The aftermath of the day's battle clung to them like a shroud-exhaustion etched on their faces, their bodies bruised and battered, their spirits teetering on the brink of despair. They had managed to repel the first wave of the armies, the nobility, and the zealous forces of the Church, but they knew it was only a temporary reprieve. Tomorrow, the onslaught would begin anew.
Elar, his armor stained crimson, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, knelt beside Macellion's bed. The dim light of the room cast long, distorted shadows, making the scene appear even more grim. He had been tending to Macellion's wounds, his touch gentle despite the tremor in his hands. But as he cleaned a particularly deep gash on Macellion's arm, he noticed something that sent a chill down his spine.
Macellion's skin was cold, unnaturally so. His breathing was shallow, his crimson eyes dull and listless. He looked... diminished. The sharp angles of his face, usually radiating power, seemed softened, almost fragile. The lines etched around his eyes, a map of countless years and untold secrets, were now starker, more pronounced.
"Master?" Elar asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Are you alright?"
Macellion remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Then, slowly, he turned his head, his eyes meeting Elar's. But even that simple movement seemed to cost him a great deal of effort. The crimson of his irises, usually a burning, hypnotic flame that could command armies, was now muted, like embers fading in the dying light. Yet, even dimmed, they held a captivating intensity that drew Elar in.
Elar watched him, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew that Macellion was not one to reveal his weaknesses, that he preferred to suffer in silence rather than burden others with his pain. He knew that it would take more than a simple question to break through his defenses. But he also knew that he couldn't bear to see him like this, this beautiful, broken god brought low.
He continued to tend to Macellion's wounds, his movements precise and efficient, his touch gentle but firm. He cleaned the gash on his arm, applying a soothing balm and wrapping it with a clean bandage. As he worked, he couldn't help but notice the delicate structure of Macellion's hand, the long, elegant fingers that had once wielded such devastating power, now trembling slightly, betraying his frailty. Elar remembered those hands wielding magic, crushing enemies, and, on rare occasions, gently caressing his face.
Macellion remained silent, his expression unchanging. But Elar noticed the subtle clenching of his jaw, the slight furrowing of his brow, the almost imperceptible tightening of his lips. He knew that Macellion was in pain, that he was struggling to maintain his composure, but he refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing him break. Elar found himself wanting to smooth away those lines of pain, to kiss the tension from his brow, to cradle him in his arms and protect him from the world. To keep his Macellion safe.
Elar finished tending to the wounds, his hands lingering on Macellion's arm for a moment longer than necessary. He looked up, his eyes locking with Macellion's. He saw the weariness in his eyes, the pain. But he also saw the strength, the resilience, the unwavering determination to face whatever lay ahead. And beneath it all, a haunting beauty that made Elar's heart ache with a possessive longing. The way the firelight danced across his cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the almost ethereal glow of his skin - it was a masterpiece, slowly fading.
Elar knew that he could not force Macellion to open up, that he had to earn his trust, to show him that he was worthy of his confidence. He had to prove to him that he was not just a disciple, but a friend, a confidant, someone who could be relied upon in his hour of need. Someone who saw him, truly saw him, not just as a powerful master, but as a man, as something precious and irreplaceable.
He took a deep breath, gathering his courage. He reached out, gently stroking Macellion's cheek with the back of his hand. The skin was cool and smooth beneath his touch, like polished marble, yet subtly yielding, hinting at the warmth beneath.
"Master," he said, his voice soft but firm, his gaze unwavering. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. But I want you to know that I'm here for you. Whatever you're going through, whatever you're feeling, you don't have to face it alone."
He paused, giving Macellion a chance to respond. But he remained silent, his gaze fixed on Elar's.
Elar continued, his voice filled with sincerity and compassion. "I know you're not one to show your emotions, that you prefer to keep your feelings to yourself."
He paused again, his eyes searching Macellion's face for any sign of recognition. He saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes, the slight softening of his features. He knew that he was getting through to him, that he was finally breaking down the walls that he had so carefully constructed.
Elar leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay by your side, no matter what happens. I'll protect you, I'll comfort you, I'll do whatever it takes to make sure you're not alone." He would gladly sacrifice everything, his life, his soul, for those beautiful, crimson eyes. He paused, his eyes locking with Macellion's. Elar felt a surge of possessiveness so intense it almost frightened him.
"I am dying, Ethelios," he said, his voice a mere rasp, barely audible above the crackling of the fire. "My life force... it is nearly depleted."
The words hung in the air like a death knell, shattering the fragile hope that Elar had been clinging to. He stared at Macellion, his mind reeling, his heart refusing to accept the truth.
"Is this why you remained hidden?" Elar asked, his voice laced with a desperate plea for answers. "Waiting for the revelation by the divine to happen?" He continued, his eyes searching Macellion's face for any sign of confirmation.
Macellion only remained silent, his gaze fixed on Elar's, his expression unreadable.
"No," Elar said, his voice rising in desperation. "That can't be it. You can't just give up. You're Macellion! You're the most powerful being I've ever known! You can't just lie here and die!"
"There is nothing more to be done, Ethelios," Macellion stated, his voice flat, betraying only a hint of the irritation he usually kept buried. "My power wanes. My body fails. My time has come. Accept it."
"Accept it?" Elar scoffed, the word laced with disbelief and a growing anger. "How can I accept it? How can I just stand by and watch you fade away? You're Macellion! You're supposed to have a plan, a solution for everything! You can't just... give up!"
"I am not giving up," Macellion snapped, his voice rising for the first time, a flash of the old fire igniting in his crimson eyes. The sudden burst of anger seemed to invigorate him, bringing a flicker of color back to his pale cheeks. "I am simply facing reality. Something you seem incapable of doing."
"Reality?" Elar challenged, his voice trembling with fury. "The reality is that you're letting yourself die! The reality is that you're abandoning us! The reality is that everything we've fought for will be for nothing!"
"Do not presume to know my motivations," Macellion retorted, his jaw tightening, the carefully constructed mask of composure beginning to crack. The fire in his eyes dimmed as quickly as it had flared, leaving him looking even more exhausted than before. "You are a child playing at war. You do not understand the forces at play."
"Then explain them to me!" Elar demanded, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Tell me why you're doing this! Tell me why you're just lying there, waiting to die, when you could be fighting! You owe us that much, at least!"
"I owe you nothing!" Macellion roared, the force of his voice surprising even himself. He winced, a spasm of pain crossing his face, and he closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his strength. "I have given you everything! I have taught you everything I know! You are strong enough to stand on your own!"
"That's not true!" Elar screamed, tears streaming down his face. "I need you! We all need you! You're the only one who can lead us, the only one who can protect us! Without you, we're lost!"
Macellion's gaze sharpened, piercing Elar's with an unexpected intensity. " 'We'?" he echoed, the single word dripping with disdain. "Or is it merely you, Ethelios? Is this not simply your own selfish dread, masquerading as the needs of many?" His voice was a low, dangerous growl, laced with a bitterness Elar had rarely heard. "Do not project your weakness onto others. They will find their own path, as you should."
"Weakness?" Elar repeated, the word a choked sob. He lurched forward, grabbing Macellion's arm, his grip tight, almost bruising. "I've bled for you! I've killed for you! I've sacrificed everything for you! And you call this weakness?"
Macellion flinched at Elar's touch, his eyes widening slightly, a flicker of something akin to fear crossing his face. He tried to pull away, but Elar held on tight, his grip unyielding. And as Elar held him, he noticed something... different. Macellion's skin was clammy, his grip weaker than it should be. The familiar darkness that always radiated from him, the almost palpable sense of ancient power, felt... diminished. It was as if the edges of his being were fraying, becoming less defined.
He's always been so... untouchable. So powerful. But now... now I can feel his frailty. Is this what it means to die? To become... less?
A thrill, cold and sharp, pierced Elar's grief. It was horrifying, yet...exhilarating. He saw the delicate bones beneath Macellion's skin, the vulnerability that he had always hidden so well. And he wanted to protect it, to cherish it, to keep it safe from the world, to be the only one who ever saw it.
"Let go, Ethelios," Macellion hissed, his voice strained, the controlled facade finally shattering. "You are hurting me."
"Hurting you?" Elar laughed, the sound hollow and broken. "What's a little pain compared to what you're putting me through? What's a little bruise compared to the gaping hole you're leaving in my life?" He tightened his grip, a strange sense of power surging through him, a dark satisfaction blooming in his chest. He's never admitted to pain before. Never shown any weakness. Is this... is this what it feels like to have power over him? To finally hold him, not as a student, but as... something more?
Macellion winced, his breath catching in his throat. "Ethelios...could you...?"
That single word, that plea, sent a jolt through Elar. Never heard that note of desperation in his voice. It was terrifying... and intoxicating. It was real. He saw the fine lines around Macellion's mouth, the way his lips trembled slightly. He wanted to kiss him, to taste his pain, to absorb it into himself, to become one with him in this moment of vulnerability.
He leaned closer, his face inches from Macellion's, his eyes burning with a desperate intensity. "You're not going to die," he whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of grief and resolve. "I won't let you. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you here. Even if it means... even if it means..." He paused, his gaze sweeping over Macellion's face, cataloging every line, every shadow, every sign of his fading strength.
He's becoming... fragile. Like glass. And I... I am the only one who can protect him from shattering. The only one who truly understands what he is becoming. The only one who can truly appreciate this... vulnerability.
"Elar!" Macellion's voice cracked with a raw, desperate frustration, a sound Elar had never heard before. It wasn't a term of endearment, not now, but a command, a desperate plea for Elar to listen. The sheer force of Macellion's unraveling composure was enough.
The use of his name, a name spoken with tenderness in the past, hit Elar with the force of a physical blow. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. It was the first time in years Macellion had used that name, the name reserved for moments of intimacy and affection. A flicker of hope, fragile and desperate, ignited within his heart. Was this a sign? A plea?
Elar knelt before Macellion, his voice raw, not just with grief, but with a terrifying possessiveness that now felt fully unleashed. "Your power wanes, doesn't it?" he whispered, a strange, desperate gleam in his eyes. "This... this failing body... it means I can keep you now, doesn't it? You can't just... vanish. You're dependent." His grip tightened on Macellion's hand, almost painfully.
"No more grand escapes. You're mine now, Master. Mine to protect. Mine to possess. Mine to hold onto." He saw in Macellion's eyes, the subtle tremor in his hand, and a chilling thought took root in his mind: he's becoming afraid. He's becoming... human.
And with that realization, a fierce, possessive protectiveness surged through him, a dark, consuming fire that warmed him from the inside. He would safeguard this vulnerability, this newfound humanity, even if it meant imprisoning the very essence of the man he loved. He would become Macellion's cage, his protector, his everything.
Macellion just remained silent, his gaze fixed on Elar, a complex mix of emotions swirling within his crimson eyes. The darkness that had always clung to him, a tangible aura of power and ancient malice, seemed to be thinning, revealing the man beneath. A man who, for the first time, looked truly vulnerable. And to Elar, that vulnerability was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
After a long silence, Elar stood up, his eyes filled with a desperate resolve. "Then I will keep you safe," he said, his voice trembling but firm, a triumphant note hidden beneath the surface. "I will cage you, Master."
Beneath the hope, a darker thought stirred: He needs me. He finally needs me. And I will never let him go.
Macellion's eyes widened in disbelief, his expression a mixture of shock and hurt. He had expected many things from Elar, but not this. Not this twisted form of devotion, this desperate attempt to control him.
...
The air in the war room crackled with tension. Maps depicting troop movements were illuminated by flickering candlelight, casting long, dancing shadows on the faces of the strategists huddled around the table. Gio, a student barely out of the academy, nervously gripped the tray, the aroma of roasted meat and herbs doing little to ease the grim atmosphere. This was far from the theoretical battles he'd studied.
He reached the room where Macellion was being held. Macellion, regarded Gio with a detached amusement, like a cat watching a mouse. Even confined, even with the harsh lines of worry etched on his face, Macellion possessed a striking beauty - a almost dangerous allure that drew the eye despite itself. His dark hair, usually meticulously styled, was now disheveled, framing a face sculpted with sharp angles and high cheekbones. Gio slid the tray through the bars, his hand trembling slightly. "Your meal, sir."
Macellion didn't glance at the food. He leaned against the back wall, his eyes, sharp and calculating, fixed on Gio. "An academy student, are you? Playing soldier for Lord Elar?" A faint smile touched his lips. "How... touching. Tell me, boy, what year are you? Do they still teach strategy using those dusty old texts?"
Gio swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure. "My orders are to ensure your confinement, sir. Nothing more."
Macellion chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down Gio's spine. "Confinement? A cage is just a change of scenery for someone like me. But you... you're trapped in a cage of your own making, aren't you? Blind loyalty, unquestioning obedience. How... limiting." He paused, his gaze intensifying. "You think you're serving some noble purpose, upholding Elar's grand vision. But the world is a chessboard, Gio, and you're just a pawn. Easily sacrificed."
Gio's breath hitched. He felt a flicker of doubt, a seed of unease planted by Macellion's words. He forced himself to meet Macellion's gaze. "I believe in Lord Elar. And I will carry out my duty."
Macellion's smile widened, a hint of something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. "Duty. A convenient excuse for intellectual laziness. Tell me, Gio, have you ever questioned why you're following these orders? Have you considered the consequences of your actions? Or are you simply content to be a cog in the machine?" He paused, a sardonic glint in his eyes. "And what, pray tell, do you imagine will happen to you after you've spent your days defending a lifetime criminal like myself? Do you think Elar will pin a medal on your chest? Or will you simply fade back into the academy, haunted by the knowledge of what you've done?" He threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "The irony is exquisite!"
Gio stood frozen, the weight of Macellion's words pressing down on him. He turned and fled, the tray rattling in his trembling hands, the image of Macellion's knowing smile burned into his mind.
...
Days turned into weeks. Macellion, true to his word, ceased his taunts and threats. He became withdrawn, silent, a brooding presence in the cell. Gio found himself almost unnerved by the quiet, the absence of the psychological warfare he had come to expect.
Then, one night, as Gio delivered the meal, Macellion spoke, his voice devoid of its usual mocking tone. "When will Elar be back?"
Gio paused, surprised. This was the first time Macellion had asked about Elar, the first time he had shown any concern beyond his own confinement. "I... I don't know, sir. It's been almost a week since we've had any news. But he's probably still at the front lines, commanding the army."
Macellion nodded slowly, his gaze distant. He didn't say another word.
...
The following days turned into weeks, and the weeks into a month. Each night, Gio brought the meal, and each night, Macellion would ask the same question: "Any news of Elar?" Gio's answers became increasingly uncertain, his reassurances hollow. The lack of communication from the front was unsettling, fueling rumors and anxieties within the city.
Gio felt increasingly alarmed. He didn't know what to do anymore. He was a student, not a soldier, and he was ill-equipped to handle the situation. He dreaded his nightly encounters with Macellion, unsure of what the man might do to him, trapped as they both were in this strange, unsettling dynamic.
But instead of violence or manipulation, Macellion simply sat, staring into the distance, his face gaunt, the shadows under his black eyes deepening. The beauty that had once been sharp and intimidating was now softened by a palpable sorrow. He looked like a man haunted by memories, a man burdened by a weight only he could understand.
Then, one night, Macellion looked up at Gio, his expression calm, though a flicker of worry flashed in his black eyes. "Gio... Elar... he needs help."
Gio shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. "If only I could, sir. But I know my place. If I followed him to the war, I, along with Dianna and Faen, would only be a burden to Lord Elar. I'm not a soldier. None of us are."
...
The news that day was grim. The front lines were collapsing. The enemy was advancing. The city was on the verge of falling. The whispers turned to shouts, the anxieties to panic.
That night, Gio approached Macellion's cell, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't bring a meal. He brought a key.
He unlocked the cell, his hands trembling so violently he could barely hold the key. "We have to go," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "They're all going to die."
Macellion stared at him.
"I'm begging you, sir," Gio pleaded, tears streaming down his face. "You have to save them. Save Elar. Save Dianna. Save Faen. Save everyone."