by Megan Derr
"You—" Rohese whispered. "You cannot be—" he slowly withdrew the arm that lay across Alcor's chest. "You passed out—then something—then I passed out—and I woke to see you.”
Alcor grimaced then slowly rolled away and sat up. "Me," he said, voice low and solemn. "You broke my curse. I did not think—" he bit the words off and looked down at his hands, buried in the hallway rug so that he did not ball them into fists.
Rohese stood up. "This whole time—it was you?"
"Yes," Alcor said and stood as well. Only then did he really notice his hands, the bit of black hair tumbling over one shoulder. He—he was—his hands shook as realization struck him, and he barely noticed the tears that streamed down his cheeks. "You broke my curse," he choked out and stared in wonder at Rohese. "You really broke my curse."
"I don't—" Rohese hesitantly moved close. "I don't understand. You laughed at me, and you were nothing but—"
"A monster?" Alcor said with a shaky laugh. "Yes, quite. I found your gifts, you know. Later, when I went back to see what was left of the house. Everyone died that night, but me. I was cursed to live—well, you saw me. Until someone could love a beast, and I could love in return. It figures it would be you, who has the most reason to hate me."
He reached out unthinkingly, but drew his hand back with entirely too much awareness when Rohese turned away from the touch. Swallowing, chest twisting with a pain a thousand times worse than anything fire could inflict, Alcor stepped away. What had he really thought? That the love would last? Rohese had said himself he knew what a real monster looked like, and now that monster was before him, and why should he believe Alcor had changed?
"I thank you for saving me," he said quietly, striving to keep his voice steady. "I am sorry for everything that I ever did to you, but especially for this last pain. You should return to your family, beauty. Goodbye."
Turning away, he fled to his study as quickly as the shredded remains of his dignity permitted, closing the door and then striding to his desk. He sank his hands into his hair and stared unseeing at the blotter. Not even the pleasure of feeling his hair—dark and long and soft, as though it had never been anywhere near that terrible fire—could ease the pain of losing Rohese.
He thought vaguely that he should look at his reflection, enjoy having two eyes and no scars, but he simply did not care, not really. Alcor would rather have been hideous and have Rohese's love, than have his beauty and drive Rohese away.
The sound of the front door opening was another knife to his chest, the sound of it closing worse still. That was that, and wasn't it wretchedly unfair that the curse did not require the love be lasting.
At least, he thought tiredly, nothing would now keep him from killing himself. He would have to see that Mutt and his horse were put in good hands—perhaps Thomas would like Mutt, and the horse he could set Roger to do as he saw fit. Did he need to bother with a will? Well, he would have to ensure that his plans came to fruition, that it was not all swallowed up by his solicitor.
He felt tired, and he felt stupid, but mostly he just felt cold. Scrubbing at his face, he made himself draw out paper and reach for his quill, but then he simply sat there, letting ink drip while he tried to make his mind work.
Then his study door opened, jarring him, and he stared uncomprehending at Rohese. "What are you doing here? I thought you left."
"I panicked," Rohese replied. He stood a moment longer then, with obvious effort, crossed the room, and stepped around the desk.
Alcor stood as Rohese reached him, curling his fingers against another urge to touch, not strong enough to take another rejection. "I did not think you were coming back at all," he said quietly. "That's why—"
Rohese suddenly looked ashamed. "I tried, but one person after another kept demanding my attention, needing a healer. I penned a note and told my father to see it was delivered, but he said he forgot. By the time I got back—and then I saw you in my mirror and did not think I would get here in time—" He fisted his hands in front of him, eyes burning with emotion as he peered up at Alcor. "A man came by, right before I left, saying things about money that we suddenly have. That was you, wasn't it?"
"The jewels," Alcor said softly. "I used the jewels to recoup your family's losses. I thought they should be put to some use."
Rohese shook his head. "Who are you?"
"I told you," Alcor said. "I was cursed. Lessons can be learned when they are driven in hard enough. I did not think I would ever see you again, did not even remember all that happened that night." He turned away, staring at his discarded ink and quill. "Until I saw you in the village, and everything came back to me. I did not, however, expect you to turn up on my doorstep. Those roses, by the way, all came from the rose you gave me, the one I left by the waterfall that day."
"You remember that, too," Rohese said with a soft sigh. Alcor dared to look at him again and found those beautiful amber eyes fastened on him. "Who are you?" Rohese asked again.
"Nothing but a beast," Alcor said simply. "Only that." Rohese kept staring at him, and Alcor could see the conflicts in his eyes. Just leave, he thought desperately, leave and stop giving me stupid, foolish hope.
Then Rohese stepped forward and reached out hesitantly to touch his cheek. The barest touch, but Alcor felt it all the way to his marrow. "Man or beast," Rohese said, voice not quite steady, "you still manage to take my breath away. But I want the beast I spent eight days with, not the monster I saw that night."
"That monster is dead," Alcor said. "The beast was yours all along." This time he dared to touch and gasped in surprise and relief when this time Rohese turned into his touch. He lifted his other hand, cupping Rohese's face as Rohese's hand slid down to tangle in Alcor's shirt. "Rohese…"
Rohese gave a shaky laugh, as if he did not quite believe the situation to be real. Alcor sympathized. Then he closed the space between them and kissed Rohese as he had wanted for so long, gasping at the touch himself, the feel of another's lips when he could scarcely get anyone to look at him for the past three years. Rohese's lips were warm and soft, and the scent of honeysuckle was stronger than ever. He tasted like bread and honey and tea.
Alcor moaned and dropped his hands to wrap his arms around Rohese's waist, drawing him closer and shuddering as arms wrapped around his own neck, Rohese clinging to him. He never wanted it to stop.
Fingers trailed across his face, Rohese's touch delicate and tingling. "I cannot believe you are real," Rohese said quietly.
"I'm real and all because of you," Alcor said.
Rohese continued to stare at him, to stroke his face. "You really have changed."
Alcor captured his hand and kissed the palm. "The beast is the real me now, beauty. Only time will prove my words true, I suppose, but I promise you, that monster is dead."
Rohese stared at him, seeming to search for something. Then he smiled and said, "I believe you." He tugged Alcor close and initiated the next kiss.
How long they stood there kissing and clinging, he did not know, but he thought perhaps a great deal of time had passed when they finally stopped. Looking at Rohese, he decided the prettiest thing in the world was the sight of Rohese well-kissed. Which just led him down a road of delightful thoughts, and he dragged his mind away from such things with great effort. Time enough later.
"You will have to tell me everything," Rohese said, absently petting him lightly. "How do you feel, now that you are no longer cursed? It seems your injuries went away with the breaking of it. Do you feel all right?"
Alcor started to reply, but was impeded by the growling of his stomach. "Hungry," he said with a rueful smile and let a laughing Rohese drag him away to the kitchen.
*
*
*
The Wizard's Tower
Part One
Amara's house was much the same as it had been the last time Roark had visited. It had been five years ago, back when she and his brother had been married, a year before he took it into his head to join the ranks
of the king's soldiers.
He'd made it to Lieutenant Colonel in those four years, a position he'd nearly lost to come out here. Amara's letter had been frantic, though, and she was not a woman prone to bouts of hysteria. His superior's snide dismissal of the events she wrote about had only reconciled Roark all the more to the possibility of losing his place.
The house was dark now—little surprise, given the late hour. Roark bypassed the house, loathe to drag Amara from her bed before he had to. Not to mention that he'd been riding hard for two weeks and he'd really just take the one trip to the stable and then go to the house, rather than stopping at the house first.
Wind chimes clamored as he rode past the front of the house. One of his wedding presents, though Kiran had thought it a frivolous, useless gift. Amara had liked them, at least, and Kiran had better appreciated his other gift of a second plow horse for the farm.
Reaching the stable, Roark slid from the saddle, biting back a groan at the way his ass ached. Didn't matter how much training you had, Roark thought, grumbling a bit under his breath as he fumbled in the dark for a lantern. Two weeks of riding would make anyone sore.
And smell of horse.
Hopefully there was a bath in his near future, though it might not be worth it if he needed to go take on a wizard first thing tomorrow.
Finally, he managed to find the lantern he was looking for, nearly knocking it over in the process. It took him another minute to dig out his matches and light the damn thing.
The stable looked much the same as it had before, too. Three stalls, two stuffed full of giant plow horses. There were a few large metal contraptions that Roark only vaguely recognized and various bits of tack and harnessing hung neatly along one wall. The hay loft above was stuffed overfull with hay, bits and chunks hanging down over the edges and sticking into the air. The empty stall was at the far end of the stable, and thankfully it looked intact and clean. At least, as clean as a stable stall could look in the dim light cast by a single lantern in the dead of night.
Stripping the saddle and tack off his horse, Roark tossed it and his bags into a corner. He gave the mare a quick brush-down, muttering promises to do a better job in the morning. Then he led her down the stable towards the empty stall, wishing he could just bed down out here rather than face the walk to the house.
The stall wasn't empty.
It was too dark to tell whether the curled-up figure in the corner of the stall was male or female, old or young—but he did know that Amara and Kiran had no help that lived on the farm and if that had changed, Amara would've mentioned it. Besides, any proper guest would be quartered at the house.
Roark straightened, leveling a dark look at the man—woman? He still couldn't tell—and growled, "What do you think you're doing?"
The man—no woman was that straight-hipped, no matter how narrow they were—shot up from his crouch, giving Roark a wide-eyed look. He couldn't distinguish much else of the man in the darkness, just the narrowness of him and the eyes, wide and quickly darting around like he expected Roark to draw a weapon and run him through.
Tempting, but he'd left his sword with his bags on the other side of the stable.
"I asked a question, boy," Roark said, letting his voice drop an octave or two. He wasn't really prepared for the man to bolt at him, but the reflexes he'd had drilled into him kicked in and he moved more quickly than he should've been capable of at the moment, catching the man—definitely a man—around the waist and pinning him to the wall of the stable stall.
He didn't fight Roark, just froze, slumping dejectedly. Roark rolled his eyes, fisting his hand in the man's collar and pulling him away from the wall.
"Let's have no jack-rabbiting now," Roark said, putting a touch of menace into his voice. He wouldn't be up to a chase if the man actually managed to make a break for it, and he didn't like the idea of just turning him loose to prey on some other farm.
But what to do with him the rest of the night, Roark wondered, all but dragging the man out of the stall. His horse immediately wandered in, and Roark shut the gate behind her, ignoring the interested snuffles she and the closer plow horse were exchanging.
He'd tie the man down, leave him in the stables, and worry about him in the morning, Roark decided. If he managed to get away in the night, well, that was one less worry Roark had to deal with. That would work.
Forcing the man towards the light, Roark fumbled down from its hook a thick, knotted rope. The squatter made a few, half-hearted attempts to struggle, but Roark ignored the attempts with ease, binding the man to one of the support beams for the hayloft.
It was still difficult to pick out anything other than wide eyes and a wild, ragged mop of hair, but Roark wasn't too concerned, tugging the knots tighter and keeping a up a grumbled monologue about squatters and delinquents and the harsh penalties they faced in the capital and how, if the squatter were lucky, Roark would be in a better mood after a full night's rest.
The squatter settled—apparently quite cowed—and Roark finished settling his horse, giving her some food and water. He left the saddle and other gear to be taken care of the next day—perhaps that was a task he could set the squatter to. Scooping up his bags, he headed towards the house, looking forward to a decent bed and hopefully a few decent meals before he went to find Kiran and kill the evil wizard.
*~*~*
There was a light lit near the back of the house—where the kitchen was, unless Roark was misremembering. Heading that way, Roark nearly stumbled a few times in the dark, tired and unfamiliar with the path.
Likely the racket in the stable had woken Amara. Maybe she'd put something together for him to eat—now that he was off the horse, he was actually feeling hungry.
That was enough to buoy Roark the rest of the way to the house. Knocking quietly on the screen door that kept the bugs out but let the cool night air in, he paused a brief moment before letting himself in.
Amara was indeed the source of the light. She'd lit two candles, one set on the tiny kitchen table and one in the sill of a rear-facing window. She was dressed in a simple house robe, her dark hair tied messily back with a ribbon of nondescript color. She looked tired, and Roark almost felt sorry for not stopping to camp this last night and arriving tomorrow. Almost, except that Kiran was still missing and the less time he wasted, the better.
"Hello, Amara," Roark said quietly, wincing because he hadn't meant to sound so weary. "How're you holding up?"
Amara smiled unhappily. "Well enough, given the circumstances. Thank you for coming, Roark. No one else would."
"He's my brother," Roark said, then, because that sounded bad. "And you're like a sister to me."
Amara smiled a little more wholeheartedly at that, gesturing for him to sit. "Are you hungry?" she asked, already turning towards the cupboards lining the walls behind her without his answer. But then, she was married to Kiran, so obviously she knew it was a rhetorical question.
"I could eat a horse," Roark said, dropping his bags by the door. "Oh, that reminds me. In case you head out to the stable before I do in the morning," Roark began, gingerly settling into one of the chairs tucked close around the table. It was squeezed into the corner by the door, with only two of the chairs actually able to be pulled out to sit in. "There was a man lurking in one of the horse stalls —"
"Cos?" Amara asked, turning on her heel to face him with a sharp-eyed look. "Roark, if you harmed one hair on that poor boy's head —"
"You knew he was out there?" Roark asked, cutting her off. "Why the hell is he out in the stable?"
"He won't sleep inside," Amara said impatiently, favoring Roark with a suspicious scowl. "What did you do to him?"
"Scared him some," Roark admitted, getting back to his feet. He'd probably better untie the man if he wasn't actually a squatter. "Nothing permanent."
"Yeah?" Amara challenged, jabbing a spoon at him. "Where are you going then?"
"To apologize," Roark said, giving her a grin. Amara obviously didn't buy it
if the look she was giving him was any indication, but Roark just opened the back door, prepared to make a run for it if he had to.
"Roark," Amara said, still frowning. She let the spoon drop, though, and favored him with a frown. "Don't scare him any more. He's mostly mute, so if he doesn't say anything, don't take it out on him."
"Okay," Roark agreed, and wasn't that just great? He'd only just reached Amara's and already he'd manhandled, tied up, and scared witless the mostly mute charity case who lived in the stable. Though at that, what the hell did mostly mute mean anyway? Either he was or he wasn't—there wasn't a whole lot of gray for something like that.
Maybe he spoke in grunts or something. That certainly explained why he hadn't replied to anything Roark had asked—well, demanded more like—of him.
Roark stumbled a bit down the path back to the stable, a little annoyed at having to make a return trip already. But it wasn't at all right to leave the man tied up, not if he had Amara's blessing to be there. Still, Roark didn't quite trust it—he'd have to find out whether the man was playing it straight and he really was that scared and mute, or if he was just playing up to Amara's sympathies and taking advantage of a woman whose husband was missing.
Letting himself into the stable, Roark winced—he'd been absent-minded enough to leave the lantern burning. Stepping fully through the door, Roark immediately stopped, frowning in consternation at the support beam he'd tied Cos to
The man wasn't there. The ropes were piled haphazardly at the base of the beam, coiled and apparently fully knotted.
Probably a knife, Roark decided, calling himself an idiot for not checking. Though at least it meant he had slightly less to apologize for. He'd better clean up the rope now, though, in case Amara came out in the morning and noticed it. He didn't want to lose his eating privileges.
