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Shiro first sees the love of his life on a Friday, three hours after his husband’s funeral.

It had been a somber affair, without glad reflection or smiles for better times past. Something that Shiro privately thinks would have pleased Adam, if he could know- he had always been solemn and sober and certain in all things. It had been a great shock to them both when Shiro, nearly bed bound and muscles quaking, had proved to be the heartier betwixt them. One spooked horse, an unlucky fall, and-

Well.

It had not been a love match. Shiro had thought at first that perhaps in time he would grow fond of Adam, who was comely and thoughtful if a bit brusque. It had not taken him long to realize that rather than a lover, Adam saw him as a necessary burden- as a broken little bird who required feeding and cage cleaning and the occasional dry pat on the head for affection. He’d simmered then with quiet rage. If only there had been some escape! But no. Circumstances made that impossible, it seemed.

Now, with his inherited title and lands heavy around his shoulders, he sinks into the carriage with abject misery. Iverson brokered this deal for Adam’s sake when Shiro was a burden with a simple legacy; now that Adam is gone, his obligations have ended too. Now Shiro rides away from their little home in the Garrison Grange toward the fine estate of Adam’s distant relation, one Lord Zarkon- the only one willing to assist the young and sickly Lord Shirogane with his affairs.

He has a son, Zarkon.

Shiro’s knuckles are white as he clutches his bag, slung across his lap. Letters from his mother, before the wasting illness swallowed his family whole and left him a shaking and trembling wraith. His father’s signet ring. A few important papers. A scarf, light blue and soft as clouds… the first and only present Adam had given him personally, the reason why he’d looked into those bespeckled eyes and agreed to marry him. Shiro had wanted a little softness in his life. More fool him.

What can he do? What choice does he have? Shiro is strong of mind but frail in body. He has no kin, no trustworthy friend to oversee his estates and his finances when suffering a bout of illness. There is no stewart he can put faith into. He must have family, and for that he must marry again. There is too much at stake now, with Adam’s fine family name dragging him down, a millstone round his neck. Shiro drowns.

The carriage ride does not treat him well. The benches are only lightly padded and the jostling motion of the horses along the poorly paved road leaves him sore and breathless. Scant hours into the journey and he must insist they stop to rest though Marmora Manor is so near yet. It is only a little because a delay- any delay, of a second or an hour, is a welcome one.

It’s a pretty enough spot, overlooking the lonely moors with their tall wavery grasses and many purple tipped flowers that move so in the breezes that the effect is rather like an ocean on land. Shiro sits and looks and presently he sees movement below. Rising from the grass is a small dark figure standing very still, face turned away toward the horizon. It is a lonely picture, for all that it is lovely- this singular someone the only steady certain thing in all the roving moving world.

But then he is turning as though called to look up at the cliff above. The boy stares at Shiro and Shiro stares at the boy, who is appealing with large eyes an unusual shade of violet, rough cut hair sweeping across the planes of his pretty face. He will be stunning, one day. Then the boy’s face darkens. He scowls, turning away and plunging into the tall grasses, his progress marked only by the violence of the rippling meadow that allows him to disappear, like a rabbit or a faun. Perhaps he was never a boy at all.

“My liege,” the coachman says at his elbow. Shiro starts then settles, allowing the man to steer him back into the carriage.

His new life awaits.

~~

Marmora Manor is beautiful and stately, all carved buttresses, portagent marbling and heavy ebony furnishing inlaid with gold. It resembles nothing so much as a tomb, which Shiro accepts as a sort of universal irony; he has come to marry and to die, this seems a fitting place to do so. The steps leading to the front door are a sparkling white marble that shine in the harsh light of late summer.

Lord Zarkon greets his arrival with a few conciliatory words, an appraising look, and a cursory introduction to his son and heir. Then he leaves, for he is a busy man and the message is clear: Shiro and Lotor will wed. Every word he speaks is proper if stiff and his greetings seem sincere if somewhat curt, but there is something… off… about him nonetheless. It is as though there is a barely restrained sort of violence, a viciousness beneath his perfectly tailored gentleman’s jacket. Shiro shivers and raises his hands to the fire in order to disguise his unease.

Lotor, who sits on a cushioned chaise in the corner, is a beautiful man, with a mane of fine light hair and eyes as clever and removed as a raven’s. His arms are crossed and he swirls a finger’s worth of brandy in a hurricane glass until his father leaves. Then he rises and stretches, throwing the brandy back and putting the glass down carelessly on the fireplace mantle.

“You will require six months of morning.” Lotor says drolly.

“Excuse me?” Shiro asks. The customary period of morning is two months. Lotor must know this.

“Because you and Adam were so close,” Lotor explains as though speaking to a child, “you will require six.”

“What happens in six months?” Shiro asks apprehensively.

“An important enough trading expedition across to Daibazaal. It will take a year to complete. Then when I return I shall insist on six months to concentrate on settling the associated business ventures. Then the wedding arrangements, which can take a year, or so I am told.”

“And then?” Shiro prods.

“And then.” Lotor shrugs careless. “Perhaps we get married. Perhaps I’ll get lucky and my father will die. Perhaps you shall be the lucky one and I will. But it’s three years. Take the reprieve, Shirogane.”

“Many things can change in three years,” Shiro says agreeably. Perhaps Shiro will die, in three years, they think. It would not do to say, in polite company.

~~

A boy is being whipped at the stables.

Shiro has come to see Black, the retired warhorse who has been his only friend and companion those long three years at Adam’s side. He has an apple and two lumps of sugar in his pockets. It’s a good day, the sun high and warm and his bones ache only with the low steady thrum of always and not the sharp stab of sometimes.

The crack of the whip draws his eye passingly; he spares a thought for the creature suffering beneath. Surely the stablemaster is too enthusiastic in his discipline. He thinks vaguely that he will intervene; then he sees the dark bowed head and there is no other option.

“Cease your actions at once,” Shiro commands. The stablemaster does not know him by face, but the servants always know more than they ought so he bows somewhat stiffly and stands to the side a little. The hunched figure on the ground curls in on itself but does not collapse in relief or in pain, though the thin cuts along his back are open and raw.

“This boy been running off,” the stablemaster says sourly. “Coachman says he saw him mooching about on the moors instead of doing a day’s honest work.”

The boy jerks a little at that and Shiro is able to see a sliver of his face before it is tucked back down, turned to the ground. He’s not being deferential, he is trying to keep Shiro from seeing him. It’s the boy from the moor.

“And what is the punishment for shirking?” Shiro asks, bemused.

“For Kogane? Lord Zarkon says his shirking means a missed meal and ten lashes,” the stablemaster answers promptly. So steep a price for so little freedom.

“I was with the coach all afternoon,” Shiro says. “We came up from Garrison Grange. I did not see the boy on the moors. The coachman must be mistaken.”

Both the stablemaster and Kogane forget themselves to stare at Shiro. The stablemaster, aghast that someone might be inclined to spare a wretched child a too-strict punishment. Kogane, probably shock that someone might bother an untruth to spare him a few more lashes. Shiro can count four, by the reddened split skin. But Shiro is an expert in pretty untruths so he simply smiles blithely until the stablemaster mutters something conciliatory and turns on his heel.

Kogane stares. In the silence between them is the rumble of an empty belly.

Shiro places the apple on the ground, on the boy’s shirt where it had been tossed in preparation for the whipping.

“A snack for later,” he says lightly and turns to the stables. Kogane will not uncurl from his hard little shell until he goes, and Shiro knows a little something about that too.

In the stables, Black whuffs along Shiro’s face and hair, nosing him in the way that horses do, greeting someone they love.

“I’m alright,” Shiro tells him. “Thank god for you. At least someone’s happy to see me.”

He has to rest half an hour on an upturned feed bucket before he has the strength to make his way back to the manor, time spent petting Black along the nose and flank and telling him silly stories.

“No apple today,” Shiro explains. “Make do with the sugar. Someone needed it more than you.”

Black nibbles the sugar lumps from Shiro’s hand delicately, whiskery lips ticklish against his flat palm, though he remains unimpressed.

“Tomorrow,” Shiro promises.

But when the next day comes and Shiro gets to the stable, Black is gone.

There is a tight little feeling in his chest, his heart thumping out of time with the blood in his veins. Panic, tinged with the tiredness of his condition. If he does not slow, he will faint where he stands, but he cannot rest until he finds Black. The stablemaster watches him uneasily but the memory of his cruelty holds Shiro back from requesting his aid. Black is gone, hope is lost. His last good thing in this place, taken from him.

A sound in the distance, a heavy hoofbeat. He knows this sound. Laboriously Shiro follows it along the edge of the manor, where the carefully tended greenery gives way to the wild tangle of the moor. In this in-between place, Shiro finds Kogane.

The boy sits astride Black, racing him along the path, into sharp turns and cants. He never jerks the lead or digs sharp heels into the animal’s side, instead leaning and shifting his weight, whispered encouragement and tangible excitement all that Black needs to let loose. Shiro rides when he can, but even his best days are not like this- wild and reckless, so fast and so free.

Kogane pulls up short a few feet away, breathing hard. He turns the horse back toward the stables and freezes like a statue in the saddle when he sees Shiro standing there.

“What is the meaning of this?” a voice clips out behind him. Lord Zarkon looms, face dark with anger. He is so seldom out of doors- this is terrible luck indeed. “You dare? You shall be whipped until you learn yourself, should it half-kill you to do so.”

Kogane tilts his chin defiantly.

“Thank you, Kogane.” Shiro says, stepping forward and catching Black’s bridle. “Excellently done.”

“Am I to understand this was done with your permission?” Zarkon asks, voice low and dangerous.

“Permission? Not at all. It was an order.” Shiro tilts his head to the side innocently as he faces his host. “You did say to treat Marmora Manor as my home. Do I not have the right to commission your staff to serve me also?”

“Racing a warhorse down the wild moors is a service, then?” Zarkon asks, but he sounds marginally less suspicious.

“Black is, as you say, a warhorse. He is used to a certain level of exercise that I am woefully unable to provide, due to my ill health.”

“He is a fine creature,” Zarkon agrees. “But too fine for such a careless untrained fool. The boy may well ruin him. Lotor or myself, we would be glad to assist-” Here Zarkon reaches as though to stroke Black’s nose. Zarkon is able to evade his snapping teeth from closing on that fine gloved hand, but only just- and mostly because Shiro had anticipated such, firmly redirecting the bridle away from Black’s intended target.

“Black is also quite spirited, I fear.”

“I see.” Zarkon rumbles his displeasure. “As you will, then.” He turns and is gone.

Kogane, still frozen in the saddle, does not move or breathe right away. It isn’t till Shiro reaches out tentatively to tug at the reins still in his hands that he lets out a long low shudder and slides down to the ground. He looks small and apprehensive then, but Shiro has no care for that.

“Where on all the green earth did you learn to ride like that?” Shiro asks breathlessly.

Kogane shrugs jerkily, eyes on the ground.

“I was amazed.”

Kogane slouches. “It wasn’t anything,” he says, surly.

“It was amazing.” Shiro repeats, stressing each word. Slowly, Kogane looks up by degrees. Shiro’s grin is honestly meant, eyes bright and interested. It wins a steady gaze between them. “I’ve never seen Black take to anyone so quickly besides me. Even my late husband could not approach him without a bribe of some kind.”

Kogane fidgets. “Apple,” he admits.

“Apple?” Shiro asks. “The apple I gave you? You used it to win Black over?”
Kogane flushes and nods. “That was clever of you. Are you really a self-taught rider?” Kogane nods again. “You’re a natural, then. I haven’t seen riding half so good in most of the races in the city. And they do very well by it. You’ve a gift.”

“That’s twice you’ve lied for me now.” Kogane says, apropos of nothing.

Shiro shrugs. “What good is an ugly truth over a kind lie if it hurts someone?”

Kogane’s brow furrows. “But lying is wrong,” he says, not as though he believes it but as though he knows it to be an accepted truth.

“Is it?” Shiro asks. “I think there are things that are far more wrong in this world.”

Kogane falls into uncertain silence. Black noses Shiro’s shoulder and he scratches along Black’s ears affectionately. Hesitantly Kogane reaches out to touch along Black’s flank. Other than a flick of his tail, Black does not react.

“He’s taken to you quite well, apple or no.” Shiro says approvingly. “Adam must have given him barrells over the years but Black never allowed him such liberty.”

“He loves you,” Kogane says in a little voice that carries just a note of soft longing.

“Perhaps in time he will love you also,” Shiro says, smiling. Kogane looks puzzled and wary. “He’ll need to be exercised each day- though not quite so hard always. He’ll let you know when he needs an easy day to recover. I’ll help to curry him after either way.”

“You want me to care for your horse?” Kogane asks, incredulous.

“Who else? It will be a great relief to know he is being well cared for by someone he likes.” Shiro pats Black’s cheek and hooks his fingers into the reins. “Come and I will show you how he likes to be groomed.”

~~

Shiro had not dared to hope for happiness when he came to Marmora Manor but the reality of his position is a bleak and cheerless thing. Zarkon he sees rarely, his Lordship content to take meals in his private quarters, rarely sending for his steward or son and never sending for Shiro. Lotor drinks to excess, his silences pointed and few words dry and stinging against the thin shield of Shiro’s self assurance. Shiro has always prided himself on an even temperament and pleasant company- something that neither his host nor his prospective second husband seem to require or appreciate to any degree. The servants are grim and bloodless, automatons almost, without individuality, intelligence or personality.

There had been only one true pleasure that Shiro had been able to afford himself- Black, a valuable and beloved creature. And now there is Kogane.

That is not to say that Shiro thinks of Kogane as an animal- except to say that Shiro prefers his company to any human he has ever known. Those pale wraiths of affection that haunt his memories in the form of his parents are overshadowed by his own sickbed feverishness, twisted into half-truths and best guesses. Kogane is stark and clear, a drop of red blood in soft white snow.

It begins simply enough. Shiro and Kogane meet in the afternoons after tea. Shiro helps to tack up Black and Kogane exercises him along the skirting of the moor. Shiro sits at the high point of the lonely hill, admiring the handsome picture they make together, Kogane’s black hair a wild mane in the whipping winds of their racing. Afterward, Shiro and Kogane walk Black to gentle him with a cooldown before returning to the stables and together they curry and pet and love on Black until he is quite content to settle in for the evening.

“You are quite the expert,” Shiro admits a bit ruefully not long into their acquaintance. “You do not require my assistance in caring for Black. I daresay that I am becoming a hindrance.”

“No,” Kogane says gruffly. “You are his person. I would not take that away for all the world.”

Shiro, touched, lingers. Before he can respond to the sentiment, Kogane’s stomach gives a most unbecoming grumbling growl. Kogane flushes and Shiro laughs gently.

“I forget what it is to be young and ravenous.” Shiro shakes his head.

“I’m sixteen next moon,” Kogane bristles.

“Of course,” Shiro murmurs soothingly, concealing his surprise. At Kogane’s size and weight he had thought for certain the boy to be no more than twelve at most. “But that is still an age that requires much feeding.”

Something flickers in Kogane’s eyes- a brief moment of consternation. Then he nods and that is the end of their talking. Shiro mulls over this moment as he dresses for dinner. Kogane is not much loved by the servants. He is a particular point of irritation for their master it seems and it behooves none to befriend such a prickly and self-assured creature. More fool them.

That evening, Shiro braves Lotor’s chilliness in order to inquire about the day to day of the estate, a responsibility he should learn, should he ever be Lord in truth- through marriage or by taking possession of his inheritance at Garrison Grange. Both Lotor and Shiro know that Shiro’s health will never allow him such an opportunity, but it is a kind lie, so Lotor allows it to stand.

Lotor at the right tipsiness is a font of information and Shiro learns many things. This includes the strict rules set at Marmora Manor as to the conduct of their servants. Meal times are firmly controlled and it is the individual’s responsibility to fetch provisions at the allotted hour, or to arrange for foodstuffs to be held in lieu. It just so happens that Shiro’s daily hour with Black and with Kogane takes place at this crucial time. Shiro also knows without asking that Kogane has no one to ask. The boy has been going without, all for Black- and perhaps a little to please Shiro.

It would be simple enough to adjust Black’s exercise time but Shiro thinks he can do one better. Staff provisions are dreadful things, thin sandwiches with the coarsest bread and little to speak of in terms of nutrition. Kogane is so small. Perhaps he has a little time for growing left.

Shiro finds Kogane fetching water for the horses the next day, an hour before their usual appointment. Kogane’s eyes brighten at his approach but then narrow in suspicion at seeing the basket over Shiro’s arm.

“Not coming today, ser?” Kogane asks roughly. “Meeting with Master Lotor?”

“On the contrary,” Shiro corrects him. “Being so alone, I require additional assistance. Do you have interfering duties?”

“Nothing I can’t complete at a later hour,” Kogane says, shrugging. He drops off the last of the fresh water, touseling the ears of a grumpy ginger colored mare. Then without a word he takes Shiro’s heavy basket and leads the way to Black. Once they walk a ways from the manor, where the distant figures have faded even from dark specks in the foreground, Kogane dutifully obeys Shiro’s directions to shake out the old blanket across the ground and to set up the picnic lunch. Boiled eggs, thick sliced ham, rich cheeses veined in blue. Fresh cut fruit, vegetables so crisp that they snap at the slightest pressure, perfectly sized for dainty hands to dip. More food than Shiro could ever hope to eat alone.

“If that’s all, ser?” Kogane puts a hand on Black’s bridle.

“Wait,” Shiro says, and it isn’t a command- it’s a plea. “Join me.”

Kogane’s hands tighten on the bridle. “If it’s pity-” he begins hotly but Shiro shakes his head. “Well it isn’t proper. It isn’t done.” Kogane says stubbornly. “Ser,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Please don’t call me that,” Shiro says sadly.

“What shall I call you? Master? Lord Shirogane?” Kogane asks.

“Shiro.”

Kogane laughs, short and derisive. “Zarkon would whip me blind.”

“I would not let him,” Shiro insists. “I… I am alone. And I am lonely. I think I am forgetting what it was like to not be lonely. And it would be good for you, to eat good things and to grow healthy and strong… But it is also for me. I enjoy your company and I think you know a bit about what it feels to be… lonely.”

A weighted moment. Then the boy reaches down to the cut apples. He picks up two slices. One he pops into his mouth, the other he gives to Black, patting his jaw as he chews. Then he sinks onto the blanket.

“I will call you Shiro,” he says decisively. “And you will call me Keith, and we will be friends- but only on the moor.”

It takes some time to navigate their new dynamic, but he was not always a lord and Keith for all his lowly status has an innate fierceness and independence that would not be out of place in company much grander than Shiro. They get on very well, and Keith’s pleasure in eating his fill of proper food satisfies his body and Shiro’s heart.

“They say you are to marry Lotor,” Keith says some days into their arrangement.

“So they say,” Shiro agrees.

“Will you?” Keith asks boldly.

“If I must,” Shiro concedes.

“Must you?”

“It is increasingly likely.” Shiro says dryly. Zarkon had accepted Shiro’s need for extended mourning quite pragmatically. Easy to do, Shiro supposes, considering he is a done deal.

“I do not care for him,” Keith says, wrinkling his nose.

“No?” Shiro asks, amused.

“He is not a good man or master,” Keith says. “And he’s a drunk. He does not truly care for the estate or for those who run it. But he is none so bad as his father, so it is likely an improvement.”

“You have known him long,” Shiro says, surprised.

“All my life,” Keith says darkly and Shiro does not press.

~~

One day, Shiro does not come down to the stables. He is sorry for it, but his body is not to be argued with at such times. His muscles quiver, legs unable to bear his body’s weight. It is all he can manage to relieve himself and make it back to his bed. Finding a servant to send a message to Keith is out of the question. Still, Keith is clever and can manage. Shiro does not realize exactly how clever until he wakes from his fevered dreams to a dark slim figure over his bed.

“Keith?” Shiro whispers, certain this must be a hallucination brought on by his high fever.

“Hush,” Keith urges. “You are not well.”

“It is to be expected,” Shiro says weakly, turning his face into the pillow. When he drags his eyes open again, he is alone. Just as well. A dying man’s sick bed is no place for vibrant youth. Shiro drowses into the afternoon and at sunset, Keith returns. He is awake enough to see Keith swing up and into the window with ease, the muscles of his arms and back flexing with little effort despite the bundle tied along his back.

Keith’s expression is thunderous as he stalks toward the bed.

“I am sorry,” Shiro says, tongue thick in his dry mouth. “I could not send word.”

“Sorry,” Keith spits as though the word is poison. “As if you had anything to be sorry for.”

Shiro opens his mouth to ask what Keith means but then there is a cool glass at his lips. Fresh water, sweetened with spice slides down his parched throat and he drains it gratefully.

“Ginger in that,” Keith grunts. “And mint. Good for the sick. Now sit up and eat this. That useless lot downstairs won’t miss it and it’ll get your strength up.”

Shiro is unable to move much but then Keith leans in, hooking arms down along Shiro’s sides and helping him to slide into a more or less upright position. Strong, Keith is. Shiro allows himself a flash of pride for that. The food must be helping.

“You always help,” Keith mutters, ears pink. “Now hush and eat.”

Keith spoon feeds Shiro a savory mash of grains and broth. He is matter of fact, not overbearing as Adam was or coldly inconvenienced as so many doctors before. The food is expertly prepared, digestible and pleasant and lightly seasoned with medicinal herbs that grow across the moor. Keith has another talent, it seems.

“Practice,” Keith explains, voice going rough again. “My father.”

Shiro’s heart hurts for him. Keith is too good for this terrible place and these terrible people. He should escape. Go to the city. Live the life that Shiro cannot…

“Why should I go?” Keith asks, his voice low and fierce even as his ministrations remain steady and gentle. “Why should I be the one to go? This is my home and they will not drive me off it, even if I should die for it.”

Shiro will not let anything happen to Keith.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Keith says. Then Shiro sleeps.

~~

The afternoon after he is able to function under his own powers, the doctor is to see to Shiro. A new specialist that Zarkon has engaged from town. Futile, but thoughtful. Shiro thinks rather cynically that it is likely that Zarkon is beginning to worry that Shiro will not survive until the wedding. Shiro does not share that concern. He is not so lucky to die early and easy, he is sure.

Still, Shiro leaves a note this time for Keith, tucked underneath Black’s bridle. Keith does not sneak into the manor that evening and Shiro is completely taken aback when Keith is sulky and withdrawn their next afternoon together, after the doctor has left with nothing more than that same pressed lip expression that spells Shiro’s doom.

“Why, whatever can be the matter, Keith?” Shiro asks, baffled. “Are you not glad to see me? I am sorry I abandoned you but I can promise it was not for my own amusement that I missed our appointment. I said as much in my note.”

Keith stares at Shiro in astonishment. “Note? You mean you meant for me to read it?”

It is Shiro’s turn to stare. “What else?”

“I thought-” Keith flushes a deep scarlet. “I thought you might… perhaps… be making fun of me.”

“I would never,” Shiro says, shocked. “Has my conduct given you that impression?”

“No!” Keith rushes to assure him. “Not in the slightest. That was why it stung so. But... you had to know that I do not know my letters.” He is still ducked small and embarrassed against the picnic blanket.

“I had no such notion,” Shiro insists. “It never would have occurred to me, simply because at Garrison Grange all had access to at least basic schooling. Numbers and letters and trade- do you mean to say that you have had none?”

“Who would teach me?” Keith mutters. “My father tried years ago but I was small. I recall little.”

“That will not do.” Shiro says firmly. “You will learn your letters and numbers and anything else you desire. How else will you make your way in the world? You are too clever and quick to toil your life away here, Keith.”

“How shall I learn?” Keith asks, but his tone is no longer disbelieving. There is a hint instead- just the barest note of longing. Of belief in Shiro’s ability to do this seemingly impossible small thing.

“I shall teach you,” Shiro decides. And so it is that the two meet for luncheon and to practice schooling, and when the weather is too harsh for the moor they meet in the stables which are pleasantly horsey and warm and watertight. Keith is a quick study, all the old knowledge coming back to him with the slightest encouragement. A brilliant and lovely child, now that he is filling in with good food and proper exercise instead of overwork.

It was too much, perhaps, to hope that Shiro’s favor could continue unchecked in perpetuity. It is some small luck that it is Lotor who finds them one such rainy day, huddled up over parchment and deciphering poetry with little headway. Keith is imminently practical and forceful. He has little use for the frivolous beauty of old words.

“Are you mad?” Lotor asks in a low voice, staring at the two of them. There is no flask at his hip or goblet in his hand- this must be serious.

“Kogane, you may go.” Shiro dismisses him without looking. Keith nods and obeys, slinking away. The sound of the door opening and closing. Shiro tidies their papers away into his light satchel.

“You cannot take him as a paramor.” Lotor says, voice sharp.

“Do not be disgusting,” Shiro snaps. “I would never see Keith in such a way.”

“What are you doing? The food and the small kindness with the horse- these were things I could overlook. Even the schooling to some extent, but inquiring as to having a suit made for him? What am I meant to think?” Lotor demands.

“Keith is a child.” Shiro growls.

“He will not always be a child.” Lotor shakes his head. “He looks at you with a man’s eyes and he is already sixteen.”

“You misread the situation,” Shiro says stiffly. “It would be a disgrace. Utterly debasing.”

“Is that so?” Lotor asks, subdued. And it is. Keith is young and lovely. He has a world of potential ahead of him. Even if that boyish infatuation should bloom into something greater, Shiro cannot wait for him. Marriage or death will take him sooner than not. What life can he provide? He will lose himself to illness and Keith will be bereft. He cannot be allowed to bring himself so low. Not for Shiro.

“Well. The boy cannot serve as valet, even if he has the schooling. My father would never allow him in the house.” Lotor says dismissively.

“I do not wish for him to be a servant,” Shiro says calmly. “I intend to make him my heir.”

It is within the blink of an eye and Lotor is across the space. Shiro recoils, expecting to be struck a blow, but instead Lotor’s hand comes up to Shiro’s mouth, firm but not painful.

“Do not speak so aloud again, to any soul.” Lotor hisses. “Have you told the boy? No, you have not. He is not a fool, and that is the only thing that has kept him alive so long. What you are attempting to do will be a death sentence for him. If you care at all for the boy, you must put that out of your mind at once. He would urge you to do the same, if he learned of it.”

“Why?” Shiro asks in a fearful whisper when Lotor loosens his grip.

“There are many secrets at Marmora Manor.” Lotor looks at Shiro sadly. It is rather the look of a farmer at a sheep he is fond of on slaughtering day. “Pray you do not learn them.”

~~

In the morning, Zarkon is at breakfast. This is an unusual sight on its own, but it is magnified by his agitation, pacing before the window, shoulders tight and aura murderous.

“That sneak thief,” he snarls. “Whelp of a traitorous bitch.”

Shiro blinks in confusion.

“It seems the servant boy you allowed to care for your horse has staged the most outrageous coup,” Lotor says casually, though his hands tremble at his water glass. The situation is delicate. There is danger in the air.

“Is that so?” Shiro asks politely. “That must be distressing. What has he done?”

“He has absconded with a very valuable piece of property,” Zarkon thunders. “Your property.”

“It seems that last night or early this morning perhaps, young Kogane made off with your warhorse.” Lotor’s tone is light but his eyes hold a warning. He needn’t have bothered. The shock on Shiro’s face is stark and genuine.

“That’s to say- they’re gone? Black is gone?” Shiro sits suddenly in the nearest chair.

“You are distressed. My dear Shirogane, you must calm yourself. I know you were dreadfully fond of the horse.” Lotor drawls.

“Black,” Shiro says softly. “He’s gone. They’re both gone.”

“We will mount a search. We shall contact the constable and spare no expense to retrieve your animal,” Zarkon growls.

“No.” Shiro whispers.

“No?” Lotor asks, alert.

“No.” Shiro sits up. “I... cannot allow that, Lord Zarkon. Not after you have hosted me so graciously and extended every courtesy for my persons and my property in your care.”

“It is only right, as my future son-in-law,” Zarkon says.

“It was you who warned me that… Kogane was a poor choice for a groom. I stubbornly chose to believe that I knew best and this was my folly. Black is vicious, as you have seen, and thus cannot be ridden much or even studded out during a mare’s season. He is not valuable and I could not bear for my lord’s estate to shoulder the financial burden of my foolishness.” Shiro’s head is high as he meets Zarkon’s gaze fully. “Besides he was my last tie to my old life… to Adam. Perhaps this is guidance from above that it is time to move toward a new and promising union.”

“I see.” Zarkon mulls this over. “This is wise. One ignorant boy with a horse can do little on his own after all. He will starve on the moors or be robbed and beaten blind in the slums should he reach the city. It is no longer our concern.”

~~

Shiro drifts through the next few weeks of Zarkon and Lotor’s preparations as though in a dream. There is nothing to break the monotony of his days. It is immensely selfish of him to desire Keith’s presence. Keith is not a plaything, not a companion for the bored, feckless nobility. Shiro had told him to go. He’d wanted to leave everything to Keith, who deserved a life of ease. He can see Keith at Garrison Grange. The halls would be full of kindness and life again, with the laughter of happy youth. Black too deserves better than to languish away in a stable. However, Shiro cannot help but wish that he’d been better- good enough to entice Keith to wait until Zarkon and Lotor had gone. It would have been easier to provide him with official ownership papers, with those proper clothes he’d wanted made. Now Keith will suffer, though not for long. Not Keith.

It seems as though the very walls of Marmora have grown cold and foreboding without Keith. Sometimes Shiro stands before the mirror, smoothing back his hair and adjusting his dress and fancies he sees- a smudge, perhaps, lain across the mirror’s surface. Sometimes it looks like a shadow. Sometimes a figure. His weakness is nearly unbearable in the mornings in the lingering chill.

The morning before Lotor is to depart, Shiro crosses his path in the hallway. It is hours before Lotor generally stirs from his wine-soaked stupor, but travel has demanded a more or less clear head. Lotor’s glance is sharp, raking through Shiro’s messy forelock and down his sleep-worn skin.

“What is the matter?” Lotor demands.

Shiro attempts a placating smile, but Lotor remains imperious.

“I do not sleep well,” Shiro decides diplomatically. “It is cold, morning on the moor.”

Lotor jerks back at that, as though struck. “Cold? This early in the year? We have not even had first frost.”

Shiro puzzles over his words. “Is that so? It is often so cold that I can see my very breath.”

Lotor reached out, seizing Shiro by the sleeve and carrying him back to Shiro’s quarters. Though it is not proper for the two to be so enclosed before the marriage vows, Shiro allows himself to be led. It does not much matter and he is so tired. The little time that has passed from waking and walking has warmed the room considerably, but it is still some degrees colder than the rest of the manor. Lotor glances at the mirror- where Shiro has lain a piece of muslin across the surface. For the dust, he plans to say if asked.

Lotor curses.

“Does something displease you?” Shiro asks politely.

“Damn you, Shirogane,” Lotor says, but rather than angry he seems… uneasy. Perhaps a little afraid. “Why now?”

“I do not understand.” Shiro tries.

“I do not have the time to make you,” Lotor snaps. “If you had told me at once- perhaps. But no. This journey cannot be delayed. Many things depend on this. I cannot remain, not even for you.”

“Romantic,” Shiro notes dryly, his exhaustion betraying his usual pleasantries.

“You should have left with the boy,” Lotor says, not unkindly.

“I would have died shortly,” Shiro says quietly. “I am in no condition to survive such a flight. I would not burden him so, not even if he wished it.”

“You will die here.” Lotor says.

“I have always intended so.” Shiro’s eyes close. “Forgive me. I must rest.”

“Rest, then.” Lotor turns to go, then hesitates at the threshold. “You have never asked me why I drink.”

“It is your own business,” Shiro says, sinking down onto the bed. “Unless you care to tell me.”

“I cannot see them when I drink,” Lotor explains. He does not look at Shiro. “I cannot see her. It is easier then.”

“Easier?” Shiro echoes drowsily.

“To pretend she cannot see me either.”

~~

Shiro sleeps to excess. When he wakes it is all darkness and silence. The candle has gone out. The yard is quiet; Zarkon and Lotor’s carriage long gone to town and the docks. Perhaps Shiro should find water, something to eat. His brow is wet with sweat but he shivers. It is so cold.

The mirror is uncovered. He is drawn.

There is a woman in the mirror, he can see that now. That dark figure was the curve of her cowl-covered head, wizened face peering from the shadow there, skin oddly colored in the low light. Her hair, long and wild and white, swirls about her shoulders and down to the floor.

Shiro knows, in the clarity of dream or near dreaming, that she is not real- not in the flesh and blood realm. The room is cold and there is a woman in the mirror who is not there and Lotor drinks because Marmora Manor is haunted. Deeply haunted.

Why is her skin that cast? A deep purple-blue. And it is so cold.

Shiro blinks, perhaps, or sleeps, or faints. It matters not. When he is to himself again, he is standing. The disorientation makes his stomach protest, flipping in his middle and making him choke. Shiro gasps for air, as though he has been underwater for some time. The room he is in is unfamiliar. This must be Zarkon’s private quarters- too large and grand to be otherwise. There are tapestries on the wall and fine furnishings but it is as though a beast lives here, not a man- everything broken, smashed, torn and destroyed. Candles light the room from distant corners.

Movement, from the darkness. He half expects a spectre but it is flesh and blood. Servants, he recognizes. Each of them holding a candle and ringing him in the center of the room.

“What… what devilry is this?” Shiro asks, but his voice falters. “Please. Do not do this thing.”

“We do as our mistress commands,” the cook’s assistant murmurs. The others nod their assent, eyes dreamily blank.

“She will make you strong,” the stablemaster continues.

“Worthy of the Zarkon crest,” agrees the chambermaid.

Shiro cannot hurt them. They are not of sound mind. He is weak besides- they would die and he would still fall. He accepts his fate. Shiro is ready to die.

Poor boy, a sibilant hiss from above, below, inside, all around. You will not die. You will be our Champion.

~~

There is a book in the library that Shiro reads often. When he cannot sleep or eat or rest or do anything but hurt and suffer, he drags himself to the chamber and finds the grey bound tome- red, now, in places, where Shiro has dripped himself raw into the pages. He does not know if it is comfort or punishment, or comfort in the knowledge that it is a punishment he chooses.

The story is told thus:

Once upon a time, there was a powerful family. They were haughty and precious and so innately noble that it was said their very blood ran purple. Still, they were much loved for their wisdom and bravery, and to serve this family was an honor and a privilege, for they cared for their people fiercely. To this family was born two children, a boy and a girl. The boy was named heir, as is proper, and was given a vast inheritance. The girl was not at all as girls ought to be- too bright and strong and independent. She fell in love with a commoner. She was disinherited and her name struck from the book, as was correct.

The boy married, a mate equal to him in every way. Though their match was advantageous there was a true love that blossomed between them. She soon fell pregnant.

There were difficulties in business. Many connections disapproved of the house’s treatment of the banished sister. Their financial dealings began to suffer. To add insult to injury, several distant relations recognized the sister’s brilliance and innovation. The sister began to flourish even as her brother began to despair. The family was nearing total ruin.

The brother’s wife, though a wealthy woman of leisure, had hidden talents. Small talents, reading dreams and herbal potions. Fairy blood, it was said, some generations back. For love of her husband she went on an ill-timed moonlit walk. There was an ice storm.

What had she asked for, that fateful night? What was the price that she had paid?

They say the brother found his wife at the door to the great mansion. That her body was still and cold, beyond all mortal help. But her belly was warm.

They say you can see the blood on the stone, on moonlit nights.

And the brother, embittered by his loss, threw himself into his work, for their business was the making and selling of weaponry. War was their bread and butter and so war he stoked. A war against the world, perhaps, who had forced him to use the very blades that he held dear to cut his crying son from his dead wife’s body with his own two hands. Six long and bloody years passed so.

Frightened by his zealous war-mongering, the brother’s parents reached out to their misbegotten daughter. They begged forgiveness. They embraced her into the fold. She would be heir… she, and her newborn son.

There is more to the story but Shiro cannot read it. It is too hard to turn the pages, with his remaining arm. The scar across his face aches and pulls when he tries to look at the words still on the page. They swim in his silvered eyes. He no longer bleeds, and the healing is as painful as the scarring. During the day the servants are somber and dutiful. At night, they are her creatures- all of them.

Shiro’s world is one of pain and misuse, but it is not the pain of slow failure. Whatever the witch-ghost has done to him, he will not die.

Shiro only wishes that he could.

~~

Zarkon and Lotor return a year and a day after they had left. Shiro sits in the parlor, quiet and docile as a doll. He can feel her shadow pressing down on him, a hand that holds him down in place. Lotor’s face twists with guilt when he sees what Shiro has become, eyes flickering to his arm, his scars, the white in his hair, the darkness at his back. He fumbles for the cut glass bottle of liquor. A useless talisman, Shiro knows now. Lotor is untouched for Haggar wishes it so. There is no more to that story and no less.

Zarkon does not comment on his appearance. He does not look surprised- only, perhaps, distantly pleased. He retires to his chambers early and the crushing presence eases.

“I am sorry,” Lotor says, unable to meet his eyes.

“Adam’s inheritance. This journey was to dissolve it.” Shiro says calmly.

“Garrison Grange was sold. Your assets have been transferred. You will be made to marry me, and you will not leave this manor alive.” Lotor admits in a rush, voice heavy with guilt.

“It does not matter,” Shiro looks out the window, where the moonlight shines on the moor grasses.

“I am sorry,” Lotor insists.

“That does not matter either,” Shiro says.

~~

Lotor’s prediction is flawed. Now that Shiro’s illness no longer threatens disaster, now that his inheritance has been swallowed by Marmora Manor, it is safest to wed quickly. Eventually the banks will come to check that Shiro has agreed to the transfer of his property and if they do not have the bonds of matrimony to bind his tongue, death will have to do. This would be preferable for Shiro, but Haggar does not wish him to die and so therefore Zarkon does not either. Lotor is sullen and reluctant, something that Shiro credits to his guilt when he is feeling charitable, and to Shiro’s monstrously scarred visage when he is more pragmatic.

The ceremony is quiet. None are in attendance save the priest, Lord Zarkon, and the wedded couple- though in the moments between blinking there is a hazy sense of unreality about the thing. Zarkon’s arm is crooked just so, as though a spectral hand rests along the inside possessively.

Lotor sways in place; he had been so insensibly intoxicated that morning that Zarkon had had to have several servants duck him in an ice bath to make it even this far. His fearful white rimmed eyes glance between his father, his bridegroom, and the ghost-witch of a mother who will never leave him. Shiro can almost be sorry for him. That pity allows Shiro to proceed through the nightmare that has become his life. In Lotor’s quarters, he begins to undress mechanically.

“Gods no,” Lotor snaps. “My magnanimity has bounds, Shirogane.”

“As you say,” Shiro says agreeably, doing up his doublet once again. Shiro was once a handsome youth, and even until recently his illness had been kindly enough to his physical form. A year under the ministrations of the witch-ghost have cost him much. He is roped with scars and lines and his hair is streaked with unbecoming white. There is no part of Shiro’s comeliness that has survived. It would be no pleasure to share his bed.

“Marriage will lend you some protection, you will find. It is all that I can offer.” Lotor adds with irritation.

“Yes, husband,” Shiro says.

“Do not call me that,” Lotor corrects him sharply. “I am going to bed.”

Shiro curls into the armchair as Lotor surrenders to unconsciousness, fully dressed with his boots on. It takes him a very long time to sleep.

~~

Haggar had wished for Shiro to live and so he lived. Haggar had wished for him to marry Lotor and so Shiro had done that also. Though she no longer hurts him, her presence becomes marked and obvious in the manor, manifested in cold spots, in reflections, in moving objects, in creeping dread. The only place that Shiro can escape her is the moor. He walks long and lonely among the brittle grasses, even in winter. He is strong enough to reach the place where he’d first seen Keith. He goes there often. He looks up and wonders what it had looked like, through Keith’s brilliant violet gaze.

Shiro walks the moor and watches his husband sleep and slips somehow further and further away. It all feels less real as the days turn to months and the months to years.

Marmora Manor is not flourishing. There is competition, in their corner of business. Discontent from workers who feel misused. Riots, even, at the factories in Daibazaal. The fortune they had stolen from Shiro had been but a drop in the endless bucket of their debt. Weeds grow up and around the grounds, and one by one the horses disappear. The stable roof falls in on one side. They close up the second parlor for the roof leaks and there is no money for repair.

Zarkon is swallowed by the house and his ghosts. His existence is only noted by the occasional empty tray in the hall, the occasional wax-sealed correspondence from far away. It is always bad news. Perhaps once it could have been solved, but not as they are now. Zarkon has bent under the weight of Haggar’s darkness.

Lotor’s vices have robbed him of all humanity. His cold beauty is going harsh, the bones of his face too stark. He does not eat. He sleeps and drinks and spends what little coin remains on cruel faced wenches from town who scoff openly at his silent unlovely husband, in their coming and goings.

And Shiro lives, despite it all.

~~

One evening, Lotor gets very drunk. He’s a fair hand at it usually, so it is rare to see more than a slight delay, a flush to his cheeks, a slur to his insouciant drawl. The Lotor that charges into the parlour, hair mussed and shirt half-laced is not the elegant creature that Shiro is accustomed to. Perhaps it would have even surprised him, once. As it is, Shiro barely lifts his face the minimal degree that decorum demands.

“How can you sit so grave and calm in the mouth of hell?” Lotor demands. “This horror drains my very life force and yet you sit there, victims to all its terrors with nary a word!”

“It is no use,” Shiro says without turning a hair.

“What is not?” Lotor asks, as petulant as a child.

“To speak, to cry, to scream, to beg.” Shiro sounds almost bored as he recites the litany.

“What did you do, then? Smile at the wall and say a by your leave as they cut you to bits, dissected you like cattle?” Lotor’s lip curls in what pretends to be disgust, though Shiro can see the simmering fear beneath. “Look at you.”

“I know what my appearance is and was and shall continue to be,” Shiro says agreeably. “My apologies for the unpleasantness, husband.”

Lotor snarls. With a careless hand he sweeps the delicate china from the mantle to the floor where it shatters. No one is to hear it- most of the servants are no longer here. Perhaps they have been sold like horses, perhaps they lie dead in the cellar. Shiro spares the mess a cursory glance. One less useless relic in need of dusting, he supposes. If it had been valuable, it would have been sold some time ago.

“Where do you go when you look so misty and unreal?” Lotor demands. “What are you thinking? I command you to tell me.”

“Into myself,” Shiro explains dreamily. “Into the best of my memories. Into the happiest of my days.”

He can see it now. The moors, sun-warmed and wuthering in the winds, the air full of soft greenery. There’s a fond nickering at his ear as Black noses at his shoulder, greedy for the apple slices that Shiro feeds him one by one. Across the blanket Keith cuts apples as fast as they eat them with that strange knife he carries, eyes flashing with that oddly proprietary affection. A scant six months they had together, and yet that fondness remains- it grows. Shiro clings to it.

Shiro remains in the daydream, dimly aware in only the most distant of ways that Lotor is still speaking. Lotor’s hand is at his belt, at the ornate knife he keeps there. So like Keith’s- was there a story there? More pressingly, will he use it to kill Shiro? If it is him, Haggar may even allow it. Surely there is another wealthy invalid that Lotor can swallow whole once Shiro is dead.

The knock at the door startles them both. Shiro turns his head away from his husband toward the front hall.

“Did you hear that?” Shiro asks, interrupting Lotor mid-word. Lotor sways, indignant but unable to reply in his drunken stupor. The knife is in his hand and he is very close. Shiro can see the dark center of his eyes, blown wide with alcoholic insensibility.

“I let myself in. I do hope you’ll excuse the rudeness.” A voice from the doorway and Lotor jerks backwards, his steps as unsteady as a marionette.

“Who the devil are you?” Lotor demands, waving the knife toward the intruder. Shiro, oddly alert for the first time in perhaps years, rises to intercept him. It has been such a long time since he has felt the familiar sting of injury that he does not recognize it. Not until Lotor pushes away, striking the wall and sliding down among the broken things, the outstretched blade shining and dark along the edge.

“You drunken fool-” the stranger hisses. “You’ve stabbed him.”

Shiro’s eyes are caught at the flat slab of the white stone in the moonlight, splattered ghostly red.

“It isn’t a hallucination. He’s cut you, Shiro.” The stranger kicks the blade from Lotor’s hand, who merely rubs at his fingers with a disgruntled sound.

“It doesn’t matter.” Shiro says quietly. The stranger scoffs, steering Shiro back to the chair. When he steps back the light of the fire illuminates his features. He’s a handsome stranger, dark hair pulled back from his face, his coat a fine claret velvet. His riding boots alone could pay for the stable repairs. His mouth quirks in an appealing way- as though the man is equally capable of a scowl or a smirk that could devastate. And his eyes are violet.

“Keith?” Shiro asks, disbelieving.

“Hold still,” Keith tells him. “What have they done to you.” Then, over his head toward the door, “Lance, get Allura.”

There’s movement and noise behind him, the coming and going of people. Shiro cannot spare thought for them. When a beautiful woman with waves of moonlight hair kneels to tend to him, Keith begins to pull away. Shiro catches his sleeve with his left hand.

“You should not have come,” Shiro says unhappily. “You should have stayed away.”

Keith’s eyes flash dangerously. He is the beauty of a fire, comforting and dangerous in turns. Shiro has been so cold for so long. “Where else to go but here?” Keith asks whimsically. “And I owe your lordship a horse.”

With that, Keith shakes himself free and Shiro surrenders to the kindness of strangers.

~~

When Shiro wakes, he does not know who he is.

It lasts only a moment. He knows that he is Shiro, but the rest has become muddied somehow. He is both aged and infinitely young, married and a man alone.

He is lying down somewhere comfortable. That is what has confused him.

“Are you well?” A kind and melodious voice asks him. It is the girl from before. She sits at his side.

“I thank you, yes,” Shiro says automatically. It is even mostly true- there is little pain, only a tight soreness along his side. Lotor did not have much strength in his drink. More’s the pity.

The girl smiles at him. “You are taking your injury marvelously well.” She is too well-bred to point out that it is likely due to his vast experience in being injured. Shiro smiles back thinly.

“I must take pains to thank you, my lady…” Shiro pauses.

“How stupid of me, of course-” she rises then sinks into a deep curtsy, back straight and head at just the right degree. “Lady Allura Von Alforssen.”

“Lord Takashi Shirogane,” Shiro pushes himself up to a seated position. Allura starts as though to stop him or aid him, but stops herself with a flush. She is of higher rank- it would not be proper to aid him if his injury is no longer dire. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Allura. I owe you many thanks.”

“I am fortunate to know a little of healing,” Allura says demurely. “I only wish we’d met under better circumstances.”

“Accidents are unfortunate,” Shiro agrees blithely. Allura gives him a hard look. It’s out of place on such a young and lovely face.

“Accidents,” she echoes.

“Quite,” Shiro nods.

“You should eat. I will have the servants fetch you something.” Allura raises a hand.

“You will find that a difficult task,” Shiro says dryly. “We keep no staff save the cook and her girl in daylight hours only, and they have their hands full.” Allura’s eyebrows shoot up incredulously. Shiro sucks in a breath and swings his legs over the side, moving his blankets away. He is dressed, fortunately enough. As he rises, he recognizes the chamber. It is his old rooms, boarded up after the wedding, to preserve heat, so they said. Like much of the guest wing it was left to the mice and rot. Now it seems almost new, a cheerful fire in the hearth, Allura’s bright presence chasing the very shadows from the corners. How strange.

“Lord Shirogane, I must insist-” Allura says hotly, but Shiro gets to his feet. It pulls somewhat, but he has had worse and limped through it. Perhaps a little of that wryness shines through- Allura subsides.

“Lend me your arm into breakfast?” He asks, as a compromise.

“Is that quite proper?” Allura asks, but her voice is amused and she is already tucking up against his side.

“You see I am a married man. You are quite safe from my attentions,” Shiro tells her, in good humor. It is astonishing what a proper night’s rest will do for one’s mood. Perhaps he may make a habit of sleeping in a real bed, one day.

“Oh.” Allura says carefully. “I did not know. Congratulations are in order. Will I have chance to meet your lucky spouse?”

Shiro smiles broadly. “Good morning, husband,” he calls out gaily as they step into the dining room.

“What ungodly cheer,” Lotor groans. “Being run through, I should think you would be more subdued.” He’s draped over the table, head in hands. The cook’s time is limited and her tasks many- if he wishes to eat, he must be present, Lord’s heir or no. Not much left to be heir to either way, Shiro reckons. It is one of the few pleasures in Shiro’s life- tormenting a mostly sober Lotor before he’s breakfasted.

“Perhaps a second attempt is in order. Drink but a little to steady your nerves this time,” Shiro advises, taking his seat.

It is then, of course, that Shiro looks up.

Keith sits at the table, gripping his knife with white knuckles, his eyes fathomless and wild. Allura has paused midstep, one hand on the back of Keith’s chair, the other on his shoulder, her mouth a firm unhappy line. Allura’s lady-in-waiting and Keith’s valet stand at attention at the far wall wearing equal expressions of horror.

“Forgive me,” Shiro says lightly. “It has been some time since we last had guests. I hope you were able to find everything agreeable last evening. I apologize that I was indisposed.”

“Are you often indisposed?” Keith asks darkly.

Shiro smiles again. “I do hope our meagre offerings are acceptable. We are used to dining simply.”

“They were not,” Keith interrupts impatiently. “The kitchen is a ruin. Fortunately we travel with a serviceable cook ourselves.”

From the kitchen, a large man overflowing with good cheer emerges, the house cook trailing behind. For all her sour overworked years, she is giggling like a schoolyard chit. It is sweet. Shiro can almost forget the way she’d held him down as the men brought the red hot iron against the place where his arm had been. Bygones, he supposes. And one must eat.

Dish after dish, fragrant and sizzling, appears on the table.

“My father will not be much pleased to see you,” Lotor tells Keith reluctantly. “You would do well to flee before he appears.”

“On the contrary,” Keith says. “I expect him any moment.”

True to his word, Zarkon stumbles into their little party only seconds later. His black linen suit is wrinkled and drapes ill on his gaunt frame. He turns his burning gaze onto Keith at once.

“You!” He shouts, as though it is the ultimate damnation. Shiro is not afraid. Keith is strong and beautiful and free. Zarkon can harm him no longer. “I knew the moment you stepped over the threshold, you-”

“Greetings, uncle,” Keith says smoothly, rising and dipping into a cursory bow. His back is straight, Shiro notes with pride, and his dark blue morning suit suits him well. He has grown into a fine gentleman. Zarkon sputters at the familiar address. “I have come to visit for a time, to share with my family a momentous occasion. I am betrothed to be married. This is my intended, Allura Von Alforssen-”

Both Lotor and Zarkon visibly flinch as Allura curtseys and rises, her hand in Keith’s. They make a lovely picture. Shiro is so glad for them.

“I believe you knew my father,” Allura says innocently.

“Many years ago,” Lotor says, glancing at Zarkon warningly. “Before his death.”

“As you say.” Allura dips her head.

“Do you wish our blessing?” Zarkon asks belligerently.

“Nay, uncle. I am certain I should have it after all the loving care that I was shown through my upbringing,” Keith says, his expression complicated. “Rather I have come into some good fortune and wished to repay the kindnesses you have shown. Marmora Manor is in a dreadful state, I am sure you must concur.”

Zarkon’s eyes narrow.

“Business matters are complicated,” Lotor interjects rapidly.

“Certainly, cousin.” Keith agrees. “It is my intention to stop over some matter of weeks. Our future home is some hours away, and we do not wish to arrive before the servants are able to prepare accordingly. In this time, I shall oversee the renovation and restoration of my uncle’s fine home to its former glory. At my expense, of course.” Keith adds.

“You are exceedingly generous,” Zarkon says with suspicion.

“I can afford to be.” Keith shrugs. “Family is family, uncle. And I have been fortunate in many ways.” He smiles lovingly at Allura who flutters her lashes attractively. Shiro recalls the name- the Alforssens are enormously wealthy, and she is the last.

A beautiful, high born heiress. And she seems genuinely fond of Keith, smile ready when she looks at him. How fortunate that he will have a love match. If any one person deserves it, it is he.

Shiro is not a fool. There is no love or kindness between Keith and his hosts- they know this too. And there was some mischief in the way the Alforssen estate had fallen- rumors about murder and betrayal. But the offer is too tempting to resist, on their end- and if Keith’s fine cook should slip them all arsenic on the last day of their visit, Shiro will use the glass to toast to his health.

Keith deserves all that he wants- happiness, wealth, love and revenge all.

After an exceedingly strained breakfast that Allura carries with the poise of a full blooded princess, Shiro rises to excuse himself. His arm is caught roughly before he may leave.

“Keith,” he says with some surprise. He had not expected to be addressed directly. He is under no misapprehension that those fond sun dappled memories are only so in Shiro’s eyes- they would have been tedious, perhaps loathsome in hindsight.

“I have told you,” Keith says sharply. “That I owe you a horse.”

Shiro blinks, uncomprehending. “The stables are not fit to house a barn cat, much less a mare or stallion,” he says. “I had hopes you had sent your coach ahead.”

“My people have talent with such things,” Keith says dismissively. “Do you not wish to see what I have brought you?”

“If you have wish for me to see,” Shiro says, confused.

“How cold you have grown,” Keith snorts. “To have no desire to see such an old and trusted friend.”

Shiro stares. “That’s… you cannot mean…”

“Have you forgotten your old friend Black?” Keith asks. Shiro clutches at Keith’s arm.

“He is here?” He asks. “Black is here?”

“See for yourself,” Keith says, shaking himself free of Shiro’s abhorrent touch. Still, he is kindly enough to wait for Shiro to follow, leading the way out across the yard.

Black is a little older, a little grayer, but he whinnies and stomps when Shiro draws near. Shiro flings his arm around Black’s neck and presses his face into the great horse’s mane. He is unable to speak for some long minutes, there. With Keith at his back and Black under his hand, it is almost as though Shiro can pretend. When he draws back, however, Keith is frowning.

“Your right arm,” Keith says. “It pains you? You hold it so stiffly at your side.”

“It can give no pains,” Shiro says merrily, too happy in the moment to take care in his words. He cannot help the dark amusement at his own circumstances any more than he can help breathing or bleeding.

Keith touches it. “What-” He pulls the sleeve up, then drops the hideous thing.

“It is carved,” Shiro explains gently. “Balsa wood. To balance my figure and make it more pleasing in clothes. It is attached with leather straps, along my shoulder and side. I had thought Allura would have said, she must have seen while tending me. Perhaps she did not want to distress you.”

“Distress. She knew damn well-” Keith bites off unhappily.

“I am sorry,” Shiro says.

“Do you often apologize for the discourtesy of your own injury?” Keith asks hotly.

“I apologize for the discomfort my appearance invokes,” Shiro says diplomatically. Keith looks faintly thunderous, but then Black is between them, shoving his nose into Shiro’s chest. It is Shiro’s good suit, but there is a hole in the side now and blood stains beside. A little horse spit can do it no more ill. Shiro does not think he would have cared were it brand new and sparkling. Shiro strokes Black along the ear and blinks back tears.

“I should not have taken him from you.” Keith looks contrite. It makes him look so young.

Shiro shakes his head. “It was my greatest wish that he be safe and whole. I am so glad that it was you.”

“The day I left,” Keith begins hesitantly, and Shiro turns to look at him.

“Pardon sir, Lord Shirogane.” the tall and lanky man who serves as Keith’s valet is in the doorway. “The Lady requires your presence in the parlor. There is some question as to the location of the silver.” His eyes dart between them and Keith takes a step back. Shiro pats Black twice more.

“Thank you,” Shiro tells Keith sincerely as he leaves. “This was all I could have wished for.”

“To pet an old horse? That’s dreadful, Keith.” The valet says, voice carrying through the barn. Then the sound of a smack and a faint “ow.”

Shiro is so glad that Keith has such close companionship.

~~

Keith and his people sweep life and youth back into Marmora Manor. They hire servants from the village, craftsmen, groundskeepers. Their dinners are lavish and music pours from the parlor of evenings. Shiro tried to leave the young people to their diversions but Keith had found him the morning after the first, ill-tempered and cross.

“You are our host and to be so ignored will not be bourne,” he tells Shiro angrily.

“I meant no slight,” Shiro protests. “It is only that I am not sprightly and amusing and fear my presence a detriment.”

“We are capable of merriment despite yourself,” Keith snaps. “You have not so much sway as you suppose.”

“That.. is so.” Shiro bows his head, ears going red. “I presume too much importance. I shall faithfully attend and beg pardon for my negligence.”

After Keith sweeps from the room, Allura catches Shiro’s arm. “Will you take me a turn around the gardens?” She asks. The weather is growing warm and Allura is of a fine constitution.

“Our gardens are meagre, ugly things,” Shiro admits. “Will you permit a journey more afield?”

“I am intrigued,” Allura agrees. After both wrap warmly against the wind, Shiro walks Allura to the moors.

“What an exquisite, lonesome scene,” she says softly. “It is a sea of nothing.”

“I am not myself anywhere but here,” Shiro tells her. They walk quite a ways and Shiro stops. They look up at the cliff’s edge, toward the twisting ribbon of road.

“It was here that I first saw Keith,” Shiro tells her. “Rising from the grasses like a wild thing.”

“You have thought of him, these long years?” Allura asks, sympathy in her lovely face.

“I have thought of little else. All hope of happiness or good fortune I have sent his way.” Shiro tells her without shame.

Allura’s hands come up to her heart. “Oh my dear Shiro. May I call you that?” He gives assent readily. “I shall tell you a secret. It is not for propriety’s sake that Keith asks after you. His temper was poor all during the party last evening. I believe he sorely wishes for your company.”

“It would be remarkable, if that were so,” Shiro says politely.

“You are alike in many ways,” Allura says. “I shall despair of all high born men.”

“Nay, beautiful Allura,” Shiro says, smiling. “Keith is the best of men and he will love you faithfully.”

Loving faithful, that is Keith,” Allura agrees, looking at him oddly. “I think perhaps you know him best.”

And then their talk turns to the evening’s amusements.

It is a spirited little party. Keith does not stand on propriety of rank, and though it rankles Lotor abominably, his party includes the members of his household equally. His valet and cook are wonderful company, and Allura’s lady-in-waiting has a diverting and novel mind. She is familiar in face and form, but when Shiro says as much the girl goes very white so Shiro allows the moment to pass. Hunk’s beloved Shay sleeps in the village, though she often comes up during the day to assist with the feeding of so many working hands and stays for the evening’s diversions. She never stays the evening through, though Shiro assured that she’d be welcome. As soon as midnight comes, Hunk takes his love the three miles down to the inn in town.

“Safer this way,” he’d said cryptically. Shiro cannot argue the point. The ghosty presence of Haggar is diminished, in the face of such vitality, but it cannot be escaped. In every darkened shadow when Shiro stands alone, he knows that she remains. The mirror in Lotor’s chamber remains covered with black lace.

Shiro’s evenings are now full of bustle and lively conversation. The wine flows freely though Shiro drinks sparingly. Keith, too, only sips the same glass throughout, bright eyed and clear headed. His companions, though more free with their cups, still keep their drinking in moderation- it is only Lotor who indulges past pretence. Shiro can guess why Keith had demanded he attend- he can only imagine what disgraceful display Lotor must have made the night Shiro was not there to corral his husband.

Shiro is poor at conversation- it is a skill he has not much use for, these long four years, and his skills have diminished with time. Keith’s brutal handsomeness, his sharp wit and brevity steers most to keep distance. It is that mere virtue of circumstance that leads the two often to stand together quietly, looking out upon the others. If it were not for Lotor’s shame it would even be enjoyable, to stand side by side with one so handsome and effortlessly charming.

For a few nights, Shiro is able to intercede, to water Lotor’s wine or to convince the man to retire before jeopardizing the good opinion of Keith’s party. It has been difficult- Lotor shows a marked appreciation for Keith’s lovely fiancee. The scales tip the third night of Shiro’s attendance, where he is so sadly distracted by Keith’s drawing by firelight that he fails to notice when Lotor switches from wine to spirits.

This time, when Lotor begins to sway dangerously into Allura’s orbit, he does not take so kindly to Shiro’s intervention.

“It is time to bed, husband,” Shiro says kindly, touching Lotor’s arm where it lays on the table, outstretched toward Allura appealingly. It is shockingly improper, even if Lotor is incapacitated. Stabbing Shiro again would be preferable.

“Do not touch me,” Lotor snarls, jerking away. “And do not call me that.”

“I only mean that it is late.” Shiro tries, maintaining his distance.

“You are no husband of mine,” Lotor snaps. “You are my mother’s creature.”

Keith and Allura exchange a glance.

Shiro tries to maintain composure even as his ears burn with the shame. “You are drunk,” he says, lowering his voice. “And you are making a scene.”

Lotor glances round then, seeing the still silent faces of his guests. He begins to rise but sinks again. He is too drunk. Shiro leans down to help Lotor to his feet- he shoves against Shiro’s side with an exclamation of disgust. Lotor’s other side is lifted in turn. Between Keith and Shiro, Lotor is led down the hall and to their chambers.

“I am sorry for the trouble,” Shiro says, voice low.

“I was unaware that you had caused it,” Keith responds. Once inside, they drop Lotor onto the bed where he sprawls out indolently. “Do you require assistance with his dress?” Keith asks dutifully, though his distaste is plain.

“He is accustomed to sleeping so,” Shiro explains diplomatically, and it is true. Seldom does Lotor even pause long enough to discard his boots.

“That cannot make for comfortable bedfellows,” Keith says, raising an eyebrow.

Shiro smiles blandly.

Keith looks between the two of them then- at the way Lotor luxuriates atop the linens.

“You do not share a bed.” Keith realizes. “Where-” His eyes land on the armchair by the fire.

“No.” Keith is outraged. “No! My god!” Shiro winces.

“Lotor will wake-” he warns.

“Devil take him," Keith snaps. “Nothing short of that would wake him, I’ll wager. No. This will not stand- not his behavior and not yours.”

“My- I…” Shiro clenches his hand in distress. “I am sorry for giving offense-”

“Your offense is the disregard with which you conduct yourself within these walls. As though you did not know-” Keith breaks off, beside himself with fury. “Come,” Keith says, seizing Shiro by the wrist. In his haste he takes hold of the false arm and does not even flinch away.

Keith leads the way back through the halls to the old wing, where Shiro’s room lay. The fire burns warm and cheerful.

“You will sleep here,” Keith says.

“Someone else has claimed it,” Shiro protests.

“I will find other accommodation,” Keith replies, undeterred. “You will sleep here tonight and every night, so long as I am a guest. You will also no longer be responsible for Lotor’s disgrace. I forbid it.”

“I do not understand.” Shiro shakes his head.

“There is no need of understanding,” Keith says, closing the door as he goes. The sheets are sun warm and smell faintly of Keith- not young Keith, clean hay and moor winds, but older Keith- danger and woodsmoke and spice. It is a sin, perhaps, but what is one more on Shiro’s conscience. When he sleeps he can imagine what it might be like, to lay with someone comely and caring with violet eyes.

Something changes after that. The party meets and Lotor drinks and when he grows unsteady the Lady Allura and Lance coax him to his chamber. If Lotor never makes it to the bed, well, they can hardly be faulted- he is at least no longer underfoot. He speaks too closely to Allura, clings to her hand most preciously. She handles it with grace and charm. And each night, when the festivities are concluded, Keith has his valet walk Allura to her rooms while he escorts Shiro back to his own.

There is a strangeness in the air between them then, as though before a lighting strike, when the moor grass stands on end. Some of the old fondness between them, possibly. It is Shiro who notes all the fine ways his stunning features have matured. Keith’s smooth voice, his lashes dappled in moonlight. Shiro is the one between them who is turning their amiable rapport into something twisted and darkly wanting. It cannot be another point of hate for himself. There is too much already to despise and Keith is arresting. Who would look upon such a delightful man without feeling so enamored? Shiro is only human, if only a fragment as such remaining.

In the meantime, Shiro’s days are spent assisting the others. He is the resident expert on the Manor, as Zarkon is mostly unseen and Lotor too stupefied by his prior evening to be much assistance. Shiro grows close to them all, though none so much perhaps as Allura. Allura is a lady born and bred but she is also practical in all things. She addresses their difficulty with delicious frankness on one of the now-customary afternoon walks.

“I do not wish you to think that there is anything… untoward in our interactions,” Allura tells Shiro. “He is your husband.”

“It does not matter,” Shiro says calmly. She looks at him in surprise. That may not be becoming. Lotor is, for all his faults, still Shiro’s responsibility- but he is so tired. “I put no stock into such thoughts,” he hastens to add. “You would not for all the world choose my husband when betrothed to one such as Keith.”

“You find Keith preferable, then, to your husband?” Allura asks innocently.

“You know very well, you chit,” Shiro chides her fondly. “Keith is clever and kind and winsome. He is worth a hundred of Lotor on his very best days.”

“Oh Shiro,” Allura says, strangely melancholy.

“That is for you, my dear,” Shiro adds. “You cannot fault me for having eyes. Lotor is well enough for one like me. I dare say we are evenly matched.”

Allura’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “Hm,” she says, and then talk turns toward the weather.

That night the party is in fine form. Dinner is delectable, and the conversation so vibrant and engaging that even Zarkon lingers over the wine. Allura is vivacious and stunning, her dress daringly cut and becomingly accented with fine rare jewels. She plays with a carved ebony fan much of the evening, fluttering it playfully at each of the party- Lotor most of all. She even appears to be flirting with him, a move that baffles Shiro to no end.

“Are you displeased?” Keith demands when others are drawn into private conversations.

“Are you?” Shiro counters.

“I have no reason to be,” Keith says with a huff.

“Then I suppose I cannot have one myself,” Shiro says slowly. He cannot imagine anyone desiring Lotor, sharp faced town girls aside, high on their own importance. Allura, though, is too good for one like him. Perhaps it is a game, Shiro decides. Pretty girls often want to be secure in their lover’s affection. It may be meant to spark amusement between them- but if so, Keith is refusing to play. Instead he fairly chugs his wine this evening and does not stir from Shiro’s side once.

Halfway through the evening, Allura draws Lotor off for a walk in the gardens. It is terribly dark out there, and Lotor is a brute. Shiro does not like this game any longer.

Keith nods and his valet slips out after them.

“Rest at ease,” Keith says calmly. “Lance will not allow her to come to harm. And the lady is quite mindful of herself, I assure you.”

“As you say,” Shiro says uneasily. It does not seem right, Keith’s bloodless response. Still, he has seen the way Lance looks at Allura in the firelight, and he remembers Allura’s steady arm holding him up after his injury. Lotor will not be permitted to harm her. That will do. And Shiro cannot pretend that anyone holds his concern so much as the man at his side.

“You have been drinking much,” Shiro says gently. The drink may be an escape from his sorrow at seeing Allura’s flirtatious game.

“Not so much,” Keith disagrees, though he puts his glass down at once. “Simply more than I permit myself generally.”

“You should rest. I can find my way to my chamber alone,” Shiro insists.

“Perhaps I am the one who cannot find my way. You must return the courtesy, Shiro.”

Shiro smiles at the use of his nickname. It is lovely and rare in Keith’s mouth. He has not heard it since the night of Keith’s arrival.

“I shall follow you,” Shiro promises.

Keith leads the way as the party ends, through twisting dark halls. They would frighten him once, but Shiro feels nothing but fondness now. It is no coincidence that Haggar’s ghost is banished to the innermost of Zarkon’s chambers. Shiro had suffered no ill till Keith was gone and feels nothing but lightness with his return. Keith is magic, and Shiro is in love.

The door, though, when Keith flings the chamber open, is not to one of the guest rooms. They stand in Lotor’s room, looking at the great empty bed.

“Keith?” Shiro asks.

“Ask me in, Shiro.” Keith’s voice is steady and his eyes clear. He is not drunk after all.

“Lotor,” Shiro says feebly.

“He will not return this night,” Keith promises. “Invite me in.”

“Will... you come in?” Shiro asks, confused- Keith sweeps into the room before Shiro is even finished speaking.

“Close the door,” Keith orders. Shiro obeys.

“Did you… wish for conversation?” Shiro asks tentatively.

“Conversation,” Keith laughs harshly. “I am in your bedchamber, Shiro. What do you think I wish for?”

Shiro’s jaw drops. “You cannot be serious.”

“Is it so impossible?” Keith demands.

“Allura,” Shiro tries.

“Allura and I have an understanding.” Keith says brusquely. “Our nights before marriage are our own. This is between you and I.”

“And you… desire me.” Shiro says, though the words are absurd.

“I desire you.” Keith responds immediately.

Shiro laughs. Keith recoils at the sound, bristling. Before he can speak, Shiro is reaching up. Shiro loosens his own clothing, pulling it off piece by piece and tossing each carelessly to the floor. When he is bare chested, he tugs at the leather strap at his side until his false arm comes loose, until it crashes to the ground with a thud among his discarded clothing. Shiro strips down his breeches and his underclothes without artfulness or grace, until he stands bare. He turns in the fire light under Keith’s wide and lovely eyes.

“This is the body you wish to hold?” Shiro asks. His body is a plane of hard muscle, ravaged by scars and missing pieces. Shiro runs his hand along his side to his inner thigh, where his cock hangs soft between his legs, unashamed. He is beyond shame, his nudity an anatomical horror incapable of lewdness. “You want me?”

“Yes,” Keith says angrily. His face is red and the scowl fetching on his twenty years. He’s tensed, hands at his side in fists as he stares at Shiro- stares like he cannot look away, like-

“But you’re beautiful,” Shiro says helplessly.

Keith loses all composure then. His arms go about Shiro’s waist and they turn, as though dancing, so that Shiro’s back is against the door. Keith pins him there, hands cupping Shiro’s jaw.

“You are beautiful.” Keith says fiercely. “You have always been beautiful. I will make you feel it.”

Shiro, overcome, leans in for a kiss. Keith holds him so preciously still that it makes Shiro shudder even as Keith sucks at his bottom lip, slips his tongue into Shiro’s open mouth. Shiro has been kissed, but never like this- with such ardor and passion and open wanting. Keith’s body, hard and warm beneath his fine clothes, presses against Shiro’s nakedness- the contrast shockingly erotic. Sex has always been quiet and covered and dutiful- Keith is none of these things. Shiro is the married man twice over and yet somehow it is he who is moaning like a wanton virgin, powerless against Keith’s ministrations.

“Beautiful,” Keith whispers, moving to one side, nuzzling against Shiro’s ear. His hands in their black silk gloves skim across Shiro’s bare chest, toying with his nipples and tracing his abdominals. Keith pushes himself against Shiro’s thigh- enough that Shiro can feel his hardness. Shiro bites off a low sound.

“You have a beautiful voice, Shiro,” Keith praises him. “Let me hear it.” His gloved hand encircles Shiro’s cock, stroking down and curling possessively over the head. Shiro gasps. He’s wet and straining, the precum staining the gloves and soaking through. Keith traces the top with the barest pressure of his fingernail and Shiro’s hips stutter to meet him.

“More,” Shiro begs. “More. Keith, please-”

Keith silences him with another kiss. His kisses trail down- along Shiro’s neck, his chest, his flat stomach. Keith kisses his cock and Shiro cries out, hand striking the door behind him. Keith tongues along the slit, slipping the head into his mouth. Shiro’s legs are wide, bracing against the door and straining to keep upright as Keith sucks his cock. First he plays with the head, slicking his tongue around Shiro until his legs tremble. Then Keith moves in deep, increasing the pressure, his tongue sliding sinfully along the shaft. Shiro has never felt so in his life- the heat and wet all encompassing.

“I… I shall come,” Shiro gasps a warning, tugging on Keith’s neatly tied back hair. Keith resists and Shiro tugs more sharply; Keith’s eyes water and he lets out a long groan of pleasure that pushes Shiro over the edge. Keith sucks and laps at Shiro throughout, drinking him down eagerly. Never has anyone wanted him like Keith.

Keith looks up at Shiro, mouth wet and red.

“More,” Shiro whispers.

Keith lifts Shiro effortlessly by the waist and carries him bodily to the bed, where he sets Shiro down among the satin sheets he has never touched. They are cool against his heated skin and Shiro gasps at the shock of it. For a time, Keith just looks down at Shiro, his expression unreadable.

“May I touch you?” Shiro asks.

“No,” Keith answers. “I have had enough anguish over your touch. It is your turn, I believe. Turn over.”

Shiro obeys, rolling onto his stomach, the cool satin against his soft cock indulgently shameful. He will destroy these sheets, slash them full of holes and steal them, then every time Shiro pleasures himself it will be with a hand wrapped in satin and the memory of tonight.

“Up,” Keith directs, slapping Shiro’s ass firmly and Shiro arches up instinctively. Keith slides a pillow beneath him, keeping Shiro’s hips tilted. It isn’t the blunt head of Keith’s cock or a gloved fingertip that Shiro feels. Hot and wet, Keith’s tongue trails over Shiro’s hole. Shiro jerks from the shock and Keith holds him steady, working the tip of his tongue just inside the rim. He flicks it, a shallow facsimile of fucking and Shiro bites his forearm to stifle a scream.

Keith withdraws. “If you cease making noise,” Keith warns, “I will cease my attentions.” He kisses against Shiro’s hole lightly and Shiro whimpers. This seems to placate Keith who plunges his tongue back inside of Shiro, sudden enough that Shiro cries out in pleasure. Keith’s tongue fucks into Shiro, hands holding him open, lips catching and sucking at his rim. Keith stays for many minutes, lavishing Shiro with attention using that luxurious mouth, until he is wet and aching, cock hard and rutting against the sheets.

“More?” Keith asks idly before twisting his tongue deeply inside of Shiro.

“More,” Shiro begs. “Keith, I want you-”

Keith fumbles at his breeches and then his hardness is pressed along Shiro who cants his hips up in anticipation.

“So eager,” Keith says, amused, biting at Shiro’s shoulders. “Were you this eager for all your lovers?” Shiro shakes his head, pressing his face into the bed.

“Liar,” Keith growls as he sinks into Shiro.

“No,” Shiro protests. Keith stills. “You,” Shiro tries to explain but there is too much. He is awash in a pleasurable haze. He needs more. Shiro arches his back. “Keith,” Shiro gasps. “Only you.”

“Only me,” Keith repeats. “Only me, for the rest of your years. No one else shall touch you. You belong to me.”

“Yes, yes-” Shiro cries so close- so close. “Keith-!”

Keith swears like a stablehand and grips Shiro by the waist, lifting him up and fucking into him with quick stuttering strokes. When Shiro feels the warmth of Keith’s release inside him, he comes again, ruining the sheets beneath them. They lay still and spent in Shiro’s marriage bed.

In the morning, Shiro wakes alone.

~~

Shiro bathes and changes into clean clothes. He puts new linens on the bed and tucks the old sheets away for the laundry. He does these things with tranquility. There are things he should feel- sadness or guilt. Shiro feels none of these. Keith had wanted and so Shiro had given, and been grateful for any momentary attentions for whatever reason Keith had for bestowing them. Shiro is dishonorable and corrupt; his base nature allowed him to enjoy the moment however brief. It is the least of the reasons he will see the inside of hell, he is sure.

No, Shiro is pragmatic, and though he does not like to think it- does not want the power it would imply, it cannot be denied that he is witch-touched. There is a kind of knowledge in that.

So Shiro goes down to breakfast and everyone is there. They are smiling and there is relief hanging thick in the air among them.

“I announce my intention to wed Allura Von Alforssen,” Lotor says, rising to his feet. Zarkon, at the head of the table, looks on approvingly.

“Is that so?” Keith asks Allura, who drops her eyes demurely.

“Lotor did speak to me of his proposal long into the evening.”

“I see,” Keith rumbles his displeasure. “And your opinion, good lady?”

“That the two of us should end our engagement,” Allura murmurs. The cook gasps but the valet stifles the noise admirably.

“I see. Far be it for me to interfere in your wishes- however, it comes to my attention that you are already married, cousin.” Keith raises an eyebrow.

“I shall put him aside,” Lotor scoffs. “He is unbedded and unwanted.”

“You mean to say you left him untouched these long three years?” Allura asks, her mouth an O of surprise.

“It was no hardship,” Lotor gestures at Shiro openly.

“Lord Shirogane,” Keith says formally, turning his piercing eyes on Shiro. “Is this so? Has your husband not lain with you even once these past years?”

Shiro can see the trap. It is so deliciously played. Keith will have his revenge, and all will be set right. For Keith, Shiro would do anything. It is only chance that makes it the truth that will damn Lotor and his father all the quicker.

“I have not been intimate with Lotor.” Shiro agrees. “He has been steadfast in his refusal of my person.”

“Which is to say that you offered it,” Keith notes darkly.

“It was my wedding night,” Shiro says, puzzled. “It was expected.”

“He said no?” Allura clarifies. Her eyes are intense.

“Gods no,” Shiro recites dully from memory. “My magnanimity has bounds, Shirogane.”

Keith’s expression goes tight with fury.

“There can be no question, then,” Zarkon rumbles. “This is a pleasing match, I have no objection.”

“Nor to the dissolution of the marriage between your son and Lord Shirogane?” Keith presses.

“None whatsoever,” Zarkon agrees.

“I cannot proceed until such a matter is settled officially,” Allura sighs theatrically.

“Be still, my heart,” Lotor assures her. “Were you not speaking of the great brilliance of your lady-in-waiting, the first female purveyor of the Duke’s Seal? Surely she has the authority to dissolve such a legal matter with ease.”

“You are so clever, dear,” Allura cooes. “Pidge, if you will.”

The papers are neatly drawn up and all parties sign accordingly. They are sent with the fastest horse in the village into the city that very afternoon.

“You are taking this with great alacrity, Keith,” Lotor says slyly. “You have become a great gentleman indeed.”

“I should like to kill you,” Keith says with fierce honesty. “But Allura stays my hand, as ever.”

“She is a clever woman,” Lotor smirks.

“You have no idea,” Shiro murmurs.

“I must speak with Shiro alone,” Allura says beseechingly. “I must have a chance to explain myself.”

The others scatter, none eager to hear the tender supplications between one who has wronged a dearest friend. When the door closes behind them, Shiro looks out of the window. It is so early, yet the sky so dark already. It is the shadow of Keith’s leaving, he fancies.

“You will not marry Lotor,” Shiro says quietly.

“No,” Allura agrees.

“Where will you go?”

A pause. “Garrison Grange.”

Of course. The last piece of the puzzle sliding into place.

Keith had used his newfound wealth to purchase Shiro’s old estate from Zarkon’s dubious buyers. A clever investment of money won through horse racing, Shiro would wager. Good friends, fortuitous connections. Now, armed with the dissolution of their marriage, the sale would be overturned. Allura’s fortunes will not rescue them from the magistrate’s wrath. Zarkon will die in debtor’s gaol and Lotor, disgraced and abandoned, will drink himself to his grave within a year’s time.

And Shiro?

He had slept with Keith- betrayed his marriage vows. That knowledge alone would keep Shiro from the courts to reclaim his lost fortune. Even if he went, it would come to nothing. Lotor’s abandonment would mark him a pariah even in the lowest society. As if there could be anyone but Keith either way. He has given his heart to Keith and he will die in the streets for it.

And yet Shiro cannot be sorry. If he had known all then what he knows now, Shiro would have leaned in first for that kiss all the same.

“Whatever you are thinking, Shiro, you are wrong.” Allura says suddenly, her expression turning wary. It is so dark outside, though it cannot be noon yet. Why does she not look?

“He is revenged,” Shiro murmurs. “How I must have slighted him.”

“No. Shiro?” Allura’s voice raises. “Keith? Keith! There is something the matter-”

A canary is in the coal mine.

There was a time before Shiro had been ill, when his back had been strong and his hair black as night. His father had taken him to see the workers in the mine. Shiro’s father had always had the greatest respect for his men- had started there himself, all those years ago.

Why are there birds, Shiro had asked.

It’s a warning.

A canary is in the coal mine.

When the singing ends, so will-

you.

“Shiro!” Allura is shaking him.

“Aren’t you cold?” Shiro asks through chattering teeth.

My canary, Haggar purrs. He has found their plan and so has she. He is her creature and his thoughts are her thoughts. She will kill them all.

It cannot be tolerated.

“Take me,” Shiro says, voice slurred. “Take me instead.”

Haggar pauses. The silence is one of interest. Potential. Shiro can move again.

“You’re frightening me,” Allura cries. “Why won’t anyone come?”

“She won’t let them.” Shiro’s hand pats Allura’s wrist, where she grips his shoulders too-tightly. “All will be well. Do not fret.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Allura demands, though she loosens her hold.

“Zarkon and Lotor are doomed,” Shiro says and Haggar bares her teeth inside his head. “They spoiled all. So many deaths to protect them, and yet all they accomplish is foolishness and ruin. You do not need them.”

I do not need anyone

“But you want me,” Shiro offers. “I will be yours and you will let them go to their fates. I will stay with you for ever.”

“Shiro, who are you speaking to?” Allura whispers, eyes darting around the room.

“She will not harm you,” Shiro assures her. “But I must go.”

“Shiro?” Allura tries to hold him but he is so strong now. He breaks her grip and moves to the window. “What is wrong with the moor?” Allura asks with a cry. There is nothing beyond the window’s edge. Nothing but Haggar.

“I always knew that I would die here,” Shiro says dreamily. He steps through the window into darkness just as Keith forces open the parlor door.

~~

It is a cold night. Shiro’s shoes crunch through the snowy layer on top of the moor. How lovely and still. He has walked in the moor for a very long time- maybe for always.

Reach the end, my Champion.

He shall.

There will be no rest at the end, Shiro knows. It will be the press of metal fangs and the tearing of flesh, ever and always. Whatever Haggar makes of him now will always be bound to her, and to this place, and without hope or happiness.

There is a dagger in his hand. He stands on the stone slab above the moor. There is blood in the moonlight, or soon there will be.

A flicker at the edge of his vision, along the wavering grass.

Shiro pauses.

No. He shakes his head. He must. For…

For…?

“Keith,” a woman says, stepping out from the moor. She has a sharp familiar face, jaw set in a stubborn way that Shiro loves.

“Keith,” Shiro repeats.

Yes. He must die, for Keith. For Keith and the people he loves.

“Fool,” the woman snaps. “He will not let you go.”

“He must,” Shiro says. The woman scowls and he knows this face, it’s- “You’re the one who kept him safe,” Shiro realizes. “From Haggar, all those years.”

“I am his mother.” She says as though that is explanation enough. “I could not save him from Zarkon… or from himself. That was you.”

“Then allow me to save him once more,” Shiro begs. “She is too powerful on my blood and flesh and fear.”

“No,” the woman says. “Trust in him.”

Shiro does not understand. There is no time.

“A fair trade,” Shiro whispers. He brings the knife up. She stays his hand.

Shiro wakes.

~~

There is no snow. There is no blood, no stone, no slab, no knife.

There is only Keith, red-eyed and sleepless at his bedside.

“Keith,” Shiro says with joy. There cannot be a more perfect sound.

“Shiro!” Keith takes his hand. “Are you well? Can you speak?”

“Do not make him speak,” Allura says rather crossly where she stirs soaking herbs to make a draught.

“Haggar,” Shiro manages.

“She’s gone. Gone for good. That was one of our chief aims, to rid this place of the accursed witch-ghost. It took years to discover how to destroy her. I knew my uncle’s dark power had an unearthly origin- I had no idea what would happen in my absence,” Keith says unhappily. “You have been ill-used.”

Allura bangs the mortar and pestle onto the table, wrapping up the herbs in muslin and huffing like a steam engine all the while she filtres the remedy. Lance and Hunk spare her a worried look from the doorway. Allura bustles between them so that Keith must relinquish his hold as Allura holds the vial up to Shiro’s mouth so that the cool liquid can slide down his ruined throat.

“Since you insist on speaking,” Allura says, fury buried under courtesy for her patient, “That should allow it to be marginally more comfortable.”

“Allura?” Keith asks.

“You are a rake and a scoundrel,” Allura tells Keith with a glare. “You spoke of nothing with Shiro the night I left you unattended-” Keith looks pointedly up at the ceiling, his cheeks going red. “Oh. Oh!” Allura is incensed. “You- you enemy of men!” She strikes him on the shoulder.

“Come, darling,” Lance says soothingly, draping an arm familiarly around her shoulders.

“Darling?” Shiro asks, bewildered.

Allura bares her teeth at Keith until Lance ducks between them. “Lance McClain Du Alforssen,” he says, one arm around his wife and the other saluting Shiro lazily. “Officer in Her Majesty’s Navy.”

“Recognize me now?” Pidge sticks her head into the room, grinning at Shiro from behind enormous spectacles as Allura and Lance leave out.

“Katie Holt?” Shiro startles, half-sitting up. He falters and Keith rushes to assist him.

“My brother was sorely worried when you did not return his missives. Did you think yourself so little loved?”

“I remain a faithful cook,” Hunk offers, raising an arm.

“One who has taught as professor in three university lecture halls,” Pidge reminds him. “And there are just one or two points I wanted to discuss, while you’re free…” The door closes behind them.

“You are no longer Lotor’s.” Keith says first. “What will you do?”

“I know not,” Shiro answers.

“Think on it,” Keith suggests. He must have ideas of his own that Shiro interferes with. The sale of Marmora Manor, for one. Even free of ghosts this is a home of misery and murder for Keith. He cannot wish for the reminder of its ownership or its remaining tenants.

“I will seek a placement,” Shiro decides. “Somewhere I can be useful.”

“Useful?” Keith asks, surprised. “Why must you be useful?”

“To earn my way in the world,” Shiro says, equally so. “Matthew Holt was a dear friend, he may know of a placement. Or-” Shiro’s shyness is genuine, “I may ask Allura, if you have no objections.”

“Allura?” Keith repeats.

“It would be ideal,” Shiro admits. “For my own selfish reasons.”

“Shiro, speak plainly,” Keith demands. “I cannot follow.”

“I should like to see you again, on occasion. Enough to know that you are happy and well- even if we do not speak.” Shiro says hopefully.

“I must implore you, Shiro.” Keith holds up a hand, eyes alight with sudden trepidation. “Will you explain to me the situation as you understand it?”

“I must work,” Shiro says, a little unhappy. Perhaps Keith thinks him too useless and broken for such a task? “I must live. I should prefer to do so where I may see you again, though I understand such a request to be unwise.”

“In what matter is it unwise?” Keith prods.

“Would it not invalidate the vengeance?” Shiro asks. “I cannot imagine Matt or Allura allowing me a post in misery.”

“They would not and nor would any one else dare.” Keith says, nostrils flaring with sudden temper. “And what vengeance is this?”

“Your vengeance upon this house and all its peoples,” Shiro explains uncertainly.

“Do you believe yourself a target of my wrath? Have I wronged you?” Keith asks in horror.

“No more than is your right,” Shiro assures him.

“No, no,” Keith disagrees. “This cannot be correct. And why must you work at all? You speak in riddles.”

Ah. Finally, Shiro understands. It is the plain truth Keith wishes, in unmistakable words.

“My marriage is annulled,” Shiro says gently. “My fortunes lost, my property in the hands of he who was privy to my dishonorable conduct. I am utterly ruined, and it is only with your leave that I may find means to live.”

Keith stands with such violence that his chair falls to the side. “That is what you think of me,” he says, dismay clear in his fine features. “Such a punishment to inflict for the crime of not loving me!” His voice is heavy with self-reproach.

“Not love you?” Shiro asks. “How can that be? You are the single waking thought that gives my life breath these long black years.”

“Then… you do not feel as you did?” Keith demands. “That it would be a disgrace to be with me? Utterly debasing?”

“You heard, that night?”

“Yes, though once I heard your words I could linger no longer. I could accept a brotherly affection or that of friends-” Keith breaks off. “Do you feel as you did?”

“How can I not? The gap between us grows ever larger.” Shiro gestures between them and Keith glares with all his fury.

“I have travelled the world. I have learned languages and music and dancing and drawing. I have earned my own fortune and made my own luck and- and you said that I am beautiful!” Keith reminds him.

“These things are all right and true,” Shiro agrees, smitten.

“What can be done, then?” Keith implores.

“Nothing. Keith, there is no world in which I could deserve you,” Shiro explains weakly.

“I… what?” Keith sits, hard, on the edge of Shiro’s bed. “Shiro. Shiro. Have you always felt this way?”

“You have always been Keith,” Shiro says.

“Oh no. No, no. Shiro- I came for you. To win you away from Lotor, through honesty or seduction, I cared not. I bought Garrison Grange for you.” Keith ducks his head. “I had thought perhaps you might… come to care for me, if I were polished and handsome and arrogant as the sea. If I could give you freedom, you might choose to become mine.”

“Why, I was yours the moment that you wished it,” Shiro says, astonished.

“But that was in the throes of passion,” Keith says, dismayed. “Before you knew any circumstance.” Shiro makes a careless gesture. “If I had left as I said,” Keith says slowly, “and married Allura and moved to Garrison Grange- what would you have done?”

“Loved you until I died,” Shiro replies promptly.

“Without a whisper of hope?” Keith asks. “Without seeing my face again?”

“Forevermore,” Shiro promises.

“Forevermore.” Keith echoes. “Shiro, you will not work, save for on the estate, and only so much as you choose to. You will come away from this cursed place and marry me, and we will live in the green hills of Garrison Grange with all the people who love you. You will live a long and happy life, and we shall never part again. Say yes, Shiro.”

And Shiro did.