me very tense
and it’s been colouring my mood overall. I spoke to you more
harshly than I should have, and I wasn’t patient enough. I
understand how it can be at your age, how strong your impulses can
be. And really I ought to appreciate the fact that you went back to
your own place instead of using my bathroom. You were actually being
quite discreet. So… yes. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ said Van, a little surprised. ‘Can
I… I mean, can I do anything to help?’

‘Just go on being my good, dutiful little brother,’
Folken said with a small smile. ‘I know I can count on
you.’ He paused. ‘How are things between you and
Dilandau?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, what’s the situation? Open hostilities? Sweetness
and light? Something in between? I know he’s been a problem for
you and I was wondering how you’re getting on.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Van firmly, hoping he sounded
unconcerned. ‘I’m fine. He doesn’t bother
me.’

‘I do hope that if there were anything wrong, you would tell
me.’

‘You shouldn’t have to worry about me,’ Van said, a
little embarrassed.

‘I always will, though. It’s part of how I love
you.’

‘Well then, I’m glad you worry about me,’ Van said,
trying to smile.

Part of how I love you, Folken thought after Van had gone.
Just a part. And the way I love people is not entirely benign, I
know. That’s why I was afraid. I knew that at the back of my
mind before I was fully aware of it.

He touched the top of his arm, feeling the ache of the
self-inflicted wounds under the bandage. They seemed to take a little
of the guilt outside his body. Maybe as they healed, it would get
easier to bear. Why did I turn on Chesta that way? Looking at it
calmly, it’s so obvious. Being pathetically insecure about my
own merits, I was all too ready to believe that he loved someone
else, despite all the times he’s told me, shown me and proved to
me that he’s all mine. I was weak and stupid, and in my own
selfish and imperfect love, I didn’t trust him enough to believe
he loved me any better than I did him. I could have lost that
forever.

He pressed a little on the bandage, imagining the red coming
through its whiteness. So what are you going to do, Strategos?
It’s simple. You’re going to repent, and reform, and treat
that boy like your golden god for the rest of your life. Nothing else
matters. Well, check that - Van matters, and so do Nariya and Eriya.
That’s part of how I love them too. But besides that…
nothing else. Nothing I’m doing has any meaning except so far as
it may benefit these precious ones of mine, and Chesta above all. I
never saw it quite that way before, in its absoluteness. I can’t
delude myself that I’m doing it for the world any longer.
Perhaps I once was, and perhaps Dornkirk-sama still is, but for now I
just have to follow my heart or I’ll be living even more of a
lie. And, Strategos - he tightened his grip, inhaling sharply at
the pain - if you ever raise a hand to Chesta again, I’ll cut
off your other arm.

A light knock at the door, and there was Chesta. Folken rose to
his feet eagerly. He had been sitting waiting; the paperwork could
keep. They both hesitated, Chesta on the threshold, Folken by the
couch.

‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come tonight.’

‘Well… I did…’ Chesta shifted his footing a
little uncertainly. He was wearing pale blue pajamas, slightly too
big for him.

‘What happened to your nightshirt?’

‘I was afraid someone would notice the mend, so I got
something different. The Q stores only had pajamas, though, and only
this size. I have to roll up the sleeves and the legs.’ He
raised his hands with a little smile.

‘They suit you, though. The colour, I mean. And you look
sweet in clothes that are too big for you. Remember when you slept in
one of my shirts?’ I’m trying too hard, I’m trying
too hard, I feel like a fool.

‘I remember,’ said Chesta.
‘That was a really nice night.’

‘I hope we’ll have a lot more of those.’

‘So do I.’ Still, they couldn’t quite cross the
floor, close the gap. Chesta put his hands behind his back and looked
around the room. His eyebrows went up as he saw the table.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s - it’s a late supper for us. I wanted to give
you a treat.’

‘Candles?’ Chesta approached the table slowly, looking
somehow puzzled.

‘Mostly desserty things,’ Folken said, feeling that he
ought to be explaining. ‘I hope there’s something you
like.’

‘You got ice-cream,’ Chesta said, sounding a
little awed as he looked at the silver dish in a nest of ice.

‘Pink and white.’

‘It all feels so clumsy now,’ Folken admitted. ‘I
don’t mean I think this makes anything better. Think of it -
think of it as a token of good faith. I want to treat you properly
from now on.’

Chesta turned and looked at him, considering, a dark figure
against the glow of the candles that were the only light in the room.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot today about what happened last
night,’ he said.

‘Chesta,’ said Folken urgently, crossing the room and
taking hold of his hands, ‘I swear to you that will never happen
again. I swear by everything I’ve ever cared about.’

‘Well… that’s good,’ said Chesta,
‘because I realised that if it ever did… even though
I’d find it really hard… I’d have to leave you. I
begged you not to dump me, but when I think about it, I wouldn’t
want to be with you if it was only going to be like that. So I’m
just telling you that. This is the only warning I’ll give. I
want to believe in you, and give you another chance, but it can only
be one more chance, because I don’t want to have to keep feeling
like I did last night. I think I can believe in you,
Folken-sama.’

‘I promise,’ Folken said. He pressed Chesta’s hands
to his lips. ‘I promise. I swear by my father’s memory. I
swear by my brother’s life. Anything, anything I can do
for you, or give you, to show you that I mean it…’

‘The ice-cream will be enough for now,’ Chesta said,
smiling. He freed his hands and reached up to put his arms around
Folken’s neck. ‘And maybe a kiss.’

Folken kissed him very gently and reverently, almost fearfully,
and Chesta had to encourage him to be bolder. It was just beginning
to feel natural again when there was another tap at the door.

‘If that’s Van-sama, let’s flush his head in the
toilet,’ Chesta whispered.

‘Don’t be naughty. You’ll have to hide,’
Folken was whispering back, when the door slid open and a figure
stepped straight through. They sprang apart, Chesta with his hand on
his heart, which was making a spirited attempt to escape through his
mouth.

Dalet stood there in his rumpled shorts and undershirt, blinking
at them in the low light.

‘Um - Chesta?’ he said hesitantly.
‘Folken-sama?’

‘Dalet!’ Chesta
exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I - I followed you,’ Dalet said, sounding
uncharacteristically unsure of himself. ‘Because - because I
wanted to say…’ He pulled himself together and stood to
attention. ‘Whatever the two of you are doing, I want to be a
part of it.’

Folken thought he felt a few small parts of his brain fuse
together. For just a moment he had a mental image of what that might
be like, both boys’ lithe bodies twining around his, before a
great tidal wave of shock, embarrassment and shame washed it
away.

Chesta put his hands over his mouth; he thought something really
might come out, although not his heart.

‘Because Folken-sama,’ Dalet was saying eagerly,
‘if I were on the job too, Chesta wouldn’t have to work so
hard, would he? He’s getting really tired and run down, but I
know you can’t do without him, it’s very important, but I
thought if I volunteered it could make things easier for everyone. I
bet I can do everything he does. And I can learn really quickly if I
can’t.’

‘I - I beg your pardon?’ Folken said. He
wasn’t even sure who he was talking to. His whole mind was
hissing with panic.

‘You don’t have to pretend,’ Dalet said. ‘I
know all about it. I mean, I know Chess wasn’t supposed to tell
anyone but I’ve been silent as the dead, and I think what
you’re doing’s wonderful, I mean, the things you
think of, you’re amazing, and I’ve been so worried
about him, and I’m really gabbling aren’t I? But I mean it.
And I’m so excited about this.’

‘Th-this?’ Folken croaked.

‘All this secret agent stuff,’ said Dalet. ‘The
missions Chesta runs for you.’

Folken blinked at him, hoping that someone, sometime soon, would
say something that began to make sense. Next to him, he heard a deep,
shaky breath from Chesta, the sound of someone trying not to cry.

‘Dalet,’ said Chesta, ‘I’ve lied to you.
I’m so, so sorry. Folken-sama - I’m sorry!’ He turned
and ran through to the bedroom; they heard the bathroom door
slam.

‘Wh-what was that about?’ Dalet said, bewildered, and
looking a little unnerved at being left alone with the Strategos.

‘I - I don’t know,’ Folken said. ‘Let me be
sure I understand what you’ve said. Did Chesta tell you he was
working as a secret agent for me?’

‘Yes,’ Dalet said, nodding obediently. ‘Every
night. And he wouldn’t have told me anything except that I
caught him coming back one morning when I couldn’t sleep and
wouldn’t leave him alone until he spilled the beans. So please
don’t punish him for that, Folken-sama.’

‘A secret agent?’ Folken repeated numbly. Dalet was
looking confused; he had just noticed the candlelit table spread with
delicate food.

‘Um, are you, um, entertaining?’ he said
dubiously. ‘I can - I can go, Folken-sama, if… if…
what’s going on?’

‘Chesta’s not a secret agent,’ Folken said.
‘Unless it’s a secret from me too.’ Moving quickly, he
slipped behind Dalet and locked the door, then turned back to face
the boy who was now eyeing him with considerable trepidation.

‘Understand this,’ Folken told him. ‘You will never
repeat what I’m about to tell you to anyone without my
permission. In your life. Do you agree?’

‘Y-yes,’ Dalet said, adding ‘Folken-sama’ as
an afterthought.

‘Right,’ said Folken, letting out a long breath.
‘In point of fact… Chesta and I are in love.’

Dalet blinked. Then blinked again. His face could not seem to lose
its blank expression.

‘P-pardon?’ he said.

‘We are in love, and he comes to this room every night to -
to spend time with me,’ Folken explained.

‘The - the whole time that he was a secret agent for - back
to when he went to talk to you about Dilandau-sama?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit!’ Dalet clapped a hand over his mouth and looked
shocked at himself. ‘Sorry, Folken-sama! It’s just - my
God!’

‘He never told me that you’d been interrogating
him.’

‘I - it’s not like I bullied him - I - I was just
having fun at first… but I got fond of him… you know
Chesta… what am I saying, you know Chesta… and I was
worried about him… I swear that’s the only reason why I
came.’

‘I’ll want to ask Chesta about that,’ Folken
replied, folding his arms.

‘Oh, God! I mean - heaps of the things he said,
they’re starting to make sense in a whole other way.’ Dalet
shook his head in lingering disbelief. ‘He’s even sneakier
than I thought.’

‘Still want to be part of it?’

Dalet turned red from neck to hairline. ‘No sir! I
didn’t know when I said that!’

‘All right. Just so long as we’ve got that cleared up. I
was hoping that would be the case. I didn’t particularly like
the idea of Chesta inviting people to join us.’ He paced over to
the table. ‘The ice-cream is going to melt.’

‘Is… is Chesta going to be in trouble? I never wanted to
get him in any trouble. Please, Folken-sama, I was just trying to
help him.’

‘Chesta’s not in trouble,’ Folken said softly,
‘although I don’t think he believes that. You see, we had a
very… unfortunate time last night, when I thought he had
betrayed me, and then I did something to very badly upset
him… and this is supposed to be a make-up treat, if you
can believe that. I think he’s afraid I’m going to be angry
again and the whole can of worms will be re-opened. I can’t be
angry with him for this. He lied so well to protect me that he had
you completely fooled. It’s not his fault you decided to play
hero.’

Dalet swallowed hard, looking ashamed. ‘Maybe I could go and
talk to him,’ he suggested. ‘And tell him he doesn’t
need to be scared of you.’

‘I think that would be a good idea,’ Folken said.
‘It’s just through there,’ he said, nodding towards
the door.

‘Um… okay.’ Dalet tiptoed through to the darkened
bedroom. He could see a chink of light under the bathroom door, and
gently slid it open. Chesta was sitting huddled up against the
toilet, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He looked up with a gasp when
he heard Dalet enter.

‘It’s just me, Chess.’

‘Is - is Folken-sama…’

‘Don’t worry about Folken-sama, Chess. He sent me to
tell you he’s not mad. Everything’s okay.’ Dalet
squatted down to look Chesta in the eye. ‘Are you all
right?’

‘I’ve been sick,’ Chesta mumbled. ‘I flushed
it away, though.’

‘Would you like a drink of water?’

‘’s please.’

Dalet found a mouthwash glass and filled it at the sink, then
brought it to Chesta, who was sitting up a little straighter.

‘Rinse your mouth and spit first,’ he advised. He sat
down on the cold tile floor and waited until Chesta could speak
again.

‘Why’d you go and tell me such a silly story?’ he
asked gently.

‘B-because I couldn’t tell you the truth,’

Chesta said, sniffing. ‘I couldn’t betray
Folken-sama’s trust like that.’

‘He says you guys are in love.’

‘Yes,’ Chesta said simply.

‘Wow.’

‘And I c-couldn’t tell you because you might c-call me a
fag and not want to be my friend any more.’

‘Chess, I wouldn’t. Honestly, I wouldn’t.’ He
reached out and patted Chesta’s foot, which was closest to him.
‘You’re my friend no matter what.’

Chesta took another sip of water. ‘I didn’t mean not to
trust you. It’s just that so many people really hate us… or
they make all kinds of dumb remarks… we’ve got to be so
careful…’

‘I know,’ said Dalet with a little smile. ‘Hello,
fellow fag.’ He raised his hand and gave a little
fingertip-wave.

Chesta stared at him, his turquoise eyes huge above the rim of the
glass. ‘You’re joking,’ he said.

‘It’s funny to find out two other people are on the same
day,’ Dalet said. ‘Especially someone like you - but
it’s silly to say that, I already knew there was a lot more to
you than shows on the surface.’

‘Is - is this why you wanted to make friends?’
Chesta asked, blushing.

‘No!’ Dalet laughed. ‘I mean, no offence,
you’re very cute, I think Folken-sama’s lucky, but
I’ve already got someone I like.’

‘A boyfriend?’

‘Sadly, no. Just someone I admire from afar, and don’t
dare tell him how I feel. Just like how you couldn’t tell me,
and I couldn’t tell you. You don’t need to feel bad about
that, Chess. We were both keeping something back.’

‘Is it anyone I know?’

‘Um,’ said Dalet, looking embarrassed. ‘You know,
I’ve never told anyone before. I haven’t even said it out
loud. But I guess it’s fine to tell you. I like Migel
Labariel.’

‘Migel!’

‘Well, yeah! What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing, nothing. I’m just surprised.’

‘What’s not to like? I mean, look at him, that hair, and
those eyes, that mouth, those hands - not to mention a butt that
could crack walnuts.’

Chesta started to giggle. ‘Perhaps that’s his party
trick.’

‘Anyway, you can’t criticise my taste, look who
you took up with. Now that’s
unconventional.’

‘I think he’s lovely,’ said Chesta
complacently.

‘But you two… you had a fight last night? Or
something?’

‘Yes,’ said Chesta, looking downcast again. ‘About
me kissing Dilandau-sama.’

‘But that wasn’t your fault.’

‘Folken-sama didn’t see it that way at first.’

‘Look, I don’t want to pass judgement on your
relationship, but can I just say that if he requires you to call him
Folken-sama in bed I think he’s a complete tosser?’

‘He doesn’t. He’s always trying to get me
not to do it and just call him Folken, but I can’t always
remember.’

‘Did he pull the heavy jealous boyfriend number?’ Dalet
asked, leaning back against the wall.

‘A bit,’ said Chesta, looking down into the mouthwash
glass.

‘Did he hurt you?’

A long pause.

‘A bit,’ said Chesta.

‘But you’re making up?’

‘He’s really sorry.’

‘You can’t always trust guys who say they’re really
sorry. My stepfather was always really sorry. And always did it again
anyway.’ Dalet raised one eyebrow sardonically.

‘I - I know - and if it happens again I’ll call it off,
but this was the first time and I do believe him. I - I don’t
want to give up on him, Dalet, because when it’s good it’s
so wonderful.’

Dalet looked at him a moment, then sighed. ‘Well, I’ll
always be here, okay? We can stick together, like friends are
supposed to.’

‘You’re so nice to me, Dalet,’ Chesta said,
putting down the glass and leaning over to hug him.

‘Fag,’ said Dalet gruffly. ‘You’re such a
girly blouse I should have guessed.’ He hugged back, and ruffled
Chesta’s hair.

‘And - and Folken-sama says he’s not angry?’ Chesta
asked, sitting back.

‘Yeah. And I think he is telling the truth. He just wants you
to come out and have some ice-cream, apparently.’

‘You see? He’s so sweet. Getting something like that for
me.’

‘Don’t let him buy you with ice-cream, Chess.’

‘Oh, I’ll do anything for ice-cream,’ said
Chesta, rolling his eyes dramatically and then laughing.

‘It’s so weird to think of you like this. Sneaking off
every night to see your lover. Are you two - well, are you actually
sleeping together?’

‘Yes. We have been all the time.’

‘You have to tell me what that’s like.’

‘Have you never done it?’

Dalet shook his head. ‘I’ve kissed my older cousin, and
we played with each other a little, but then his mother yelled
upstairs that dinner was ready and we never really picked up on that
again. And the Dragonslayer years haven’t exactly been full of
opportunities for romance. It’s so dumb, I share a shower with
the guy I’m in love with and I’ve never even touched
him.’

‘Do you think you’re really in love?’

Dalet tipped his head back, resting it against the cool wall.
‘I don’t know. This is what I expect being in love to feel
like. I just feel right whenever I get to be with him, whenever
he’s talking to me. There’s something about him, a kind of
feeling of authority and pride, that makes me feel safe with him. And
he’s really smart, which I think is great, and on the surface it
seems like he never mucks around but he’s got this really sly
waspish sense of humour underneath… and he’s
courageous. Not just brave, but courageous, like not many
people are.’

‘And then there’s always the walnut-cracking butt,’
said Chesta matter-of-factly, and they both laughed.

‘Not to be overlooked!’

‘Oh, God. I wonder how many more of us there are that we
don’t know about. It’s starting to feel like the whole ship
is queer.’

‘The Fighting Fruits of the Vione,’ said Dalet,
grinning. ‘Hey, what if that’s what the Dragonslayer
aptitude tests select for! Intelligence, agility, hand-eye
co-ordination, and homosexual tendencies.’

‘Oh no. No, come on, Dalet.’

‘I’m not kidding! Look at Gatti and Biore. If
they’re not asshole buddies I don’t know who is.’

‘You’re being so mean.’ Chesta put a hand over his
mouth in an effort to smother his giggles.

‘And I favour this theory particularly because it gives me
more of a chance with the lovely Migel.’

‘It explains Dilandau-sama and Van-sama.’

‘Yeah, as soon as Van-sama got the uniform on he suddenly
noticed all the soldiers had lovely bottoms.’ They almost
collapsed together, laughing.

There was a hesitant tap at the closed door and Folken’s
voice asked ‘Are you two all right?’

‘We’re fine,’ Dalet called out, giving a pat to
Chesta, who looked a little cowed. ‘Are you ready to go out and
see him?’ he asked in an undertone.

‘Yes,’ said Chesta, and getting to his feet, he opened
the door. He opened his mouth to speak and Folken popped a spoonful
of pink ice-cream into it.

‘I am not angry with you,’ he said emphatically.
Chesta bobbed up on tiptoe and kissed him through the melting
strawberry mouthful. It was such a sweet kiss that they clung
together for a long moment, until Dalet gave a discreet little cough
and they broke apart, blushing.

‘Don’t mind me,’ he said, grinning. ‘Uncle
Dalet just wants you young people to be happy.’

‘I thought you were Mother Dalet,’ Chesta said.

‘I’m versatile,’ Dalet said. ‘Um… if my
work here is done, should I bugger off?’

‘Oh, you don’t have to go,’ Chesta said.

‘Can’t he stay, Folken-sama - I mean Folken? We can’t
eat all those lovely things ourselves and I want to reward him for
being so nice to me.’

‘Which I only did to get ice-cream,’ said Dalet, a
little embarrassed by Chesta’s fulsome praise.

‘He’s welcome to stay,’ said Folken, ‘if he
would like to.’ He felt a bit out of his depth, but he was not
about to say no to Chesta.

It ended up being a rather pleasant, if unusual evening. Perhaps
foolishly, he allowed both the boys to have as much wine as they
liked, and Dalet gave him a very earnest tipsy lecture on his
responsibilities as Chesta’s lover.

‘No getting into bed with cold feet. No calling him Baby. And
you bloody well get him something nice for his birthday, all
right?’

‘All right, all right. Don’t breathe fumes in my face
any more.’

‘You know, I used to think you were really spooky,’
Dalet declared, ‘but I see you’re all right after
all.’ He smacked a kiss onto Folken’s cheek and went off in
search of a meringue.

‘Don’t kiss him!’ Chesta protested, from his seat
in Folken’s lap on the couch. ‘I’ve got exclusive
Folken-kissing privileges.’

‘Yes you have,’ Folken assured him.

‘Damn’ right,’ said Chesta, giving him a rather wet
winy smooch.

‘Chesta, you little ratbag, you’ve had all the
meringues,’ Dalet complained at the table. Chesta stuck out his
tongue at him, then as long as he had it out, turned to lick
Folken’s earlobe before putting it away.

‘Do you think you should be doing that while your
friend’s here?’ Folken asked him quietly, a little
startled.

‘He doesn’t mind.’

‘Well, I feel a bit funny about it.’

‘I want to make you feel a bit funny,’ Chesta
replied, smiling and wriggling in his lap.

‘Stop that!’ Folken gasped, trying to hold him
still.

‘I wish I had,’ Chesta said, grimacing. ‘Now my
bottom hurts.’

‘I’m so sorry about that.’

‘It’s all right. My bottom will forget about it as long
as you’re always extraspecially nice to it in future.’

‘What are you talking about over here?’ Dalet
demanded, plunking down beside them with a bowl of chocolate
mousse.

‘My bottom,’ Chesta said promptly.

‘Ah, the human bottom,’ Dalet said dreamily.
‘Isn’t it a wonderful thing. I flatter myself that my own
bottom isn’t half bad. Although my heart belongs to another
bottom. Do you think that’s the origin of the expression "the
bottom of my heart"?’

‘Oh God,’ Folken said dryly. ‘I’m entertaining
two drunk fifteen-year-olds in their skivvies. My reputation may
never recover.’

‘Chesta! You didn’t tell me he was funny!’

‘Do you think that’s funny?’ asked Chesta
dubiously.

Folken pinched him gently. ‘Cheeky. Between the two of you, I
feel very old.’

‘Well, you do have grey hair, kind of,’ said
Dalet, tipping his head back on the back of the couch and looking up
at him sideways, ‘but you’re otherwise quite
youthful.’

‘And quite useful,’ Chesta said, playing with the zipper
on Folken’s tunic.

‘What’s sex like?’ Dalet asked abruptly.

‘Dalet!’ Folken felt obscurely shocked.

‘Lovely and messy,’ Chesta said helpfully.

‘Does it hurt, having something pushed up your
bum?’

‘I’m sure we don’t want to talk about that,’
Folken said hurriedly. ‘I think you two are a bit past your
best.’

‘It only really hurts if it’s not done properly,’
Chesta told Dalet, ‘or of course if it’s just too
big, I suppose.’

‘I tried to put a peeled carrot up my bum once,’ said
Dalet, conversationally, ‘but it was cold and it felt horrible
and I got nervous and stopped.’

‘Ew!’ squealed Chesta, and started giggling.

‘I can’t believe you two,’ said Folken.

‘Folken feels much nicer than a peeled carrot,’

Chesta confided in Dalet.

‘Chesta, stop it, you’re embarrassing me.’

‘You don’t need to be embarrassed about that,’
Chesta protested. ‘I think you should be very proud.’

‘I want to find out what Migel Labariel feels like,’
Dalet said, resuming his dreamy tone. ‘Hey, Folken-sama,
you’re in charge of everyone - order Migel to sleep with
me.’

‘You can’t order the Strategos to give orders.’

‘I can ask very sweetly and bat my eyelashes.’

‘I’m sorry, Dalet, but your eyelashes have no power over
me,’ Folken said briskly. He got to his feet, lifting Chesta in
his arms. ‘Now, Chesta and I are going to bed. You’re
welcome to sleep here on the couch, I’ll bring you a blanket,
and I’ll make sure you two are awake in plenty of time to go
back to your dorm without being missed.’

‘Oh, not fair,’ Dalet moaned, stretching out. ‘You
two go and get to have lovely messy sex and I lie here with only
chocolate mousse for company.’

‘Folken’s blushing,’ Chesta reported. ‘Because
you know what he’s going to do to me-e.’

‘Please, Chesta.’

‘Please, Folken.’ He kissed him on the chin.

‘Behave yourself.’

‘Night night, Dalet,’ called Chesta, waving over
Folken’s shoulder as he was carried into the bedroom. Folken
returned to spread a blanket over Dalet and found him fast asleep
with the bowl of mousse balanced on his chest. He moved the bowl to
the table and tucked Dalet in. Another boy he’d never taken much
notice of until he turned up on his doorstep; another very pretty
boy, although in a very different way from Chesta’s porcelain
beauty. Dalet was like a slender little light brown cat; Folken had
found his eyes disturbingly knowing. He stretched and then relaxed as
the blanket was tucked around him, making him think again of a cat.

A very boozed-up little cat. Sleep tight, kitten.

He re-entered the bedroom to find Chesta sitting coquettishly in
the middle of the bed, naked except for one of Folken’s shirts,
snatched from a drawer. He stopped just inside the doorway to enjoy
the sight of him.

‘I have a little wish,’ said Chesta.

‘What’s that?’

‘To watch you take your clothes off.’

‘I can grant that.’ He slid down the zip on his tunic.
Chesta watched him with bright, misty eyes, at first stroking his own
chest and stomach, then reaching down to play with himself.

‘Is this right?’ Folken asked as he let his skirts and
underwear drop to the floor.

‘Exactly right. Come here.’ They met with gentle kisses,
curling together amidst the rumpled sheets.

‘How do you want to proceed?’

‘What do you mean, using a big word like "proceed"?’

‘I don’t know… just, how do you want it to go
tonight?’

‘First, I just want to kiss and cuddle.’

‘Are you sure you’re in a fit state? You’re a bit
dopey. Dalet’s passed out on the couch.’

‘I’m glad he was here tonight.’ Chesta kissed
Folken’s shoulder, thoughtfully. ‘I think if we’d been
alone it would all have blown up into another very upset mess like
last night.’

‘Sweetheart, there wouldn’t have been anything to blow
up if Dalet hadn’t come in like that.’

‘Oh, all right… that’s true… but I’m
still glad he was here. I’m glad we all know the same secrets
now and I can just talk to him without worrying about keeping my
story straight. He was a good influence on us.’

‘I wish he wouldn’t have said that about the
carrot. I won’t be able to look a carrot in the eye from now
on.’

‘Carrots don’t have eyes.’

‘Potatoes do.’

‘Irriot,’ Chesta growled affectionately, rolling on top
of Folken to kiss him better.

‘Sure you don’t just want to take a break
tonight?’

‘Are you trying to get out of it or something?’

‘I just don’t want you to do anything unless you really,
really want to. I don’t want to risk hurting you again,
even by accident.’

‘I want to so much…’ Chesta sighed. ‘I want to
make it official again.’ He gave Folken a lingering kiss
on the lips, their tongues moving round each other in a drowsy
spiral. ‘But maybe… maybe it can wait.’ He lowered his
head on Folken’s shoulder, his eyelids fluttering closed.

‘Love you.’

‘Thank you, Chesta.’ He
stroked the boy’s hair until he fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Folken woke with an unusual feeling of weight on top of him, and
opened his eyes to find that at some stage during the night Dalet had
crawled onto the bed with his blanket and curled up with them. The
squash in the narrow bed was almost unbelievable. He reached over to
light the bedside lamp, then nudged Chesta, who was beginning to
stir.

‘Gummorning,’ Chesta mumbled, kissing his cheek without
opening his eyes.

‘Chessy, wake up.’

‘Wh’for?’

‘Look.’

Chesta opened his eyes, wiped the sleep from their corners,
blinked, and grinned.

‘Anyone seeing this would say it looked like you
really scored last night.’

‘Aargh.’ Folken let his head drop back on the pillow.
‘He isn’t going to want to come over every night from now
on, is he?’

‘Of course not,’ said Chesta, snuggling up against him.
‘Isn’t he cute when he’s asleep? His bangs always get
mashed to one side.’

‘I don’t think I like you calling someone else cute
while you’re in bed with me.’

‘Ah, but he is merely cute, while you are
devastatingly handsome and incomparably gorgeous,’ Chesta
said.

‘Oh. All right, then. He’s cute.’ Folken reached
over, took a lock of hair from Dalet’s temple and placed it
under his nose, making a moustache.

‘That’s much too old for him,’ Chesta said, shaking
his head.

‘Does it ever strike you that our lives have become very,
very strange?’

‘I think they were strange anyway. Now they’re just
strange in new ways.’ He leaned over and shook Dalet’s
shoulder. ‘Wakey wakey.’

‘Nuhh…’ said Dalet, and burrowed his face into the
covers.

‘Dalet,’ said Folken, and didn’t need to say any
more. Dalet scrambled up and tried to get out of the side of the bed
that was against the wall.

‘You have the Voice of Command,’ Chesta said to Folken,
snuggling up and hugging his arm admiringly.

‘Why do I feel so awful?’ Dalet groaned.

‘First, because you just bumped your forehead on the wall,
second, because you’re not used to waking up this early, and
third, because you’re very likely hung over,’ Folken said.

‘Go and have a drink of water. The worst of it is
dehydration.’

‘Yes, and shut the bathroom door so Folken can find some
clothes without feeling embarrassed,’ Chesta added.

‘Thank you.’

‘I don’t know how you can live like this,’ Dalet
said, peering groggily at the clock on the nightstand. ‘God.
I’ve never seen a clock at three in the
morning.’

‘Well, we get to go back to bed in the dorm,’ Chesta
pointed out.

‘No wonder you always look shagged out,’ Dalet muttered,
and made his way to the bathroom, yawning.

‘Poor thing,’ said Folken, without much sympathy.

‘He’s exaggerating about the clock.’

‘And now we don’t get to make beasts of ourselves in the
bathroom,’ Folken complained, lying back down with Chesta
nestled in his arms.

‘We still can, once he’s finished.’

‘I don’t think I can, really. I would feel very
uncomfortable knowing he was out in the next room waiting for us to
be finished. It was bad enough last night when he was just sleeping
out there; I was relieved when you fell asleep because I’d been
afraid I wouldn’t be able to perform for nervousness.’

‘You? Unable to perform? Impossible,’ Chesta said, and
grinned. ‘Anyway, I remember you keeping it up through several
minutes’ conversation with Van-sama and having your way with me
almost immediately after.’

‘Yes, but he didn’t know what we were up to.
That’s what’s embarrassing.’ Folken raked his
fingers through his hair, rubbing away the slight itchiness he felt
on waking. ‘I like this type of thing to be very
private.’

‘No three-way, then,’ said Chesta, in a disappointed
tone.

‘Chesta!’

‘I’m joking! I’m joking. I love only you,
remember?’ He gave Folken a peck on the cheek. ‘It might
look very nice in a picture but in the real world I want it to be
just you and me. And anyway Dalet doesn’t want to. He likes
Migel, remember?’

‘Oh yes. I’m just trying to remember which one of you
that is.’

‘Taller than me, short brown hair parted on the side,
good-looking in a slightly haughty sort of way?’

‘I think I’ve got him placed, but I might be wrong. I
used to confuse you and that other one with blond hair. Whatshisname.
Parts it in the middle.’

‘You confused me with Gatti!? Folken, you’ve
crushed me!’

‘Only a tiny little bit when I didn’t really know
you,’ Folken protested. Chesta let him know he was forgiven with
a kiss, and they settled down again to wait for Dalet to vacate the
bathroom.

‘Folken?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Dalet and I have a Theory.’

‘What sort of theory?’

‘We think maybe all the Dragonslayers are
queer.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

‘So there isn’t anything in the selection criteria that
would mean more queer boys got in?’

‘Certainly not. It’s a coincidence about the two of
you.’

‘And Dilandau-sama?’

Folken winced; he’d managed not to think about Dilandau for a
while. ‘Dilandau is an entirely different kettle of fish.’
I suppose there’s a sort of logic to it. Since he really is a
girl. But the two personalities are quite distinct… I don’t
see how Celena’s feelings could affect it that way, and she
doesn’t ever seem to have aggressively pursued Van… perhaps
he is just homosexual at that. I don’t understand it. Don’t

want to understand it.

‘And I don’t want to talk about a kettle of fish,’
he said decisively, rolling Chesta over and tickling him. There was a
good deal of tussling and giggling going on under the sheets when
Dalet emerged from the bathroom, and promptly backed straight back in
and shut the door.

‘It’s all right,’ Chesta called out. ‘Just go
on through to the front room.’

‘Right,’ Dalet said, putting a blushing face back into
the room and following it rather uncertainly with the rest of his
body. ‘Scuse me.’ He hurried out to the front room and shut
that door behind him. Drinking about a litre of water had made him
feel a little fresher, but he still felt that he was up entirely too
early. He pottered around a little, making himself comfortable; a few
minutes later Chesta came out, in his pajamas again and towelling his
hair dry.

‘That’s the fastest shower I’ve ever had here, and
then Folken shooed me out so I wouldn’t distract him while
he’s shaving,’ he remarked. ‘Oh, ugh, Dalet,
what are you doing? How can you eat that first thing in the
morning?’

‘It’s in lieu of coffee,’ Dalet replied
defensively, taking another spoonful of leftover chocolate
mousse.

‘I think you’re mad, and I’m going to finish the
raspberries,’ Chesta informed him.

‘It’s a much nicer breakfast than we’ll be getting
in a few hours,’ Dalet said as Chesta sat down beside him with a
bowl of berries. ‘Does he always lay on a spread like this for
you?’

‘No, it’s special,’ Chesta said. ‘You just
lucked out, turning up when there was a chance of free
food.’

‘It’s the mooching instinct,’ said Dalet,
laughing.

‘Have a raspberry.’

‘Have some mousse.’

They exchanged a few spoonfuls of the contents of their bowls and
ate in companionable silence.

‘Ummmm… Chesta?’

‘Mm?’ Chesta looked up from his efforts to scrape the
last traces of chocolate and raspberry juice from his bowl.

‘About last night… I’m sorry I got all weird and
silly after I’d had a few drinks. I’m not really used to
it.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘I mean, I think I said some things that I don’t totally
mean.’

‘Like?’

‘Like… like Folken ordering Migel to sleep with me…
I mean I know he wouldn’t do that anyway, but - but…

I know it makes me sound like a wimp, but I don’t feel ready to
go to bed with someone yet. Do you think that’s
stupid?’

‘No,’ said Chesta, after considering it for a moment.
‘Everyone’s different. I mean, when Folken made the first
move I was thrilled to bits and ready to go for it straight away, but
that’s just me. You shouldn’t feel like you have to hurry
because of what other people are doing. Folken was twenty-five before
he lost his virginity.’

‘Wow.’ Dalet looked a little stunned. ‘How old is
he now?’

‘Twenty-five,’ said Chesta, and grinned. ‘I seduced
him. I’m terrible.’

‘He’s only twenty-five? I thought he must be like
thirty!’

‘Do you think I’d sleep with someone twice my
age?’

‘It’s only half as old again as the age difference you
have got.’

‘Well, it feels like a bigger difference than that.’
Chesta sucked his spoon clean, meditatively.

‘When I think about being with Migel…’ Dalet
paused, looking at the patterns he’d traced in his bowl with the
spoon.

‘Hmm?’

‘I just think about… holding hands, kissing, maybe, sort
of, you know, petting, but I don’t imagine we’d do
it until we’re quite a lot older.’

‘Well then, that’s what’s right for you. Don’t
worry about it.’

‘As if I’d ever get to find out anyway,’ Dalet
said, leaning back and blowing up through his bangs. ‘He’s
so very very straight.’

‘Folken says he doesn’t know of any reason why
Dragonslayers would be more likely to be fags. He thinks it’s a
coincidence.’

‘That doesn’t mean we’re not, of course.
Coincidence is a wonderful thing!’

The door to the bedroom slid back and Folken put his head out, his
chin still half-covered with shaving lather.

‘You two… it’s later than I thought. You’d
better return to your dorm now.’ He beckoned to Chesta and
pointed to the shaved side of his face. ‘Kiss here.’ Chesta
obeyed and made a little grimace.

‘You still taste soapy.’

‘And your mouth is sticky.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Chesta said, wiping at Folken’s
cheek with his sleeve. ‘Chocolate kiss.’

‘Do you two think you’ve been cute enough for one
morning?’ Dalet asked, waiting anxiously by the door.

‘Don’t be rude,’ said Chesta, joining him. Together
they crept out into the pre-dawn dark.

‘Dalet?’ Chesta whispered just as they came to the
dormitory door.

‘What?’

‘I’m really glad you came… I’m glad you know
everything now.’ He found his friend’s hand in the dark and
gave it a warm squeeze, returned by Dalet.

‘Well, you’re welcome. Now sshh!’

Everything is fine now. Well, all right, it’s not so good
when I sit down, but everything’s better. I have a friend
who understands… I’ve sorted things out with
Folken-sama… now my problems are solved, maybe I can do
something to help Dilandau-sama. Within reason. From now on…

well, I can’t believe this is me saying this, but he’d
better keep his hands to himself.

Dilandau was not exactly hiding. He was sort of lying in ambush,
letting the shadows of the catwalk conceal him. There wasn’t any
sign of Van yet, and really he was just guessing that he would come,
but it was the only first-hand Van-sighting he’d had outside the
places he might legitimately show up. It was making him nervous just
to be there, but he kept reminding himself that if he only sat tight
he would have the advantage of surprise.

And he had to see him, had to touch him, had to get a reaction,
even if it were a negative one. He bit his bare fingertips
unconsciously, feeling a little cold in his shirtsleeves.

There. Van was stepping out onto the catwalk, looking
around him warily. He stopped in the middle and stripped off his
jacket, then his shirt; he stood still a moment, stretching his arms
above his head and tilting his head from side to side, loosening his
shoulder muscles. Dropping his arms, he stared out into the clear
morning sky, breathing deeply. He had the wind knocked out of him as
Dilandau pounced and tackled him; they rolled to the ground and he
found himself pinned on his back with Dilandau sitting astride his
body.

‘Good morning!’ Dilandau said brightly.
‘Didn’t see you at breakfast. How’s the boy?’

‘Get off me,’ Van growled.

‘How can I, knowing you get off on me?’ Dilandau purred,
leaning down and flicking the tip of his tongue against Van’s
lips before he could turn his face away.

Kicking his legs up, Van managed to buck him halfway off and roll
over, capturing Dilandau with a forearm across his throat.

‘You are not going to have it your way,’ he
grunted.

‘I had it all my own way yesterday,’ Dilandau
said, his voice not much above a whisper.

‘You’re sick. Do you know that? You’re
disgusting.’

‘And you like watching me masturbate. Who’s
sick?’ He grinned and moved his hips, gently rocking against
Van’s body.

‘Stop that.’

‘You like it.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Make me.’

‘I’ll make you choke.’ He put his weight on
the arm across Dilandau’s throat and had the satisfaction of
seeing him struggle for breath. As the albino boy’s face
reddened, he bent down and kissed his mouth, deeply, firmly,
suffocating him with both pain and pleasure. Despite the discomfort,
Dilandau responded with a fierce eagerness… and he never had
obeyed the command to stop rubbing himself against Van. Shifting
gently under him, he got Van’s thigh between his legs and
pressed his growing hardness against it. Van released his chokehold,
lowering himself on top of Dilandau’s body, gripping a handful
of his hair as their tongues fought. Dilandau drew Van’s lower
lip into his mouth, sucking it until it felt swollen and inflamed,
then biting its tenderness. Van tried to draw back, but Dilandau held
him; he tugged a little, and felt pain. Dilandau was grinning, his
eyes shining hatefully. Pushing his knee harder into Dilandau’s
groin, he issued a silent threat; hurt me and I’ll hurt
you. Reluctantly, Dilandau opened his mouth; Van jerked his head
away, gasping.

‘Spoilsport,’ Dilandau breathed. His hand shot down
between Van’s legs, grabbing, not gentle. With a thrust of his
hips he rolled the two of them over, claiming dominance, beginning to
ride Van’s thigh.

‘Get the fuck off me!’ Van shoved hard and managed to
free himself, scrabbling back against the railing. Dilandau picked
himself up onto hands and knees and crouched there, gazing at him
with bright fiery eyes.

‘Don’t you like our game?’ he asked, wetting his
lips with his tongue. It was so red; somehow it looked obscene
to Van. A jolt of fear went through him and was swiftly transmuted
into anger.

‘All right, then,’ Dilandau said casually, getting to
his feet. ‘Goodbye.’ He began to walk away, as calmly as if
nothing had happened.

He is not doing that to me again. Van launched
himself at Dilandau’s back, knocking him to his knees and
bringing his fist down on his shoulders with all his force. Dilandau
cried out but slipped out from under him like a greased eel;
scrambling to his feet, he ran, barging through the door to the
internal corridor.

There was no chance to duck into a hiding place this time; Van was
right on his heels, almost as fast as he was. He had to tell himself
quite sternly that turning his head to see the look on Van’s
face would only slow him down and make him easier to catch. But
maybe I want him to catch me. Being chased like this was
certainly exhilarating; knowing how he had provoked Van, getting such
a reaction, was making his heart beat fast in a way that had nothing
to do with the exertion of running. He was getting the giggles.

Without any conscious direction, his feet were carrying him to a
place where he could stand at bay; he pelted into the training hall,
losing a critical second in opening the door; Van caught up and they
tumbled over the floor under the astonished gaze of the boys
assembled for exercise.

Chesta, who had been doing sit-ups with Dalet holding his feet
down, sprang into an upright position in a way he hadn’t even
known he was capable of; he heard Dalet exclaim ‘Shit!
Catfight!’ and a nervous titter from Gatti.

Dalet hadn’t been trying to be funny; it really did look like
a catfight, the way the two of them were locked together. Already
there were bleeding scratches on Van’s back and arms; he reared
up long enough to deliver two hard punches to Dilandau’s face
before being thrown back down, a handful of his hair seized and the
back of his head banged against the floor.

The paralysis of shock left Chesta. He leapt forward and threw his
arms around Dilandau from behind, pinning his arms down to his sides
and dragging backwards, trying to haul him off Van’s body.

‘Dilandau-sama, please, stop!’

Dilandau screamed and thrashed against him; there were tears of
fury running down his face along with a trickle of blood from his
nose. Terrified, Chesta hung on; he glimpsed Migel trying to restrain
Van and yelling for someone to help before he was joined by
Dalet.

Leaving me to deal with Dilandau-sama alone! Chesta felt
put-upon in the midst of his panic, but a moment later he was joined
by Biore and between them they managed to still Dilandau. He hung
limply from their arms, breathing heavily.

‘Are you all right?’ Chesta whispered. ‘We
didn’t want you to get hurt.’ Straightening up, Dilandau
gave him a murderous glare.

‘You think I can’t beat him?’

‘I think you’re bleeding.’ Chesta offered him his
handkerchief, which he ignored.

‘Gave him a fat lip,’ said Dilandau, and giggled
faintly. Now that the crisis seemed to be over, Biore had deserted
them, falling back to whisper wide-eyed with Gatti. ‘What’s
gotten into you, Chesta? Where do you get off interfering like
this?’

‘I - I could tell stories about you, Dilandau-sama,’
Chesta said, with a kind of desperate boldness. Dilandau blinked,
startled; Chesta saw the dilated pupils of his eyes shrink down.

‘Thought you were on my side,’ he murmured.

‘I am,’ Chesta said softly. ‘I am. But there’s
a limit to what I’ll put up with. To what any of us will.
You’re putting yourself in danger, Dilandau-sama, riding for a
fall. You can’t go on like this.’ If only I could talk
to you privately. If only there was any way you’d listen to me
and take me seriously.

Dilandau stared at him incredulously, then began to laugh, a
little hysterically.

‘Give me that handkerchief,’ he said, snatching it and
pressing it to his nose. He was also, Chesta thought, going to need
some ice; an impressive bruise was swelling on his cheekbone.
Dilandau shook his arm free from Chesta’s loosening grasp and
strode forward to Van, still held like a prisoner between Migel and
Dalet, and spitting threats at them. He grew still as Dilandau
approached; their eyes locked and Dalet found himself imagining a
shower of sparks.

‘You’ve got to learn,’ Dilandau said softly.
‘Not the face.’

Van didn’t reply, only stared wildly. Dalet shot an uneasy
glance at Migel, wondering if he too could hear the rumbling growl in
the boy’s throat.

Very deliberately, Dilandau reached out and dug the nail of his
forefinger into Van’s cheek, then dragged it down, making a
livid red scratch, the twin of his own scar. Startled, Migel and
Dalet tried to back away without letting go.

‘You can go, boys,’ Dilandau said, still not taking his
eyes off Van’s. Hesitantly, they retreated. Shifting his fingers
to cup Van’s chin, he tilted his head gently to the side and
licked the blood from his cheek with the tip of his tongue, retracing
the line of the scratch. Van stood motionless under his touch.

‘How do you like it, demon king?’ Dilandau
breathed into his ear. There was a moment’s absolute stillness.
Then Van’s fist shot out at waist height, punching up into
Dilandau’s stomach, slamming into his solar plexus. He dropped
to his knees, unable to breathe. Van stood over him a moment, glaring
around at the Dragonslayers as if daring them to approach. Then he
stalked out of the room.

‘D-Dilandau-sama…’ Chesta stammered. The only sound
from Dilandau was a painful wheezing. He seemed to be trying to get
up, but couldn’t quite make it.

‘Dilandau-sama…’ Dalet touched his shoulder, and
was angrily shrugged away. After a moment he pushed himself to his
feet, and stood with his head bowed, hugging his stomach, breathing
hard. Gasping, he covered his mouth with his hand.

‘’mgonnabesick…’ He ran for the locker room,
slamming the door behind him. After the slam, the silence in the
training hall was deafening. Chesta shifted uneasily and heard the
leather of his pants squeak so loudly it frightened him. Most people
were staring wide-eyed at the door. Then a soft undercurrent of
whispering began.

Oh my God. No-one is going to help him. They’re standing
there discussing it! A couple of weeks ago we would
practically have been throwing up in sympathy! He dashed after
Dilandau. A hand caught his arm as he reached the door; Gatti.

‘Are you sure you should…’

‘Let go of me!’ Chesta snapped, jerking his arm
away.

‘I’m just trying to look out for you, mushroom head.
We’ve got to stick together.’

‘If you’re not his friend you’re not mine
either,’ Chesta said, hot with embarrassment at the tears he
could feel welling up. ‘Leave us alone!’ He went through
the door, smacking it shut.

‘Typical Chess,’ said Gatti, looking peeved.

‘He’s just got no concept of the
situation.’

‘Now he’s just gonna get his face ripped off,’
Biore sighed.

‘Well, thank you for your analysis,’ Dalet said sharply.
‘Does anyone remember how it used to be? Does anyone remember
what we used to care about?’

‘Everything’s changed,’ Gatti protested.

‘You’ve changed.’

‘So’ve you!’

‘Well - well - at least I haven’t changed into a
bitch!’

Gatti’s eyebrows went up. ‘What the hell kind of talk is
that? Are you looking for a fight?’

‘Calm down, both of you,’ Migel said. ‘Dalet - you
want to go and see if Chesta’s all right?’

‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’

‘The rest of you, get on with what you were doing!’

Migel clapped his hands together briskly, taking command. Dalet shot
him a grateful look as he slipped through the door to the locker
room. Maybe I just want to follow a leader - a leader who
won’t let me down - I feel like I could believe in him like I
used to believe in Dilandau. Who can understand a crush?

Chesta was kneeling on the floor outside a closed toilet stall,
tearfully pleading with Dilandau, whose feet Dalet could see under
the partition.

‘Dilandau-sama… please, please come out. I won’t
let them say anything to you. I won’t say anything.
I’m sorry I said that, I’m so, so sorry. I just don’t
want everything to go wrong.’

There was silence from the stall, only rasping breathing.

‘I love you, Dilandau-sama. I still love you! I’m
sorry… I’m sorry!’

Dalet felt deeply embarrassed on Chesta’s behalf, even if his
own feelings were a dilute version of the same sentiment. He’d
always had too much pride to say it like that. He stepped forward and
put his hand on Chesta’s shoulder.

‘Come on, Chess. Let him have some time alone. He needs to
calm down. It’ll be okay.’

‘It won’t. It won’t!’ Chesta sobbed. ‘It
feels like the world’s coming to an end! I thought I could help
but I can’t stop them!’

‘Dilandau-sama?’ Dalet raised his voice cautiously.

‘Whenever you want to come out, we’ll be here. We still
believe in you, okay?’ It was a half-truth, of course, but he
was lying for both Dilandau’s sake and Chesta’s.
‘Chess, what are you doing?’

‘If - if I take out this stupid dragon, do you
think…’

‘Leave it alone,’ Dalet said softly, gently peeling
Chesta’s fingers away from the earring. ‘It won’t do
anyone any good to hurt yourself. Don’t pull on it like that.
Dry your eyes and blow your nose.’

‘D-dilandau-sama’s got my handkerchief.’

‘Oh - well, you can use mine,’ Dalet started to say,
when the stall door opened, swinging inward. Dilandau stood there
staring at the pair of them, his face pale and his eyes almost
vacant, holding out the blood-spotted handkerchief in a stiff
hand.

‘Th-thank you, Dilandau-sama.’ Chesta reached out his
hand; Dilandau dropped the handkerchief before he could quite get
hold of it, not tauntingly, but as if he had just forgotten to keep
gripping it. He stepped forward like a sleepwalker and made his way
to the sinks, where he leaned on the edge of a basin and stared at
himself in the mirror, at the blood on his upper lip, at the blue
bruise rising below his eye. He started to shiver.

‘Dilandau-sama, it’ll be all right,’ Dalet said,
trying to be the voice of reason. ‘This has just been a bad day.
We’ll pick up tomorrow and go on as normal, okay?’

Dilandau was shaking harder, clinging to the rim of the basin.

‘Try to calm down,’ said Dalet soothingly, with an
increasing feeling of helplessness. Dilandau turned away from the
basin and slowly, deliberately let himself down onto his hands and
knees, then curled up on the cold tile floor, still shuddering all
over. His pupils were pinpoints, unseeing; his teeth were locked
together, the lips drawn back in a convulsive rictus.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Dalet to Chesta. It was pretty obvious
now that Dilandau couldn’t hear them. ‘I think he’s
really sick.’

Somehow that settled Chesta’s nerves; at least, he seemed to
know what to do. ‘I’ll get Folken-sama,’ he said
decisively, standing up. ‘You just look after him, and make sure
no-one comes in. He wouldn’t want them to see him like
this.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, about getting Folken?’

‘Folken-sama will know what to do,’ Chesta said. He
wiped his eyes briefly with the handkerchief, leaving ghastly smears
of blood on his cheeks, and took off through the door to the
dormitory.

‘It’s all very well for Folken-sama,’ Dalet said to
the air. He looked at Dilandau, wondering if he should roll him onto
his back or try to keep his airway clear or something. His first-aid
training didn’t really cover people who rolled up into balls and
lay there shivering and staring at nothing. The shaking seemed to be
getting worse; what if it turned into a full-on seizure?

Dilandau’s hands, he saw, were clenched into fists so tight
that his nails were cutting his palms. Trickles of blood ran down his
wrists.

‘Hey, hey,’ he murmured, ‘please, stop
it…’ Carefully, he prised open Dilandau’s hands,
holding them open by pressing his palms against Dilandau’s. The
shivers, he saw with relief, were diminishing; after a moment the boy
lay almost still.

Abruptly, Dilandau’s back arched like a bow; his head snapped
back and his mouth opened in a soundless scream. Dalet recoiled, his
back hitting the wall between two sinks. This was the worst thing he
had ever seen; it was as if some inhuman force had invaded the
fragile body before him, bending it to breaking point. Sweat was
pouring off Dilandau; he could actually see it pushing out through
his skin.

Still apparently unconscious, still screaming without making a
whisper, Dilandau tore at himself with his nails, clawing his arms
and ripping open his shirt. Dalet sprang forward to try to restrain
him from hurting himself, and stopped in shock at what he saw.

Dilandau’s whole body was changing shape. Every muscle
rippled and contorted as the new form asserted itself. His back
arched again, and Dalet found himself staring stupidly at his chest,
bare with the shirt hanging in rags on either side, as his nipples
swelled, then rose at the epicentres of two mounds of white flesh. It
seemed so grotesque that it took him a second to realise they were
perfectly normal female breasts.

Whatever tension bent the bow was released, and Dilandau slumped
to the floor. His body was a bizarre thing now, half male, half
female; there was still the face Dalet knew, but these
breasts, and the spreading curve of his hips - even while
there was still the bulge of male anatomy between his legs.

‘What’s happening to you, Dilandau-sama?’ he
whispered. With a faint feeling at the back of his mind that it was a
quite ridiculous thing to do, and also a certainty that it was the
only decent thing to do, he tried to pull the front of the
ripped shirt together to cover what he had to think of as
Dilandau’s breasts. He looked up guiltily as the door from the
dorm opened and Chesta hurried in, followed by Folken.

‘Something’s happened to him!’ he burst out.

‘I didn’t touch him! His body’s changing, he just went
spaz and his back all arched and he’s got
breasts!’

‘Oh no,’ said Folken, looking dismayed but not at all
surprised.

‘Breasts!’ Dalet repeated, afraid the full import of the
matter wasn’t quite sinking in.

‘Dilandau-sama?’ Chesta whispered, his eyes like
saucers.

‘He’ll be all right,’ Folken said briskly, stepping
forward and bending to pick up the limp body from the floor.

‘Is he - is he breathing?’ Chesta asked.

‘Yes,’ said Dalet, feeling rather as though he might get
the giggles Dilandau-style in a moment, ‘you can tell because of
how his breasts are going up and down.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Nothing I can explain right now.’ Folken looked at
their stricken faces and seemed to realise that this was inadequate.

‘You did the right thing in coming for me, Chesta. I’ll be
able to take care of him. There’s nothing to worry about.’
He hefted Dilandau in his arms, adjusting his grip so he could carry
him away. ‘Just go back and explain that Dilandau has been taken
ill and will be absent for - for a few days, I expect.’

‘Is he going to die?’

‘I promise he’s not going to die,’ Folken said.
‘I promise you, Chess. And wash your face before you go back to
the others, you look like you’ve done murder. It gave me a hell
of a fright when I saw you.’ He bent, awkwardly with the burden
in his arms, and kissed Chesta on the forehead. ‘It’s going
to be fine.’ He turned and left, carefully turning his body so
as not to hit Dilandau’s head against the doorframe.

‘Oh God,’ said Chesta, his shoulders sagging as the
adrenaline drained away.

‘But you heard him,’ Dalet said, putting an arm round
him, ‘it’s going to be okay.’

‘Dilandau-sama…’

‘It’s going to be okay,’ Dalet repeated. You had to
be able to take the Strategos’ word for it, you just had to. He
was beginning to shake himself, which gave him a moment’s terror
that this mysterious turning-into-a-girl malady was about to strike
him next. Then again, would that be so bad? Migel might fancy him
that way. Helplessly, he started to laugh, leaning against
Chesta.

‘Dalet?’ Chesta said in alarm. He was supposed to be the
one who went to pieces, not cool, cynical Dalet.

‘It’s all gone fucking nuts!’ Dalet sputtered. The
laughter was beginning to sound like tears. ‘I saw it,
Chess! I saw him changing. What’s happening?’

‘It’ll be all right,’ Chesta said, trying to give
him the handkerchief. ‘Oh! No, don’t use this. Toilet
paper, I’ll get you some toilet paper.’

‘I’ve got one,’ Dalet reminded him, digging the
hanky out of his pocket. He blew his nose hard, trying to get hold of
himself. ‘It’s - it’s not like the real world

any more, is it? People don’t just change sex in the bathroom!
They’d - they’d be in the wrong bathroom, for one
thing!’

‘Dalet, you’re scaring me.’

‘You’re scared! You didn’t see
Dilandau sprout breasts!’ Dalet giggled weakly. ‘It
was like balloons blowing up! I think I’m scarred for
life. It’s a good thing I didn’t fancy girls
anyway.’

There was a tap on the door.

‘Who’s there?’ they both called.

‘Um… Migel… is everything all right in there? I
mean, can I come in?’

Dalet shook his head frantically. ‘Don’t want him to see
me like this!’ he whispered. He hadn’t cried in years and
he couldn’t stand for Migel to witness it.

‘You’re not the one with blood all over your face,’
Chesta muttered. He raised his voice and called to Migel,
‘Everything’s okay, but Dilandau-sama isn’t very well.
He’s gone to - to sickbay. He’ll be out for a couple of
days. We’re just cleaning up in here.’

‘Cleaning up?’

‘Yeah, he really wasn’t very well at all.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Migel, evidently instantly losing
interest in coming in. ‘Okay. Well, we’ll be going along to
the hangar…do a little melef drill… you guys join us when
you’re ready, okay?’

‘Okay.’ Chesta turned back to Dalet, who was splashing
his face with cold water.

‘Isn’t it great how he’s taken charge?’ he
asked, feeling for a towel, which Chesta handed to him. ‘My
hero!’

‘He’s not as in-charge as my boyfriend,’

said Chesta, feeling a little better if they could kid each other
like this.

‘I’m starting to wonder if anyone’s in
control,’ Dalet said, shaking his head. ‘I guess only
time’ll tell.’

Chapter Text

Folken entered the garden, carrying Celena in his arms. Under
sedation, Dilandau had completed his reversion, the bruising of the
fight and the self-inflicted scratches disappearing from his skin as
he fully became the girl. Folken had dressed this body in
Celena’s clothes, carefully, feeling as if he were dressing a
living doll, slipping limp, heavy arms through the shoulder-straps of
the loose green sundress. Now he gently laid her down on the soft
grass, watching her relax into a deeper, more natural sleep. Yielding
for a moment to the balmy air of the place, he sat down at her side,
his good hand absent-mindedly stroking away the strands of ash-blonde
hair that fell across her face.

‘You’re better off this way,’ he said quietly.
‘Everything falls into place, doesn’t it? No more fights
with Van. No black eyes for you.’ His fingers traced her
cheekbone. ‘You’re such a pretty girl. I couldn’t
choose anyone better for him. With no Dilandau around, he’ll
calm down. And I can persuade him in time that it’s all right to
be with you. It’s good for him to be with you.
You’re back for a reason, I’m sure.’

Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked up at the sunny sky
through the glass dome. ‘It’s all changed…’ he
murmured. ‘I never realised it would change so much to have Van
here… and indirectly, you know, he sent Chesta to me, to bring
me joy and turn my world upside down. So what do I do now? I have to
admit, Celena, there’s no Plan now. It’s so strange to have
a change of heart in what I thought was a state of mind.

'I can't spy on him any more, either. It was getting quite
pointless, since I couldn't act on anything I learned without
damaging our trust... but besides that, by now it simply feels wrong.
I want to do the right thing by him, just as with Chesta.'

He was quiet for a few minutes, watching the bees amid the meadow
flowers. Celena gently shifted her sleeping position, cradling her
head in the crook of her arm.

'Of course, Chesta will miss his Dilandau-sama, but there's
someone else to lead the Dragonslayers... no real need for
Dilandau... and I'll tell him the truth, of course, in the end. I'll
just give him time to calm down, and then break it to him gently. As
long as he knows you're really all right, I think he'll accept it. He
has a wonderfully accepting nature. I only hope you get to know what
it's like to have someone love you as Chesta loves me. He says and
does the sweetest little things - he writes me notes and leaves them
in my pockets for me to find during the day. Love-notes, and rather
naughty little notes making suggestions... well, that's between the
two of us. I'm probably saying too much. You're a very good listener,
you know.' Folken glanced at his sleeping confidante and laughed
softly at himself.

‘I wonder if you’ll remember when you wake, or if Van
will have to teach you again from the beginning?’ he mused.
‘Well, we’ll see. And for the future… I just
don’t know. It’s not clear to me any more. To be
honest… between you, me and the flowers… I’m looking
for a way out. Perhaps… perhaps we could go back to Fanelia. I
could try to compensate for destroying it by rebuilding it. Give them
the benefit of what I’ve learned… and you could be
Van’s Queen. Would you like that?’ He smiled at the
sleeping girl. ‘It’s all a fantasy, you know.’

A tiny, grey-blue butterfly wafted down and alighted on the tip of
the forefinger of his steel hand. He watched it open and close its
wings.

‘I don’t know what I can do… for any of you…
but I’ll try. I have to make the most of the time I’ve got,
however long that will be. I’ve refused to think of it, Celena,
because there was always something more important, but to speak
rather dramatically, I’m not long for this world. Black wings
are a fairly unequivocal sign for someone of my ancestry.’

The butterfly fluttered away.

‘I may have years yet,’ he said, trying to sound
optimistic. ‘It only means a shortened life… who
knows, I might have lived to be a hundred otherwise. And… it
hasn’t been much of a life, has it… there’ll just be
some people it’s rather hard to leave…’ Despite his
best efforts, tears stung his eyes and his voice faded.

‘Anyway,’ he said, pulling himself together and rising
to go, ‘it’ll all be all right somehow. I’ll see to
it. It’s the least I can do. Sleep well, Celena.’

Moonlight turned the dell of the garden into a pearly basin,
although there was no chill of night. In the controlled atmosphere,
there was no clammy dew either. It was not cold that made Dilandau
sit up with a shiver.

Where am I? What are these clothes? What happened? I can’t
remember a thing since I threw up in the toilet… I’m…

I’m all wet… sweaty. Am I outside? This feels like grass,
and dirt underneath… but it feels warm, and…
indoors, somehow. God, my head hurts. Just need to sit still
for a moment. He rubbed his hands over his face, through his
hair.

I’m - I’m wearing a dress, girl’s clothes.
What’s going on? A first pulse of panic sharpened the pain
in his head. Is someone playing a trick on me? Who would dare? Is
Van watching me from somewhere?

Why does this feel familiar?

I’ve got to get home. Got to get out of here. Find
my clothes. Just… just take care of that, and worry about
the rest later.

He pushed himself to his feet, breathing deeply. His legs felt a
little weak, but he thought he was going to be all right now; no more
puking or collapsing. Looking up, he could see the moon and clouds
through a huge skylight. He was indoors, then; probably still
on the Vione. He’d heard a rumour of a private garden
somewhere in the fortress, a luxury for the top brass. There was a
gap in the artificial woodland ahead. Hurrying forward over the
uneven ground, he found a wall and a door. Its combination lock was
sealed on the outside, but could be released from within. He opened
it slowly, wary of guards. There was no-one, nothing, just the dark
corridor and the cold night.

Home. I’ve got to get home, I want my own bed, my warm red
bed! God… I sound like a little kid. He rubbed his arms,
trying to smooth down the goosebumps that had risen since he left the
garden. And I feel stupid wearing a skirt, and these little girly
undies, and - well, I quite like the boots, really, but otherwise
this is no good. At least I’m not wearing a bra. Anyone who put
a bra on me would be one sick fuck. Do I go left or right here? I
think it should be right… that should get me to the right
general area…

He paused, frozen on one foot for a second as he heard approaching
footsteps, and managed to conceal himself in a shadow as a sentry
crossed the far end of the corridor. The loudness of his breathing
made him fearful, but he was overlooked. He hardly thought about why
he did not want to be seen; it was simply a strong instinctive
shrinking from the thought. He stole onward, feeling that he was
running a maze.

Nearly there, nearly there, oh I just want to get home, shit
sentry! No friendly shadows, the footsteps too near. His
desperate eyes fell on a door in the wall nearest him; he wrenched it
open and whisked himself inside before he realised he knew where he
was.

He stood stock still, his back to the door, staring at Van.

Van sat on his bed, a book he had been reading open in his hands;
not the dirty book he had been so obnoxious about, one of their
prescribed texts. He was in his shirt and trousers; Dilandau could
see the scratches on his arms, but all that seemed to flow away as he
was drawn into Van’s startled eyes.

Their was no sound but their breathing; Dilandau’s, rapid and
panicky, Van’s, growing deeper as he rose from the bed,
confusion and suspicion battling in his face.

‘Why are you wearing her clothes?’ he asked, his voice
sounding husky. ‘What are you playing at?’

‘I - I don’t know what you mean,’ Dilandau admitted
weakly. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, it’s
someone else’s game.’

‘Do you seriously think you can play innocent? Why are
you wearing Celena’s clothes?’

‘Celena…’

‘Yes, Celena!’

Dilandau caught his breath, flattening himself more against the
door, as unknown memories welled up. For a moment, another mind
looked out through his eyes; he shoved it back to the depths in
terror, but he could not push away the memories, the record of the
days he had thought he had passed unconscious, a time when he was
someone else, when the boy standing before him was someone else…
meant something else… He could hardly breathe.

Van truly did not know what to think. Dilandau looked so
frightened. He wouldn’t look this way if he were doing this to
provoke him, would he? And would he still be playing that kind of
game after what happened this morning? And how would he find out
about Celena in the first place, much less find a way to steal her
clothes? He was bewildered by Dilandau’s eyes, how deeply they
had dilated, the red iris only a thin rim around bottomless black,
and then… a flicker of blue…

‘Oh, God…’ he murmured. ‘That’s…
that’s impossible.’

Still with his back to the door, Dilandau slipped down into a
crouching position, gazing up at Van with those huge dark eyes.
‘You… you were so kind to me… to her…’ he
breathed. ‘That’s not you. It can’t be you.’

‘How can you be her?’

Dilandau hid his face in his hands, his whole body trembling.
‘I d-didn’t know,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t
know! I only just remembered. I woke up in the garden… in our
garden… I was me and I couldn’t remember how I got
there… I’m not me all the time! I’m not

me!’

‘You are Celena.’ Van knelt down in front of him,
trying to see his face. ‘Do you… do you remember the
ladybird?’

‘The ladybird… and all your stories… about flowers,
and people long ago… you fed me from your hands, you kissed me,
you left me all alone…’

‘Oh God…’

‘How can both those boys be you!?’ He
looked up, his eyes blazing through tears.

‘You’re the one who’s two different people,’
Van said uneasily.

‘Not just me! And - and you don’t even change,
you still look the same! In, in my head, you’re petting me and
beating me at the same time! I don’t know which one of you is
real, which one of me is real!’

‘They’re… they’re all real.’

‘Dilandau is real?’

‘Of course he’s real. I couldn’t get that intense
about someone who wasn’t real.’

‘Do you love me or hate me?’ It was almost Celena’s
voice, tiny and lost.

‘I don’t know… I only know that either way, I want
you…’

Dilandau jerked to his feet, alarmed. Van rose more slowly,
holding him fixed to the spot with his gaze.

‘Don’t worry…’

‘But it’s you!’ His hands hung uselessly at
his sides as Van’s hands gently framed his face.

‘Don’t worry… I’ll be nice now… I mean,
I’m kissing Celena too…’ He leaned forward, his
eyelids fluttering closed, and their lips met, very softly. At the
first touch Dilandau’s hands clenched into desperate fists; his
whole body froze and stiffened. And then, gradually, gently, the
honey-warmth of the kiss bled into him, melting him. Unconsciously,
his hands opened and he lifted them, seeking Van’s body,
wrapping his arms around his waist. Van’s tongue touched his
lips, sweetly requesting entrance, not a trace of the prodding,
thrusting probe it had been. Now it was a tender lapping flame, and
he admitted it eagerly, gladly, meeting it with his own.

It ended far too soon; Van drew back, gazing at him with a trace
of uncertainty. ‘All right?’ he asked.

‘Y-yes… but you’ve never kissed me like that
before… either of me…’

‘I can kiss you gently because you’re Celena… but I
can kiss you properly because you’re Dilandau…

don’t ask me how that works.’

‘Just… just do it again…’ Again… their
bodies pressing close together… a sound in Van’s throat
somewhere between a moan and a growl… the wet heat of his
tongue, his lips, lower lip still full and swollen after his abuse of
the morning…

‘Bite,’ Van whispered, ‘bite me again.’
Hesitantly, Dilandau obeyed, releasing Van after a moment.

‘Do you know,’ Van murmured, ‘how that’s
ached, and tingled, and throbbed, since you did that to me? Do you
know how I’ve felt your kiss all day?’ Another kiss,
deeper, a little more aggressive, but still sweet. Fingers stroking
Dilandau’s hair… stroking, not pulling or wrenching…

caressing, cradling the nape of his neck… abruptly dropping to
his thighs, pushing up the skirt of the loose sundress, then slipping
up underneath, up over his hips, his stomach, reaching his chest,
palms warm against his stiffening nipples, then fingers stroking,
pinching… He groaned in the midst of a kiss, sending low
vibrations into Van’s throat.

‘Good?’

‘Yes… good…’ Something dark and hot and sweet
tightened deep down inside with every stroke.

‘I think I like you in a dress.’ Pinching tighter,
taking him to the edge of pain before releasing him into warm rubbing
pleasure. ‘And I like the way you gasp while I do this. What
kind of noises will you make when I touch you somewhere
else?’

‘I - I don’t know - no-one else has ever touched
me…’

‘Let’s find out, hmm?’ Hands slipping down to his
hips, fingers lifting elastic, slipping down inside. ‘And I like
your little panties.’

‘They’re not mine.’

‘Bet they make you feel pretty.’ A deep, probing kiss,
as his hands ventured down to cup round Dilandau’s buttocks.
Circling, caressing, squeezing and lifting. ‘And I bet you know
you’ve got a gorgeous ass.’

‘Well, of course I do.’ A flicker of a wicked smile.
‘And I don’t need to be wearing panties to feel

pretty.’

‘I think that’s what always got me about you… what
drove me mad… that you knew… you knew how you made
me feel…’

Well, I’ll just let you think that, then. ‘You
did your best to spoil that.’

‘I couldn’t. You know the scar only makes you
hotter.’

‘It does?’

‘It does.’ Parting Dilandau’s buttocks, stroking
the inner curve. ‘I’ll get inside your gorgeous ass
tonight.’

‘Think I’ll let you?’

‘I think you want it as much as I do.’ Deep, hard
kisses, making him feel the truth of the words. Dilandau pressed his
erection to Van’s stomach, rubbing it gently up and down.

‘Let me out of these panties.’

‘Mmm…’ Still kissing him, Van hooked his thumbs in
the waistband and eased it out over the hard taut shaft; Dilandau
moaned with delight at being set free. Down over his thighs,
stretched over the tops of the boots, slipping to the floor to puddle
at his feet.

‘And now touch me… grab me…’

‘No…’

‘No? If you tease me, I’ll kill you.’

‘I want you to tease me.’

‘H-how?’

Van stepped back, removing Dilandau’s hands from his waist,
and walked to the bed. He sat down on the edge, rather carefully, and
beckoned to him. ‘Come here. Stand in front of me.’

‘All right…’

‘Now take off your dress…’ Dilandau’s hands
went to the shoulder straps. ‘No… no, from the bottom. Lift
your skirt… slowly… like the curtain going up.’

Those greedy eyes on me… like before… only now
I’ll show him everything… Van whimpered softly,
eagerly, as Dilandau’s body was revealed to him, inch by inch.
There was something about a cock coming out from under a skirt that
excited him beyond reason, something so naughty and wild and weird.
His own cock was burning, trapped inside cotton and leather, begging
to be touched.

Dilandau drew the dress off over his head and let it drop to the
floor. ‘Here I am,’ he said softly.

‘And… touch it… touch yourself…’

‘Do I have to do all the work round here?’
Dilandau grumbled. He wrapped his left hand around the shaft,
steadily pumping, while the more dextrous fingers of his right hand
manipulated the tip, spreading the oily pre-come liquid over the
blushing head, making it glisten in the lamplight.

‘Oh God…’ Van moaned, laying his hand over
Dilandau’s left. ‘Let me help…’ Dilandau readily
let him take over the stroke, squeezing the hot hardness he felt
inside the petal-soft skin.

‘Do we keep going just like this?’

‘No… no, let me…’ Pushing back the fingers
working the tip, Van took Dilandau’s cock in his mouth, suckling
softly at first, then taking him deeper, pulling harder. It took the
wind out of him as surely as the punch that morning, if you could
have a blow of pleasure, a sharp, powerful jab right where he felt it
most. His legs almost gave way; he grabbed Van’s shoulders for
support, then buried his fingers in Van’s hair, pulling his head
closer.

‘Suck me… suck me…’ he moaned. ‘Roll your
tongue around me… yes… don’t forget about your
hand, keep it going… oh, God, Van! Who taught you to do this?
Someone must have… must have… do you suck your
brother’s dick? Do you - oh! Watch the teeth, watch the
teeth… okay… I’ll be good… I’ll be
good… lick me up and down… up and down… actually, you
could use your teeth again… oh, God, yes…’

Van released him. ‘You taught me, stupid,’ he breathed.
‘Now I’m going to lie down… and you’re going to
sit on my face.’

‘Isn’t that for a girl to do?’ Dilandau asked, as
Van moved back onto the bed.

‘You are a girl. Do it.’

‘I’m a boy. You see this?’ Dilandau knelt
astride him, his knees on either side of Van’s head. ‘You
see this right in your face?’

‘Move forward…’

‘Forward?’ He caught his breath, a sharp hiss between
his teeth, as Van gripped his cock, pulling it up out of his way, and
softly licked his balls.

‘Be careful… be so careful…’ He was shaking
with the pleasure of feeling a tongue explore that area, giving him
what he could never give himself. His cock was almost flat against
his stomach in any case; Van’s firm grip and his thumb circling
over the wet head sent hot pulses down to meet the deep surge below.
When he thought it could not possibly get better, Van drew his balls
into his mouth and gently sucked. Dilandau cried out, a wail of joy,
but the next second the wet enveloping heat was gone and Van was
angrily whispering ‘Shut up! You want people to be able to hear
you? You want people to know what we’re doing?’

‘I - I’m sorry - I’ll be good - please don’t
stop…’ Sucking… rolling with his tongue… his
thighs were shaking, and he had to grab the bedhead to hold himself
up.

‘Oh Van… Van… don’t stop… I’m going
to… I’m going to come…’ Van’s fingers
shifted to a tight grip at the base of his cock, trying to hold him
back.

‘No, please… let me… Oh God!’ Van’s mouth
moved from his balls to the cleft of his perineum, the point of his
tongue pressing in, sliding along, reaching the tight opening of his
anus. A hand on his hip nudged him forward and down, bringing the
tender spot nearer within Van’s reach, spreading his buttocks
further apart as that wicked hot tongue-tip circled and probed. Van
formed a seal with his lips and sucked hard. Unable to hold up any
longer, Dilandau let his weight down, really sitting on Van’s
face, feeling his tongue push up, penetrating, opening him for the
first time. He gasped and strained against it, flexing the opening;
Van pushed harder and made his tongue undulate. Panicky gasps burst
from Dilandau’s throat; he was losing control, being taken.

Am I… am I not a virgin any more? The tongue was
witdrawn, leaving him throbbing.

‘How’d you like a really dirty kiss?’ Van asked,
his voice a little muffled.

‘Yes…’ Dilandau scrambled back down, eagerly
meeting Van’s lips, sucking his pungent tongue.

‘Did you like that?’ Van whispered. ‘Did you like
having something inside you?’

‘Yes…’

‘Ready for something bigger?’

‘I - I don’t know…’

‘Want a look at it first?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Undo my pants. That’s good. Okay, I’ll lift my
hips… you pull them down… yes… my shorts too…
yes… there I am, Dilandau, there’s what I want to ram into
your sweet little ass, do you think you can take it?’

‘I… I don’t know…’

‘You never know till you try.’

‘It’s… it’s so big…’

‘You want it, don’t you?’

‘I want it…’

‘Come here.’ Sitting up, Van gathered Dilandau into his
arms, straddling his lap. ‘It’s okay,’ he whispered,
kissing him softly. ‘It’s all going to be okay. We’re
going to feel so good. Hold on a second.’ He reached into
the drawer of his nightstand, finding a jar of cream, the lid only
balanced on so he could open it one-handed. He dipped his first two
fingers, then slipped them between Dilandau’s buttocks.

‘Aah!’

‘Good? Or does it hurt?’

‘It - it does both…’

‘Relax… let it loosen up… do you ever get your
fingers in here when you’re playing with yourself?’

‘N-no.’

‘Explains why you’re so tight.’ He kissed
Dilandau’s shoulder. ‘Once we get in past the, the kind of
ring of muscle, it gets easier… once you get that to relax…
oh, you feel so nice and soft inside… so hot… you’re
relaxing a little now.’

‘Go deeper,’ Dilandau breathed.

‘Can’t, sweetie. Feel that? They’re in all the way.
If you want it deeper it’s time for the cock.’

Reaching down, Dilandau wrapped his hand around Van’s thick
erection, staring at it uncertainly. ‘O-okay.’

‘You’re going to love it. Want to get me ready?’ He
offered the jar of lubricant; Dilandau took a little and smeared it
over his swollen head. ‘More than that. That’s right. You
want me to be all slippery, so I’ll slide in as smooth as a
snake. Oh yes. Good hands, very good hands.’

‘Is that… is that ready?’

‘All ready. Come on and sit down on me. Oh… oh yes…
oh, Dilandau, that’s right… can you feel me, can you feel
my big cock spreading you open?’

‘God, Van, how could I not feel it?’

‘Hurting?’

‘A - a little…’

‘I’m going slow for you…’

‘Let me…’ Dilandau bore down on him, taking him
deeper, gasping convulsively as internal muscle went into spasm for a
second before relaxing to admit the welcome invader. His wet balls
touched Van’s stomach; he felt a kind of thrill of victory.
I’ve taken him all the way. I am definitely not a
virgin any more.

Van’s eyes were screwed closed and his jaw clenched with the
effort of holding back from orgasm. ‘Is - is it okay with you if
we’re just still for a moment?’

‘Yes… yes, I think I need to be still.’ He leaned
his forehead on Van’s shoulder, breathing heavily. ‘Feels
like my heart’s beating in my ass.’

‘You feel so good all around me.’

‘Will you move… or should I?’

‘We’ll move together.’ Van gently ran a fingertip
up and down the length of Dilandau’s cock. ‘Hope this
isn’t feeling neglected.’

‘Can’t complain.’

‘I hope I see you come. I hope I’m looking right here
when it shoots out.’

‘It’ll hit you in the eye.’

‘Try and shoot it in my mouth.’ Laughing softly, Van
kissed him, sucking and stretching his lower lip. ‘Give me a
squeeze… squeeze like you’re trying to push me
out.’

‘Oh God…’

‘Yes…’

His eyes closed in a fever of bliss, Dilandau rose up on
Van’s shaft and pushed himself down. He had to bite his lip not
to cry out at the feeling.

‘Oh yes…’ murmured Van, bucking upward. He
set a fast pace, thrusting hard, squeezing and pulling
Dilandau’s cock in time with the pumping of his hips.

‘Aaah!’

‘I told you, be quiet!’

‘I - I can’t - oh God, Van! Van-sama!
Van-samaaaaaaaa…’ His scream was cut off as Van
blocked his mouth with his forearm; Dilandau bit down desperately,
feeling himself impaled by every stroke, pleasure becoming pain
becoming pleasure, his cock pulsing as Van’s fist pumped up and
down, every sensation gathering and tightening deep low down inside,
demon possession, taking over his body… Van grunted as he came,
he felt the spurt inside him, felt the shudder of his body, felt
himself caught up and thrown forward in an unstoppable headlong rush
into joy.

For a long, dizzy moment, both were transfixed, motionless; then
Van gently moved his hips again, a slower stroke, easing them down,
bringing them to rest together on the bed. He leaned back against the
bedhead, Dilandau collapsed in his arms, breathing heavily into his
ear. They lay in silence, their thundering heartbeats gradually
slowing.

Dilandau became aware of the salt taste of blood in his mouth, and
turned his head to look at Van’s arm, marked with two red-purple
semi-circles of toothmarks.

‘Um,’ he said. ‘I seem to’ve chomped
you.’

‘Doesn’t worry me,’ Van sighed contentedly.

‘I’ve been wanting to do that to you for so long.’

‘You had a chance before now,’ Dilandau pointed out, a
little reproachfully.

‘I wasn’t ready to take it. And I told you, you
weren’t ready.’

‘I didn’t beg for it, though. I never begged.’

‘But you called me Van-sama.’ A little smile quirked
Van’s reddened lips. ‘I’m your lord and
master.’

‘It - it was something I said in the heat of the
moment,’ Dilandau protested, embarrassed.

‘You meant it.’ Van was grinning now. ‘I loved
hearing you scream my name like that. Couldn’t let you go on,
but I loved hearing it.’

‘Well, treasure the memory, ‘cause you’re not
hearing it again.’

‘I can hear it any time I want to,’ Van purred, gently
rocking his hips, making Dilandau catch his breath.

‘Shut up,’ he said softly. Still rocking, his mocking
gaze fixed on Dilandau’s face, Van dipped his finger in the
splatter of Dilandau’s come on his belly and licked it
clean.

‘You really are a dirty bastard,’ Dilandau said, leaning
forward to kiss him.

Chapter Text

‘Umm...
so what do you want to do now?’

‘I
want to rest,’ said Dilandau, rolling over to face the wall. ‘I’m
sleepy and my bum’s kind of sore.’

‘Oh.
Right.’ Five minutes later, Van was feeling muddled. After
feeling totally in command of the most exciting situation of his
life, it was a very strange comedown. He had run out of ideas,
though. His fantasies didn’t usually deal with aftermath, and
what to do when you seemed to be stuck with Dilandau for the night.

I
wonder if it was wise to fuck someone I don’t think I like
very much.

But
Celena’s in there too, and I know I like her. Doesn’t
that make it all right?

Depends.
Would you have done it like that with Celena?

Well...
no. But she’s different. It would all have been different. I
suppose now we’d be lying here cuddling. I don’t think
Dilandau is a cuddly person.

‘Umm...
are you planning to stay the night?’

‘I’m
not letting you kick me out again, if that’s what you mean,’

Dilandau said calmly, without turning.

‘No,
I just wondered what your plans were.’ Van cautiously ran a
finger along the upper line of toothmarks on his arm, exploring the
sore tenderness, trying to decide if he was really hurt. The skin was
only actually broken in a couple of places, under the mark of
Dilandau’s sharp canines; the rest was just deep bruising. ‘The
bed’s a bit small for both of us.’

‘Well,
you’ll just have to put up with it, won’t you.’

A
pause.

‘My
arm hurts. You really had a good old chew
here, didn’t you?’

An
impatient sigh. ‘I was nearly asleep, thank you.’

‘I
suppose it’s my fault for sticking it in your mouth.’

‘Yes.
You should put some antiseptic on it or something. Human bites are
nasty. I read somewhere we’ve got more germs in our mouths than
a dog does.’

‘I’ve
always been more of a cat person,’ Van said vaguely.

‘Yeah?
Wash in your own spit, do you?’

‘Lick
your own balls, do you?’

‘No,
I have you to do that for me,’ Dilandau said, rolling over and
grinning. ‘What’s your problem with dogs?’

‘It’s
not that I don’t like them.’

‘I
like dogs,’ Dilandau said, as if he considered the statement
profound and original, ‘because they’re loyal and
obedient and devoted. They don’t give you any shit. Cats are
too self-satisfied and aloof, you know? They don’t need

you. They’re not affectionate. And they’d never put you
first ahead of themselves.’

‘Dilandau,
you are the cat you’ve just
described,’ Van said, shaking his head in amusement. ‘Anyway,
not all cats are like that.’

‘Just
go and patch up your arm.’

‘You
ought to do it for me. You’re the one who bit me.’

‘I’m
not that kind of girl. And while you’re in the bathroom clean
yourself up a bit. You smell.’

‘You’re
so romantic,’ Van said sarcastically, getting up.

‘I
don’t see anything romantic about buttfucking,’ Dilandau
said, quite cheerfully, stretching out to occupy Van’s space in
the bed. ‘Especially with someone I had a fist-fight with this
morning.’

‘I’m
– I’m sorry about that,’ Van said awkwardly.

‘Are
you?’ Dilandau asked, looking puzzled.

‘Well,
aren’t you? I mean, now that – now that we’re like
this?’

‘I
only see the point in apologising for things you didn’t mean to
do. Like if I hadn’t meant to piss you off. I never do anything
I don’t mean, so I never have to say I’m sorry. But I can
see you being sorry for taking it too far and going apeshit on me.
So, apology accepted.’

‘You’re
incredible.’

‘Thank
you.’

‘It
wasn’t a compliment.’

‘Ah,
fuck you. Oh, wait, I already did.’ Dilandau stuck his tongue
out at him and rearranged the pillow to make himself more
comfortable.

Van
bathed his arm in the sink, and found some antiseptic cream and an
adhesive gauze pad in the medicine cabinet. After that, looking down
at himself, he decided he might as well just get into the shower. The
hot water felt clean and sweet, spraying down on him, and he began to
feel better as he soaped himself down. He hadn’t realised quite
how dirty he was feeling until he began to clean up.

I
can’t believe I did all those things. That it was really me. I
lang=EN-GB>was a dirty bastard. I’m standing here with the
taste of his cock, not to mention his ass, in my mouth.

He opened his mouth to let hot water run in. Maybe some soap’d
help. Like a punishment for a boy with a dirty mouth.

Come
on. Come on, you’re being unreasonable. This stuff is just...
it’s healthy, and natural, Folken said... well, he said that
about masturbation, and about fantasies. He never exactly said it was
okay to actually do it with another boy.

I
can’t tell him I did this. I can’t get him to tell me it’s
all all right. I’m stuck with it, stuck with him.
Gradually, he sank down to sit with his back against the wall,
cradling his head in his hands. The water pattered down; it was
soothing to his skin, but the guilt was inside, waterproof.

Through
the hissing shower noise, he heard Dilandau pad into the bathroom
alcove, his footsteps soft; he must finally have taken off Celena’s
boots. There was a clank as the toilet seat went up, then a trickling
and splashing.

Oh,
God, he hums while he pisses. The toilet
flushed, and a moment later the taps ran. What do you know, he
actually washes his hands – I wouldn’t have given him
credit for that.lang=EN-GB> The shower was running hotter on him; he shifted round to
lean against the wall with the showerhead mounted on it, sheltered
from the spray. It was like being behind a waterfall, he thought, in
a slate-walled cave. Hermits meditated behind waterfalls, didn’t
they? It was meant to be purifying.

The
shower curtain was pushed back and Dilandau looked in.

‘Move
over,’ he said, ‘I want to sluice off too.’ Pulling
the curtain back over, he stepped over Van’s legs and under the
spray, turning his face up to the water as if basking under it.

‘What’re
you doing down there?’

‘I
don’t know.’

‘What?’

‘I
don’t know if we did the right thing.’ Van pushed his
fingers back through his hair.

‘Jeez,
Van,’ Dilandau said, looking down at him irritably. ‘Don’t
borrow trouble. Look, you got laid and you really enjoyed it. So why’re
you bitching?’ He took the soap and started lathering his arms.

‘It’s
not that simple.’

‘It
islang=EN-GB> simple. You just want to make it complicated because you
think being unhappy makes you deep or something. Like your brother
glooming around with his teardrop. That’s the kind of thing
really boringlang=EN-GB> people do in an effort to seem interesting.’

‘Could
you just leave Folken out of it? Besides which he is

deep. He’s a genius.’

‘If
he is, it’s not a result of
going round feeling sorry for himself.’ Dilandau winced in
anticipation as soapsuds trickled between his buttocks, but relaxed
as he realised it didn’t sting. Reaching back, he explored the
cleft with his fingertips, curiously, and felt a little warm leakage
as he pressed.

‘You’re
dripping out of me. Want to lick me clean?’ He turned, parting
his buttocks with his hands, offering himself to Van. There was no
reply.

‘Oh,
for God’s sake,’ Dilandau said impatiently, turning round
again and sitting down facing Van. ‘Are you going to sit there
and sulk?’

‘I’m
not sulking.’

‘This
is pretty bloody insulting to me, you know. You could show some
consideration.’

‘For
you?’

‘Well,
yeah! Didn’t I just give you my cherry? Try and looklang=EN-GB> grateful.’

‘It
was the first time for me too, you know.’

‘Yeah.
So, do you see me hiding from you and acting like I don’t want
to touch you?’ Looking up, Van was surprised to realise that
Dilandau looked hurt.

‘I
didn’t mean it like that.’

‘You’relang=EN-GB> wondering if you did the right thing? I’ve got to
wonder that too, you know. You’re not the only one with big
weird scary problems. I just found out I’m two people. And I
haven’t got a clue why I turn into Celena, or where she comes
from, or why she’s so different from me, or what.’

‘I’m
sorry, Dilandau.’

‘Yeah.
Well. Good.’

There
was a pause. Not knowing quite why, Van began to chuckle.

‘What?’

‘Do
you think we might be, officially, the two most fucked-up people on
the Vione?’lang=EN-GB>

Dilandau
started to laugh too. ‘Speak for yourself, demon boy.’

Van splashed water from the floor at him, and he retaliated by
shooting the slippery soap out from between his hands, hitting Van in
the chest. This provoked a small water-splashing war which escalated
until they were both helpless with laughter and had to call a
cease-fire to recover.

‘Hey,
Van.’

‘What?’

‘Chocolate-covered
cherry.’ Dilandau grinned and stuck his tongue out.

‘You’re
disgusting,’ Van said, giggling weakly.

‘And
youlang=EN-GB> want me.’

‘Of
course I do.’ Calming a little, Van rose on his knees, reaching
out to smooth the wet tendrils of Dilandau’s hair back from his
forehead. ‘You know, when your hair’s wet, it goes a
little curly. You look a bit like Celena.’

‘Van?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do
you think Celena’s pretty?’

‘She’s
beautiful.’

‘Good.’
Dilandau blushed with pleasure. ‘I mean – I wouldn’t
want her letting the side down.’

‘I
wouldn’t have believed it, but you’re actually a little
bit cute.’ He kissed Dilandau’s lips, softly. Gentle
hands pushed Dilandau’s knees apart, letting him lean in closer
to his body.

‘Of
course I’m cute . C’mere.’
These were delicate, deliberate kisses, as they tasted and savoured
one another. Van could feel himself growing aroused again, wanting
the boy whose slick-wet skin he stroked. As he pressed closer,
sliding forward on his knees, the tips of their stiffening cocks
bumped together.

‘Kiss
kiss,’ said Dilandau, looking down and smiling. He began to
play with Van’s foreskin, sliding it up and down, pulling it
out over the tip. Van moaned softly, biting his lip in delight,
watching Dilandau’s slender white fingers working him.

‘I’m
so sad I never had one of these to play with,’ Dilandau
whispered.

‘You’ve
got everything I want to play with.’ Van shuffled back, bowing
down between Dilandau’s thighs.

‘You’re...’

‘I’m
being considerate, like you wanted.’ He kissed the exposed,
ruddy head of Dilandau’s cock, slowly and gently taking it into
his mouth a tiny bit at a time. Dilandau whimpered, pushing up to
him; Van held his hips down and drew his mouth back a little, warning
him not to push his luck. Revelling in the sound of Dilandau’s
smothered moans, he took his cock deeper, deeper, feeling the tip
bump the back of his mouth, then drawing back to run his tongue over
the area just under the head where he especially liked to touch
himself. It seemed to work for Dilandau too, to judge by his urgent
little grunt and the tremor that went through him.

The
King of Fanelia, sucking dick. It can’t be real, it can’t
be me. It’s what I want to be, when I’m like this
anyway. It was an awkward position,
kneeling on the shower floor, head down and ass high up. As he sucked
the thick heat filling his mouth, he felt Dilandau’s hands move
from his hair to his shoulders, stroking up the curve of his back to
spread and squeeze his buttocks. A fingertip sliding down the divide,
finding and probing his tight-puckered anus. He growled in his
throat, sending a delicious vibration into Dilandau’s throbbing
cock, making the pale boy shiver and gasp. That impudent finger
penetrated deeper and his growl deepened too as sweet sharp pleasure
shot into him. He lost all thought of technique and simply sucked as
hard as he could, rewarded in a few seconds by a sharp jerk of
Dilandau’s hips and a thick salty spurt in his mouth, gushing
strongly for a moment before tapering off to a dribble. Dilandau’s
hand slipped away, falling limply to the floor. Van slowly drew back,
his lips pursed together and his mouth full. Dilandau was leaning
weakly against the shower wall, his head lolling back, eyes
half-closed and lips half-open as he gasped in the sweet
semi-conscious backwash of pleasure following orgasm. Van cupped his
chin and kissed his mouth, deeply, releasing his mouthful of hot
come, feeling Dilandau half-gag, startled, so that the salty milk
escaped the corners of their lips and ran down over their chins.
After a long, breathless moment, Van released him, breathing heavily.

‘I’ve
wanted to do that to you, too.’

‘Oh
– oh God...’

‘I
lovelang=EN-GB> seeing you with a faceful of cream, Dilandau. Yours or
mine, doesn’t matter. It looks so good on you.’ Another
deep kiss, delighting in the suppressed quiver of humiliated
indignation he felt in Dilandau, loving the knowledge that he was
restraining himself because he was so desperate for what Van could do
to him.

‘Turn
round now, sweetie. Time for my pleasure.’ Moving in a daze,
Dilandau turned, adopting Van’s former position on his knees
and elbows, his rump up in the air. Van spread his buttocks apart and
let the shower play on his reddened anus, little needles of water
drumming on the taut skin.style="mso-spacerun: yes">  After a moment he bent and
licked it softly.

‘Mmm...
you’re still nice and slippery... I won’t bother soaping
you up.’ Taking his thick, red cock in his hand, Van pushed it
deep into Dilandau’s rear, cramming himself in against muscular
resistance. Dilandau gave a sharp little gasp, slipping forward, his
cheek pressed against the cool hard slate of the wall, his neck bent
at an uncomfortable angle.

‘Ohhh...
oh, that’s so good... you must have been made to take me,
Dilandau.’ Van drew slowly back and thrust in again. ‘Just
for me...’ He began to pump harder, faster, heedless of
anything but the delicious hot friction and squeezing all along his
throbbing shaft. Dilandau was groaning, gasping, pushing back against
him.

‘Van...
oh God, Van... Van-sa – aah!’ Van laughed softly to hear
Dilandau trying to bite back the honorific, turn it into just a
wordless cry. His cries were growing louder, punctuated by Van’s
deep breathy grunts.

‘Keep
it down.’

‘I
– I can’t – caaaan’t – aaah!
Aaaaah!lang=EN-GB>’ Dilandau bucked wildly backward, slamming Van back
against the opposite wall, rearing up to brace his arms against the
wall before him as he screamed aloud. ‘Van-sama! Van! Oh
God, oh God, oh...’lang=EN-GB> He almost choked as Van’s forearm blocked his mouth
again, the other side this time, and bit down gratefully, his eyes
watering as Van thrust again and again and again, reaching orgasm
just as he thought he could no longer bear the burning. As Van’s
body relaxed, they sank down in a tangle to the wet floor. Vaguely,
Dilandau reached down to his third erection of the night, swollen
perversely in response to what had almost been more pain than
pleasure. He stroked himself gently, rhythmically, and felt release,
relief, a thin squirt of white, almost exhausted.

‘Next
time,’ Van said behind him, ‘we’ll have to find you
something to bite that isn’t me.’
He gave Dilandau’s ass one more firm stroke and pulled out,
satisfied. ‘I noticed I was Van-sama again.’

‘I
can hearlang=EN-GB> you grinning.’

‘I
do that when I’m very well pleased.’ Van kissed his
shoulder. ‘Good boy. You didn’t make much
of a fuss.’

‘I...
I couldn’t help it... you were fucking me so hard...’

‘But
that’s how you need to be fucked.’ His voice was gentle,
reasonable, still full of that gloating smile.

‘Mmm...’

‘Tell
me you love it.’

‘I
love it... love how you fuck me...’ Dilandau’s face was
already red with heat, from exertion and from the warm water, but he
felt himself blush deeper at that admission.

‘Goodlang=EN-GB> boy.’ Van gave him a friendly pat on the backside. ‘Let
me just scrub my dick off and we can go back to bed.’ He turned
away, searching for the soap on the shower floor.

Feeling
quite faint, Dilandau crawled out of the shower and pulled down a
towel from the rail before pulling himself up to his feet by the same
bar. I should be so mad at him... but I loved it. I loved
everything. I must be going insane.lang=EN-GB> He kept leaning against the wall while he dried himself,
because his legs felt so weak and shaky, but somehow that was a
pleasure too. I have just been completely, totally fucked.
By my demon lover, my demon king. He just... he takes me over... he
takes control... As an afterthought, he
wiped the watery traces of come from his chin before dropping the
towel and making his way back to fall on the bed. Van returned a
short time later, apparently as invigorated as he was exhausted,
briskly towelling down his hair.

‘Move
over,’ he said cheerfully, snapping the damp towel at Dilandau’s
behind. Obedient for the moment, Dilandau rolled over against the
wall and made room for him.

‘And
come back and cuddle me, like a good boy.’

It
felt weird to put his arms around Van and lie there with his head on
his shoulder, feeling Van stroke his back as he lay gazing up at the
ceiling, humming softly. He couldn’t remember ever getting so
close to another human being except to fight or to fuck (at least,
intending to fuck – he felt a twinge of contempt for himself,
thinking of his failure with Chesta). It felt wrong somehow.

‘This
is what I wanted to do with Celena,’ Van said contentedly, and
then it made sense. Dilandau lifted his head, hesitantly.

‘Do
you – do you want Celena next? I could... could try to find her
for you.’

‘No...
no, right now I really like Dilandau.’ Van smiled down at him
and he felt strangely flustered.

‘Um.
All right.’ He lowered his head again, shutting his eyes to
avoid Van’s gaze. I... I felt so good when he said that. Oh,
for God’s sake, boy, don’t get sentimental. It’s
fucking. It Is Only Fucking. He doesn’t care

about you. Look how he slammed your ass in the shower.

It’s
just lucky for him I like that.

‘Does
it feel like we did the right thing this time?’ he asked
cautiously.

‘For
the moment. For the moment it feels like we did.’

Gradually,
as they lay in silence, Dilandau began to feel that he was
recovering. The burning in his rectum diminished, and his limbs felt
less weak. Van felt very relaxed, very warm, his breathing slow and
deep and sleepy. Are we going to sleep together all night? Wake up
together? Dilandau tried to disengage
himself from Van’s arms and sit up.

‘Wh’s
wrong?’ Van held him, drowsily.

‘I
think I should go back to the dorm.’

‘Don’t
you like this?’

‘I
just think it’s better if I’m there in the morning. You
said you don’t want people to know what we’re doing.’

‘Damn’
right,’ said Van with a lazy grin. ‘You think I want
people to know I’m fucking you?’

‘Half
this fortress would give their eye teeth to do what you just did,’
Dilandau said coldly, pulling away.

‘I
was only joking.’

‘Ha
ha.’ He swung his legs over the side of the bed and felt on the
floor for his clothes... Celena’s clothes.

‘I
can’t go back wearing these.’ He crumpled the dress
between his hands, helplessly.

‘Go
back naked. Give the boys a thrill.’

‘Don’t
be stupid.’

‘Don’t
worry about it.’ Van got up from the bed and ambled over to the
closet, taking out the black silk dressing-gown. ‘Would this
suit you to go back in?’

Dilandau
blinked. ‘Do you mean it?’

‘Well,
yes. I hung it up in here once it was clean so no more
accidentslang=EN-GB> would happen to it... but it’s fine for you to wear
it with my permission.’

Dilandau
approached him slowly, still wondering if there was a catch. Van held
out the robe for him to put his arms through the sleeves, then,
standing behind him, wrapped it around his body, tying the sash for
him.

‘It
suits you.’

‘I
know.’ Dilandau fingered the lapel, feeling the texture of the
embroidery. ‘Um... thank you.’

‘Don’t
get it dirty, now,’ Van murmured in his ear, ‘unless you
let me watch. Say yes, Van-sama.’

‘Yes,
Van... sama.’

‘Gets
easier every time, doesn’t it?’

‘I
am notlang=EN-GB> calling you that in front of anyone.’

‘Just
so long as you call me that when it counts...’ Van kissed his
neck, softly nipping.

‘What’ll
we do with Celena’s things?’

‘Leave
them here. You’re going to wear them for me again.’

‘Oh.’

‘No,
the answer is...’ He paused, expectantly.

‘Yes,
Van-sama.’

‘Very,
very good.’ Another nibbling kiss. ‘Are you sure you want
to go?’

‘I
think I’d better.’

‘All
right. I’ll see you at breakfast. Save a seat for me, hmm?’

‘Yes,
Van-sama.’

‘I
lovelang=EN-GB> hearing you say that.’ His arms unwound from
Dilandau’s waist, freeing him.

‘All
right, then. Um – bye.’ Dilandau hurried out of the room,
feeling that it was not the world’s most graceful exit, but
somehow relieved to get away. In the chill of the corridor, he hugged
the soft silk around him.

Okay... home.

Chapter Text

After returning from Folken's room that morning, Chesta managed to
doze a little, but kept half-waking, feeling ill at ease. He had
deliberately not asked any questions about Dilandau-sama last night,
wanting to show good faith, and to his frustration and distress
Folken had not brought the subject up either. His attention had been
entirely for Chesta, which was nice, certainly, but made Chesta feel
guilty and keyed-up when his own mind kept jumping to worrying about
someone else. They had tried to make love very gently and it hadn't
worked; it had just hurt too much, less because of the healing injury
and more because he was so tense. Then he could see Folken feeling
guilty, which made everything worse. It wasn't that there had been no
pleasure in the night at all, since they were certainly more
resourceful than to be stumped by a temporary ban on penetration, and
it wasn't that he hadn't felt happy to be with Folken; it was just
that there was so much that they couldn't touch on, so much that they
were both consciously trying to keep away from.

It will get better, he told himself. You've just had a
near bust-up, and of course it takes a little while for things to get
comfortable again after that. And once you're okay physically that
will make a big difference; he'll hate himself a little less. I hope.
I wish I could make things better for him, my poor screwed-up
Folken-sama! I suppose at first I thought that just to be loved
enough would fix him… and if it didn't that meant I wasn't
loving him enough… but there's so much that's hurt in him that I
can't heal. I just have to be good to him, and strong for him…
and remember that there might be a point where I have to abandon
ship. No. No, I don't want to think of that, I don't want to make it
come true.

Some minutes before the rising-bell would ring to wake them, he
found himself wide awake with only these thoughts for company. Dalet
was sleeping peacefully in the next bed, hugging his pillow; everyone
was asleep, a still softly-breathing figure in every bed.

Except Dilandau-sama's bed. I wish he were here with us. I wish
things were normal. But I've done everything I can for him, and it's
not enough… unless I try to, I don't know, kill Van-sama to save
him. Which I can't do, because firstly I can't hurt Folken's brother,
and secondly I can't kill someone in cold blood. I'm a soldier, not a
murderer. I wish I could look over there and see the curtains drawn
on the big red bed and know he was in there… His eyes
involuntarily went to the bed, and he started up with a gasp of
surprise.

'Dilandau-sama!'

'Wha?' Dalet opened one eye.

'Dilandau-sama's back!' Chesta cried, joy and bewilderment
overwhelming him. Around the dormitory boys were sitting up to give
him sleepy, irritable looks that turned curiously to the curtained
bed. The curtains were not drawn; thus they could see the slender
figure stretched out on the quilt. At Chesta's first exclamation he
had raised himself on one elbow, his head propped on his hand, and
was looking coldly at the boy.

'Chesta,' he said, 'if you ever disturb me before the bell
again, I'll cut your ears off. It's just lucky for you I'm in a good
mood this morning.'

'I'm sorry, Dilandau-sama, but I'm so surprised and happy to see
you back! When &endash; when you were taken ill, Folken-sama said you
would need a few days to recover.'

'Well, he underestimated me, didn't he?' Dilandau sat up and
stretched. 'If I have to wake up you all do. Gatti, give Biore a
kick, he still looks comfortable.' He dropped his arms and looked
around the dormitory. 'What're you all staring at? You've seen me
first thing in the morning before.'

'Uh, I was just thinking that's a, a nice dressing-gown you've got
on, Dilandau-sama' Migel said.

'Compliments won't save you from having to get up,' Dilandau said
dryly, 'but thanks. It is nice. Go on. All of you, out of bed and get
your clothes on. If you object to an early start, take it up with
&endash; or out on &endash; Chesta. But you'll have to wait a minute,
because I want to talk to him first. C'mere, Chesta.' He beckoned,
then, as an afterthought, added 'And you too, Dalet.'

They approached the bed, where he was still sitting in the middle
of the quilt.

'Come in here and draw the curtains. I want to talk to you
alone.'

Dalet shot Chesta a Look; don't worry, I'll protect you.
Chesta pulled the cord that closed the curtains around the bed,
enclosing them in a crimson tent. Unsure of how to proceed in a
setting like this, the two of them knelt at the end of the bed, heads
bowed.

This feels like right after Fanelia, when we both got slapped
for getting our asses kicked by Van, Dalet reflected. Hey, I
never thought of that before! We were together then too. I wonder if
that's destiny or something.

Dilandau regarded them both for a long moment without speaking,
sitting casually with his legs crossed in front of him, leaning back
on his hands.

'You were there too, weren't you, Dalet?' he said. 'I'm pretty
sure I remember hearing your voice.'

'Yes, Dilandau-sama.'

'But no-one else?'

'No, Dilandau-sama. Except when Folken-sama came to get you
&endash; Chesta went for him. But no-one else came in or saw you.'
There was another long pause, during which they could hear only the
sounds of the others getting dressed, the squeaks and clinks of
leather and armour being drawn on.

'So,' said Dilandau, quite casually, 'what did you see?'

They glanced at each other guiltily, Dalet blushing.

'Your… your body changed,' Chesta said hesitantly.

'Go on. I can't remember this stuff very well, so I want your
report. What did you see?'

'I &endash; I didn't see that part, I was looking for Folken-sama.
Dalet did.'

'Dalet?'

'You, um, you seemed to have a sort of a fit,' Dalet said, looking
determinedly at the bedspread so as not to meet Dilandau's eyes, 'and
your body started to turn into a girl's. It turned about halfway
before the fit passed off. Like a hermaphrodite. Dilandau-sama.'

'Are you calling me a hermaphrodite?'

'No, Dilandau-sama!' Dalet said earnestly. 'That's just &endash;
just a comparison.'

'You said my body started to change. Did my face change too?'

'No… your face was normal. That's all I saw.'

'Hmm.' Dilandau looked preoccupied for a moment, as though that
was a puzzling variation on what he'd expected to hear. 'Anything
else?' He turned to Chesta, raising one eyebrow.

'Not much, Dilandau-sama. Then I came back with Folken-sama and he
took you away for treatment. We &endash; we covered for you. We
didn't say anything to the others, just what Folken-sama told us to
say, about how you'd be back in a few days.'

'Uh-huh.' Dilandau regarded them both in silence again. Chesta
tried to shift his position without looking as if he were doing so,
because his bottom ached; Dalet tried not to think of breasts.

'I don't suppose I need to tell you that if you mention any of
this to anyone, your lives, short as they'll be, won't be worth
living.'

'No, Dilandau-sama.' They spoke together.

'Good. I don't feel like killing anyone today.' Chesta looked up
and was startled to see Dilandau-sama was smiling. He kept his face
politely neutral and submissive, but in his heart he smiled back for
all he was worth. Oh, he's okay! I don't know what the hell
is going on, but he's okay!

'We're so glad you're better already, Dilandau-sama,' he
said fervently.

'What'd you do without me?'

'Well, Migel took over &endash; just to take us through your
routine,' Dalet said. 'I bet he'll be relieved you're in charge
again.'

'He'd better be. I don't want anyone getting ideas above their
station round here.' It was remarkable, Chesta thought, how relaxed
Dilandau-sama looked, too. As if a weight had been lifted from his
shoulders, or he had just stopped worrying about something.

'That really is a nice dressing-gown, Dilandau-sama,' he said
boldly. 'Is it new?'

'It's a souvenir,' said Dilandau, with an I've-got-a-secret smile.
'Now stop asking impertinent questions and get dressed. You're
dismissed.'

'Thank you, Dilandau-sama.' They crept out from under the curtains
and exchanged puzzled looks.

'Van-sama's?' Dalet whispered very quietly.

'I know,' Chesta agreed, in a murmur. The conversation got no
further, as Chesta was set upon by Gatti, Biore and Guimel, who
wanted to express their gratitude for the early wake-up call. Then
the rising-bell rang and morning routine went on. Neither of them
dared call attention to themselves by trying to drop back on the walk
to breakfast, so they had no opportunity to discuss the new
developments. It was not just that the other boys might remark upon
it, but Dilandau-sama seemed full alert and on the ball once more,
and would almost certainly call them on it. They all trooped in to
the dining hall, where Van was already sitting at the table. Dilandau
stopped at the sight of him, and the Dragonslayers stiffened,
wondering if sparks were going to fly yet again.

'I thought you told me to save a seat for you,' Dilandau said.

'Well, whichever of us got here first,' Van said, shrugging. 'I
saved one for you.' He patted the seat of the chair beside him. The
baffled looks were flying between Dragonslayers now. Throughout
breakfast, the air almost buzzed with the energy of fifteen brains
trying desperately to figure out what was going on. They didn't seem
mad at each other. There was some tension there, on a level most of
them didn't quite understand, but somehow they seemed pleased with
how things were going. They talked during breakfast, about what
they'd have for breakfast if they had a choice. No-one else quite
dared speak. Chesta put his food away without tasting it, intently
watching Dilandau-sama's face. At one point, for no obvious reason,
he seemed to blush, very slightly. Dropping his fork, Chesta leaned
under the table and discovered to his astonishment that there was a
game of footsie going on under there. Up top, Van was calmly holding
forth on his favourite way for eggs to be prepared, while he rubbed
the inner curve of his instep up and down Dilandau's calf, and
&endash; yes &endash; Chesta thought he could make out a little glint
of enjoyment in his eye, enjoyment of touching Dilandau and
flustering him secretly.

Good God. Good God! This is getting very strange. And
Dilandau-sama's letting him. While they both act like there's
nothing going on. Does Folken-sama know about this? Should I tell
him? Does he even know Dilandau-sama's back? This isn't what he said
would happen.