The Lord Beneath's Lover

by QuilFrisson

 

Premise Tags: Dark Fantasy,

Reincarnation, Fated Lovers,

Mystery, Jealousy,

Heartwarming, Lyrical,

Arranged Marriage, Punishment.

Content Warnings: N/A.

 

 

The dark god's bride hadn't expected the underworld to be so bright.

All the legends agreed that the Neathniche was a land of eternal darkness: a fit prison for a deity exiled from heaven. But as the demon procession snaked its way through the caverns, all Bastien Brume could see was light. Here were forests of lambent mushrooms glowing cyan and violet and pink. There was the river with its luminescent fish, its waters sparkling underneath slender bridges of stone. Above, in the stalactite-toothed ceiling, were jewels lit up with their own inner fire, brighter than stars. 

It was a world of unexpected wonders and Bastien was sorry that he wouldn't see much of it before he was eaten alive. 

Those were the terms of the Bargain, after all. 

For centuries after his exile, the fallen god--now known only as Gris Neath--had waged war against humanity, trying to break free of his sunless prison. But the ages had taken their toll. Even he had grown tired of war. In exchange for peace, he'd agreed to take a bride every year. Just one human life: a beautiful youth or maiden of gentle birth, newly come of age. He would enjoy his bride for a year, and at the end of it, he and his demons would feast. 

This year, the unlucky lot had fallen to Bastien. 

Luckily, he didn't mind. 

There had always been an odd, disquieting peace about Bastien Brume, something that recognized Fate and bowed to it. Unnatural, his Aunt had called him, when he didn't weep at his parents' funeral. Soulless, his cousins had whispered, whenever he failed to join in their games or sympathize with their intrigues. Even animals were wary of him. 

He'd never felt at home except in the manor's woodlands. There, he took shelter whenever he grew tired of all the agitated, moving creatures of the world. He loved the peace of quiet, green things. Loved them even when they were tossed by windstorms and rain, for then there might be lightning, and for Bastien, that brief, searing flash of whiteness seemed to carve out a singular space in the world, a moment of crystalline purity before the rolling growl of thunder broke it into pieces. It was so similar to the peace that lay coiled inside him.    

When he'd been a child, his mother had told him stories of the gods inhabiting these things: the sleek Cat-of-Lightning forever pursued by the Thunderdog, the majestic Firebird Emperor who was the sun, the Moon Mare, and all the other great ones. But the spirits she loved the most were the humble soulwisps of plants, most of which she could summon by name. She'd never been able to teach him all she knew.

Now he would never see her or the sun or storm or greenery ever again. 

Lost in thought, the dark god's bride touched the pendant at his throat, caressing the thistle engraved into the ivory. He wondered if his small, botanical magics could survive this sunless world. As soon as he was able, he decided, he would find his way back to the mushroom forests and see.

It was in this thoughtful manner that Bastien was delivered to the god on the scarlet throne. 

But once again, his unnatural mind confounded him. He hardly noticed his new lord and master. To him, the enigmatic Lord Beneath was only an impression of heavy darkness, a blood-red shadow on a blood-red chair. 

All he could see was the young man chained to the foot of the throne.

In a world of color and darkness, this youth shone as stark as a bolt of lightning. He was not only ornamented in white--with pearls and gauzy silks and bangles of white jade--he himself was white, from the liquid waterfall of his hair to the alabaster gleam of his skin. Scintillating inside him was a pale fire like the flame inside the cave's jewels, burning coldly and distantly, brighter than a star. He lay still at the dark god's feet, but Bastien felt as if the entire world had begun to turn all around him. 

Without waiting for any signal, Bastien alighted from his palanquin and prostrated himself before the stairs to the throne. "I've come here for you," he said, his voice hoarse for he didn't often speak, "because I love you." And no one but himself had to know that he spoke to the slave instead of the king. 

Questions fluttered in his throat. Who are you? Why do I know you even though I've never seen you? He restrained the words, more out of habit than any instinct for self-preservation.

But this restraint also preserved him, because the dark god's first minister--a demon eight-feet tall and crowned with violet horns--only gave him one lash of the whisk for his impertinence. His Aunt's punishment had been far heavier when she'd caught him singing a spell over her roses. 

Gris Neath raised a hand, and the demon minister bowed and backed away.

"I don't need your love, child," the dark god said. The voice in that blood-red armor seemed as if it came from the depths of an abyss; despite that, it sounded amused. "I need only your flesh. Do you know your duty?"

For a moment, Bastien's peace almost left him. He remembered then that he was naked underneath his ropes of shining gems, that he was cold despite his coat of aromatic oil. He trembled. "I know my duty," he finally managed to say. But he was looking at the white boy as he said this. 

The youth looked back at him with the measuring glare of a hunting cat. Their gazes caught, tangled, and held, until Bastien felt his chin grasped and tilted up by a cold, gauntleted hand. 

The Lord Beneath overwhelmed his vision. "You are fascinated by my Thistle?" 

Bastien's hand flew to the pendant at his throat. 

Grimly, the metal fingers reached for his own, prying his fist open to reveal the ivory thistle nestled within. 

"Ah," the dark god growled, in a tone of such ugly suspicion that Bastien shrunk back. Gris Neath caught him by the shoulder and dragged him closer. "So They have begun to move at last? They've dared to send a spy?" His grip tightened until Bastien cried out, and found his cry echoed in another voice: "Don't!"

Gris Neath let Bastien go and whirled around, his tone barely leashing its thunder. "Do you command me now, Thistlethorn?"

The white boy got to his feet only to drop himself back down into a deep bow. He did it all in one fluid motion, his movements followed so gracefully by his hair and silks that he seemed like a spirit of air. Even the silvery links chaining him to the throne sounded sweet, like bells. "Forgive me, lord," he said, in a voice that was startling in its deep richness. "I can't see you demean yourself with violence against one unarmed."

The demon king barked out a laugh. "Oh, is it only that? Concern for my morals?" But his moment of anger had passed and he was amused again. He patted Bastien's shoulder, which still bore the imprint of his bruising grip. "And if you are Their spy, then welcome! What more could They possibly do to me?" The bitter smile was invisible underneath his visor, but Bastien could hear it in his voice. "I hope you enjoy your adventure, little spy. A single human year is all you have left."

Red, metallic fingers darted for Bastien's pendant, closed around it, moved to tear it from his neck. But the gesture was cut short by a new shout, one of outrage and pain. The dark god jerked backward, his gauntlet smoking where the pendant had burned through it. 

A murmur rippled throughout the throne room, followed by the hiss of swords coming free of sheathes. Demonic guards lumbered forward to surround the blinking, slack-jawed Bastien. He touched his pendant nervously, expecting that same burst of pain that had seared the Lord Beneath--but for him, there was only coolness, a memory of storm-tossed trees frozen into whiteness by lightning. 

His thoughts stilled. Even when he felt the points of the blades press against his bare skin, he couldn't win free of this preternatural calm. Perhaps that was a final mercy. He closed his eyes.

"Enough!" Gris Neath commanded. "Put up your blades! It's plain he's only a pretty lackwit, no matter what amulets he might have. Leave him, his time has not yet come." He installed himself back onto his throne, and it seemed as if he melted into it, becoming only a blood-red shadow once more. But his voice rang throughout the great cavern of the throne room, dark and full of malice. "Take him to the yellow room for now. I won't want him tonight." He beckoned his beautiful, white lover onto his lap. "You will attend to me, my Thistle." 

 

 

🍁☠️🍁

 

 

It was his bridal night, and Bastien Brume lay awake in the yellow room, alone and sick with jealousy. He kept telling himself that he should be glad of this reprieve. But whenever he closed his eyes, he could see those cold, heavy hands groping all over Thistle's skin, those brutal fingers tangling in his spidersilk hair.

The dark god was his lawful husband and master: his owner, according to the terms of the Bargain. But Bastien's mind had become a meadow and every plant was a thistlevine full of thorns. Over and over again, he heard that low, fascinating voice twining around his own, crying in protest against his pain. Don't, Thistle had said. It was the first time anyone had ever spoken up for him, even if it wasn't for his own sake. 

Midnight came and passed and he was still in the grip of this exquisite agony. He was beyond exhaustion when he heard the door creak open and felt a cold, fragrant draft blow into his room. Metal clinked against metal.

He reached for a dagger that was no longer under his pillow, and clenched his fists. The Bastien of the world-above was gone; he was only the sacrifice-bride now, with no weapons save for his wits. He raised his head to call out a challenge, but before he could speak, the intruder came close enough to see in the low, yellow light. 

"Don't say a word!" Thistle leapt onto the bed with the careless grace of a cat. 

Bastien could only nod. Even if he'd wanted to speak, he couldn't. Not with his heart beating in his throat.

"I don't know whether you are a spy or not, and I don't care." Thistle loomed over Bastien. If he'd had a tail, the tip of it would have been twitching. "None of your above-world magics will avail you much here. You'll find them weakened and warped, almost useless. Don't try to escape. Whether They have sent you or not, your duty is to the Lord Beneath now."

He then went on to describe this duty in minute detail. Bastien listened, but he was more fascinated by the cadence of Thistle's speech than the actual subject. Someone else might have found it odd, even ridiculous--that such a low and resonant voice came from such a sliver of a youth. Bastien only found it beautiful. 

He found it beautiful even when that voice droned on about how to make love to a god who never removed his armor. Even when it stuttered over the uses of oils and wax, the intricacies of modesty flaps and codpieces. 

At length, Thistle paused and asked him if he understood.

Again, Bastien nodded solemnly. 

Scorn bristled in Thistle's voice. "Don't you have anything to say? Any questions? Even last year's milksop maiden managed to say a single word."

Bastien wondered if this were some sort of test. He distinctly remembered Thistle commanding him not to speak. He knew he was hopeless when it came to social signals, so he defaulted to simple obedience. He shook his head and tried his best to look agreeable. 

“And why are you smiling at me in that silly way?” exclaimed Thistle. Abruptly, his face softened into confusion and pity. “Are you… are you just not very bright?” Bastien's dumbfounded look seemed to confirm this hypothesis for him. A sad smile flickered on his face, as if he'd realized that what he’d mistaken for a wolf was a lost, frightened pup. He reached out to pat Bastien's fluffy, brown hair. "There now. It won't be so bad. We'll feed you and protect you, for as long as you're with us. And the end will be quick."

Bastien couldn’t take it anymore. The laughter spilled out of him, all the stronger because it sprang from pure delight. “So you do have other expressions!” he said. When Thistle jerked his hand back and glared at him, he clarified: “Don’t get me wrong, I like it when you smile. But I’d love looking at you even if you scowled at me for the rest of our lives.” 

A new, unreadable expression started playing over Thistle's features. 

Silence stretched. 

Then Thistle made a small, aggravated sound, and vanished as swiftly and felinely as he'd arrived. 

 

 

🍁☠️🍁

 

 

Perhaps it was the fault of his disastrous first impression, but Bastien found himself thoroughly snubbed in the caverns of the demonic court. He reveled in it. 

His husband vanished for days at a time, warring with mysterious creatures from the lower depths. The skeleton force left to guard the royal complex acted as if Bastien didn't exist. It was almost as if he'd become a living ghost, able to drift anywhere without being seen or heard. 

As far as he was concerned, this meant he was free. And the very first thing he did with this freedom was lose himself in the caves. It wasn't to escape--he knew his duty--all he'd been trying to do was find his way to the mushroom forests. But the twists and turns of the Neathniche were more complicated than he'd supposed. 

He didn't know how long he wandered, but from the pangs that came and went in his stomach, he must have passed several mealtimes. Eventually, he became so weak that he could no longer walk, so cold he tried to curl up to a stalagmite for warmth, and so thirsty he tried to lick the glistening stone, imagining that its gleam came from water. 

When he heard the bell-like chiming of chains, he dismissed it as yet another hallucination. Then came the strangely weighty pad of small, white feet, but he put that down to wishful thinking. But then he found himself lifted up and heaved onto a warm, bony back. Despite the narrowness of those shoulders, the delicacy of those bones, they bore him up steadily all the way back to his yellow room. 

The last thing he saw before he fell into a deep sleep was Thistle's face.

This unexpected rescue filled him with such bliss, that after a few hearty meals and several days' rest, he instantly repeated his adventure. He never found a mushroom forest, but he did discover a host of wonderful things: passages of obsidian so smooth they shone like mirrors, lattices of crystal-thread that hummed in different tones when touched, and a collection of green, bubbling pools where some of the demons came to make twining love with giant eels.

He got lost often enough that Thistle vowed to leave him to his doom the next time he fell into a spiderpit or disturbed an orgy of irate, many-fanged lovers. 

But he never did. 

In fact, Thistle began to follow Bastien about: first, with vague threats about what might happen to a spy who tried to escape the Neathniche; and then with exasperated pronouncements about the idiocy of someone who can't even remember that rivers always flowed down. "Whenever you find water, you silly puppy, you have to go up! Below us live the Unnamable Nones--" and his face always grew fierce at the mention of these ancient enemies "--and I won't let them eat you before we can!" 

Finally, after his third month as the dark god's wayward bride, Bastien had the honor of having his husband's lover escort him to the nearest mushroom forest. 

"But after this," said Thistle, "you must promise to stop wandering off!" 

Eager to display his skills, Bastien decided to attempt the only spectacular spell in his repertoire, the song of growing. He chose the plumpest, brightest mushroom he could find, and coaxed his beloved into sitting underneath it. Thistle grumbled and sneered all the way, but there was a gleam of curiosity in his eyes too. 

It was a pretty picture he made: a wisp of white sitting against the pale-yellow stalk, canopied by a drooping parasol that glowed a glossy turquoise-blue. Despite his pleasure at this sight, Bastien tried to maintain a grave expression. Nothing irritated Thistle more than to have Bastien staring at him with a silly smile on his face. 

"I will sing a charm taught to me by my mother," Bastien explained, "and this mushroom will grow to a fantastic size."

Thistle looked up, his eyebrows curving into doubtful arcs.

"Whatever happens, don't be alarmed," Bastien added. "I can never do anything to harm you."

Irony glinted in Thistle's eye. "I'd like to see the mortal that can."

He had a point. In their myriad explorations, Bastien had seen Thistle split a granite wall with a tap of his finger and tear apart a goat-sized spider with his bare hands. Even so, he didn't want to do anything that might cause him the least pain. 

But as Thistle had warned him that first night, magic worked differently in the Neathniche. The song of growing inspired no such thing. Instead of expanding, the mushroom began to shiver and shake, as if battered about by an inner storm. This agitation became so violent that Bastien discarded his pride and tried to pull Thistle away. But the unaccountable boy, amused by Bastien's embarrassment, stayed where he was, even dragging Bastien in with him. They fell together against the stalk, just in time for the mushroom to give a final shudder and dump a cloud of yellow dust over them both.

Thistle burst into laughter. Bastien, blushing and coughing, stared at him for a moment before helplessly joining in. They laughed at the ridiculous picture they made, laughed at the incongruity of them being together like this, laughed, until the yellow dust began to sprout all around them, shooting up myriad small stalks which opened into tiny, blue umbrellas right before their eyes.

Bastien had never thought about it before, but it seemed that the sound of a thousand, tiny mushrooms opening all at the same time was a squelching Fwoop! Thistle was so overcome by this fact that he toppled over, clutching at his sides. Without thinking, Bastien dove down after him. He struck the ground with enough force to be knocked breathless, but he was pleased to find Thistle's head protected by the crook of his arm. 

It took him a moment--he needed to relearn how to breathe--but he slowly realized that they were lying together, on a bed as blue as the sky. He only needed to turn in order to take his beloved into a full embrace. 

Bastien felt as if he'd become suspended in syrup. There were rocks gouging into him in three different places, but he felt no pain. He was trapped, unable and unwilling to do anything that might shatter the moment. He would have moved, of course, if Thistle had said the word--but how he wished Thistle wouldn't. He waited, resentful of his own unruly heartbeat, hardly daring to move his lungs. 

Thistle lay still, pillowed on his arm. There was a softness to his face that Bastien had only seen once before. "Do you know, puppy," he said, "that we have no magic in the Neathniche to make things grow? It's easy enough for us to bear things, or break them, or make them dead--that's the way of fallen gods. But light and life persist here in spite of us, not because of us. The mushrooms and glowworms, the blind, bright fish and the luciferous insects, they lived here before us and they will continue long after we are gone. We don't belong here. I've told you that your magic would be twisted out of shape here; but here's another truth: so is ours."

Bastien made the softest of hums, urging Thistle to go on. 

"Sometimes I dream of an endless, warm light, and I imagine it's heaven calling me home. But I know it's all in my head. Because I'm mad, you know. Dangerously insane." Thistle lifted one foot so his shackle glinted blue in the mushroom light. "Gris Neath keeps me chained for my own protection. If I didn't have them I'd try to escape, to run home. And then the emperor of heaven will have me beaten and broken and cast down all over again." There was an odd hint to his voice then, almost like a plea. As if he wanted Bastien to tell him it wasn't true, even though he wouldn't believe this reassurance anyway.

His voice faded, and Bastien couldn't bear the loss of it. "Please," he said hesitantly, braced for rejection. "Please tell me more. What do you dream about when you dream of heaven?"

And perhaps there was magic in the mushroom forest, because Thistle did. He told Bastien of an endless ballroom where flaming giants circled around each other in the eternal dance of night. He recalled floating in the core of a towering castle, where particles of light and air and water buzzed together like thoughts in a great, inscrutable mind. And, most strikingly, he spoke of that moment that Bastien knew all too well, when the sky touched the earth with a slender, white sword to create a singular instant that froze the world into peace. He started to speak of the thunder too, but his voice broke. 

"I'll take you there," Bastien said, forgetting himself in a passion he'd never felt before. The ivory pendant against his chest seemed to be pulsing along with the beat of his heart. "I know what you mean. I've seen that place! This is my Fate, it has to be; I've come to bring you home." He took Thistle's hand and brought it against his heart. "Come with me." 

But at the touch of their hands, the pendant flashed and Thistle screamed like a wounded animal.

Startled, horrified, Bastien let him go. Burned into Thistle's palm was an incandescent, red mark, like a brand. "I'm sorry--" Bastien stuttered, nearly sobbing with distress. "I didn't know--I didn't mean to--"

But Thistle turned a look of such fear and hatred towards him that Bastien lost all ability to speak or think or move. All he could do was watch, tears blurring his eyes, as Thistle backed away and vanished into the darkness. 

 

 

🍁☠️🍁

 

 

Bastien Brume had lost the knack of being alone. 

Back in the world above, he could spend days in a maze of leaves without needing to see or speak with anyone. He'd lived in a peace as impenetrable as armor, sure that nothing could touch him until he fulfilled his Fate. It was a peace very much like death.

This had been a form of happiness.

He only realized this when he lost it. 

Now, he was lonely. It was like being thirsty, with no hope for water. Like being lost, with no home to come back to.

For a few moments, he sat alone in that forlorn mushroom bed, which still held the imprint of where he and Thistle lain together. He clutched at his pendant until the carving in the ivory marked itself into his palm. He waited, and was still, and breathed, desperately hoping for his numbness to return. 

Instead, there came an itching to his soles. Before he knew it, he found himself running, trying to trace the steps of those feet that had so recently walked away from him. 

He passed many weird and beautiful sights. He saw none of them. 

He found his way back to the throne room, but the blood-red chair loomed over no one. Thistle wasn't there. But the chains remained, those inescapable, singing chains, and he only had to follow them back out into the darkness. 

Down the chains went, past the mirror-obsidian passages and musical crystal-threads. Onward and downward they went, past the eels’ breeding pools, past the depths where even the blind insects wouldn't go. Deeper down they went, and Bastien kept on following them, even though the world grew colder, the air staler, the light dimmer and dimmer until there was none and Bastien had to pick up the chains and follow them by hand. 

Soon, he could hear the sound of slaughter, the bellowings and snarlings of Gris Neath's demon army. He had reached the battleground with the Unnnameable Nones. 

There was light of another sort here, a sourceless illumination that painted everything in shades of black and gray. And there, at the edge of the battlefield, stood a single streak of white.

The wild energy that had taken hold of him suddenly let him go. All the complaints of his battered body assaulted him at once. His feet ached. His legs trembled. He wanted to call out, but his throat was too dry.

He staggered up next to Thistle, gripping his own arms, not just because of the cold, but to keep from reaching out. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Forgive me. I'll do whatever you want. It was all inadequate. 

He followed Thistle's gaze to the center of the melee, but even there, he found himself bemused. There was the dark god in his armor, and all around him were his demons, but what were they fighting? In the dark light, it only seemed as if they were swimming in streams of shadow. Still, they roared their battle cries; still, their swords and axes and spears clamored as if they were tearing through metal and flesh.

"Do you want me?" Thistle asked him suddenly, a strange note in his voice. 

Something about that tone made Bastien's skin prickle with dread. Instinct reminded him that Thistle was a demon; Thistle couldn't love him; Thistle ate people like him. But Bastien nodded. "Yes." For it was true.

Thistle smiled sweetly, his teeth glinting in the un-light. "Then will you challenge the Lord Beneath for me?"

Bastien felt the world swirling around him. He had no hope of defeating the dark god, but neither could he back down and lose Thistle this way. Perhaps it had always been coming to this, from the first moment he glimpsed the white youth chained to the blood-red throne. The jaws of Fate were clamping down on him. He surrendered. "Yes."

And all of a sudden, he was on the battlefield, looking up at the metallic bulk of the Lord Beneath. The demons were arrayed in a circle around them. The colorless light was bright on them both. There was no sign of the shadows, or of the endless battle the horde had been fighting. 

The dark god saluted his bride. "Draw your weapon."

Bastien steadied himself. "I have none," he said.

Gris Neath threw his head back and laughed. "Liar! Twice already, you've harmed me and mine with that cursed thing around your neck. All pretenses end now. Show me your true power."

Bastien gripped his pendant and lowered his head to hide a self-deprecating smile. The most powerful magic he'd ever accomplished was to grow his Aunt's roses to the size of cabbages. 

He stole a look at Thistle and closed his eyes against the sight. There was a look of glazed avidity to the youth now, a hunger so intense it looked like lust. Still, Bastien couldn't help but love him, even for that.

So here was his Fate. A quiet, unremarkable one, but fitting for such a quiet, unremarkable fellow as Bastien Brume.

He lifted his gaze and allowed the god to see his lopsided smile. "I'm ready," he said, and lost himself in a peace as white as a lightning strike.

 

 

🍁☠️🍁

 

 

Bastien had been determined to face his death with dignity, so he was appalled by the wail that erupted the moment Gris Neath's sword plunged into his belly. He bit his lip to force himself into silence, but the weeping went on and on, louder and louder, until the whole world trembled with it. 

All around him was a great upheaval, a deep, shuddering groan as if the very air were in pain. Then the ground shook in a series of impacts. Through his blurring vision, Bastien realized that Gris Neath's armor was falling apart, striking and thudding against the ground piece by piece. 

There was nothing and no one underneath.

Then he was on the ground himself, and Thistle's hands were trying to cover his wound, and Thistle's strained, pale face was bent over him. "Why?" he was demanding, through gritted teeth, "Why didn't you defend yourself? Why aren't you calling your power?"

Amusement briefly washed over his pain. "What power would that be, my dear?"

"You know! Oh, you know. Why are you pretending like this? Why won't you stop bleeding?"

It was becoming more difficult to speak, but Bastien's mind was also growing clearer, as if he were waking from a long, dreary sleep. He drew Thistle's hand to his pendant, holding it fast despite all its efforts to wriggle away and return to his bleeding stomach.

The ivory blazed to life. It burned through their skin and charred their flesh, but they were both past pain now, past fear. Light rushed through them both until their blood ignited and their very bones glowed. And Bastien, who was not really Bastien Brume at all, remembered all that he was. 

He still bled around the sword that now blazed silver, for even a deity was not immune to one of the most powerful of heaven's divine blades. But he was smiling, for his Fate had not been so futile after all.

"Your sentence has been commuted for decades now, my heart," he said, fighting for every word. "There is a new emperor in heaven. He's sent envoys to tell you that the old regime has passed. You're free. But it seems you've bound yourself so tightly to these singing chains that they're all you can hear."

Thistle--who was not really Thistle, nor a demon, nor the dark god Gris Neath--gnashed his teeth. "Yes, I was wrong! I'm mad, aren't I? I'm always wrong. Didn't you say so, back when we fought? Or have you forgotten our old war?" 

"I have," the dying god admitted. "All I remember now is how I've missed you. I must have been wrong too. I'm sorry."

"But why did you have to come yourself, you stupid dog? Why didn't you just send me a messenger with this pendant?"

Brontide, the Thunderdog, sighed affectionately. "But could you have borne touching it? If I didn't hold your hand?"

And Thaloglas, the Cat-of-Lightning who had been cast down from heaven so long ago, laid his head down on his lover's breast. "You must go back to heaven," he insisted. "The Moon Mare must heal you. Oh, you silly puppy, I'm so afraid-- Someone must fly you back. But it's been so long, I think I've forgotten how."

"I told them." Brontide was wheezing now. "That I will bring you back. In a human lifetime. And not only that. But you will carry me. All the way home." He favored his lover with his silly, besotted smile. "You've done it before. Many times now. Stronger than you think."

Then the weary Thunderdog lapsed back into silence. For he was a god of few words and the sky shook each time he spoke.

 

 

🍁☠️🍁

 

 

Thaloglas touched his chains. 

For all its faults, the Neathniche was his. It was safe, familiar, controlled. There was a profound comfort in these eternal, underground wars. As long as he never stopped fighting himself, he never had to face anyone else. 

But here was Brontide, his old enemy and lover, the dog who'd always been following at his heels, who had become mortal for him, who had descended into the darkness so he could hold his hand through the pain and return to him the truth of who he was. And because of him, Thaloglas too, had lost the knack of being alone.

He didn't feel the chains falling off. They never were there after all. But when he let the light flood out of him, there was peace. Not the peace of impenetrable armor or of resignation to death, but the peace of a silent thing bursting through the ground to reach for the sky.

 

 

🍁

 

 

Author's Account:

QuilFrisson (SH).