Chapter Thirty-Six Elician
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Elician
They cannot just run away.
Elician wants to with every fibre of his being, with every part of him that is acutely aware of Alest’s increasing misery in Alerae.
He wants to just kiss his husband awake, find a wagon, fill it with only a few precious things, then drive it far, far away.
If Alest ever gave him permission to do so, he would do it in a heartbeat.
But he knows full well that they cannot just disappear.
Letters must be written, orders must be given.
And still, across the country, there are Reapers being held underground.
Orders have been given to free each conclave from confinement, but they will take time to reach their destinations.
It has been, perhaps, Alest’s greatest sacrifice since being named king.
‘I can’t be the one to set them free in person,’ he murmured only once in the quiet of their room.
‘Can I?’ There is too much to do. And each cell group is too far away from one another.
But, despite the devastation that that realization brought, Alest continues pushing forward.
He focuses on the plague. Some villages are seeing the sick recovering without any Giver or Reaper to care for them.
But for those who are still suffering, they come directly to their king: Alest the Chosen.
He heals those who come before him, and on days when there are many hopeful faces, Elician helps as well.
The trick of this healing feels like an obvious thing to understand once it’s been pointed out.
Elician feels a bit foolish for not having realized in the first place.
But that, too, he grudgingly admits, is something the kings of old also failed to understand.
He borrowed Marina’s journal at one point, flipping to the pages on Kreuzfurt, hoping to find some clarity.
All she had written was that the overuse of power is what led to the plague, and separating the Exalted into Reapers and Givers and from each other had been the only way to ensure such a thing never happened again.
‘They used to argue that I had no place on the battlefield,’ Elician tells Alest one evening when they have some time alone.
Alest glances up at him from the pile of papers that has started to accumulate on a desk someone kindly dragged up the spiral stairs of his tower.
‘Marina in particular insisted on it, saying a Giver has no reason to be surrounded by so much death.’
‘Why would they assign her to you and not Zinnitzia then?’ Alest asks.
‘You know, I’m starting to wonder if that wasn’t half the point to begin with.
All this talk of tests and lessons, and it’s been going on since before I even really knew what I could do.
’ Elician sighs. He wanders towards the desk and drapes his arms over Alest’s shoulders.
He rests his chin on the top of his husband’s head, peering down at the assorted documents.
One scrap of paper catches his eye. It has been folded and refolded many times, but the sketch is still perfect.
‘It’s our cat.’ He grins, kissing Alest’s hair before reaching to inspect the silly drawing.
‘I still like it,’ Alest replies. Then, softly, he says, ‘Do you think I could…touch someone one day?’ Knowing that he could give life to others is one thing. Stopping the instantaneous death that comes from just touching their skin is something else entirely.
Elician doesn’t want to give him false hope, but at the same time he says, ‘You brought Gillage back with a touch.’
‘I focused on it, bringing him back. But if I…if I touch something and I’m not focused, will I…’ He trails off, lips twitching unhappily. Elician reaches for one of his hands. He takes it gently in his own and then slowly removes the glove.
Alest’s hands are soft. Even with all his sword training, his hands are still soft and delicate.
Elician traces over the skin on his palm.
He circles around one knuckle and then the next.
‘If there is one thing I would wish for your kind,’ he murmurs, ‘it’s for you to never have to fear the gifts you’ve been given ever again. ’
‘Not everyone will be able to heal others,’ Alest says. ‘Some things…some people may not even want to learn. And if I did learn how to touch without…am I still really a Reaper then?’
‘Yes.’ Elician is certain of it. ‘Being a Reaper has defined who you are for almost your entire life, love. Learning how to control your gift so it doesn’t control you…
it isn’t losing that part of you. I’m not a Reaper, even if I could kill someone with a thought.
You have a culture and an identity that is yours.
I can respect and honour that, but I cannot claim the same identity. Do you feel like you’re a Giver now?’
‘No,’ Alest murmurs. ‘Others might, if they learn how to do this. It’s easier being a Giver than a Reaper…
even in Alelune.’ For Alelunen Givers need only never tell anyone who or what they are, and no one will ever know.
While Reapers are almost always found in the end, unable to keep their abilities a secret for long.
‘That’s their choice, not yours. How do you feel?’
‘The same, but more tired.’
‘That’s the monarchy talking.’
‘I don’t want to be a king.’
Elician shifts, sliding to the side of Alest’s chair and crouching so they are almost at eye level. Still holding Alest’s hand, tenderly stroking his skin with a slow swipe of his thumb.
‘There are too many decisions to make,’ Alest continues, ‘and I don’t know the answers to anything. It feels like it’s too much and I’m so tired all the time.’
‘I know. We need to talk about how all of this is going to work.
And if we can find a way to make it work, then not all of this will be on your head alone.’
‘Your head too.’
‘Yeah,’ Elician sighs, ‘I’d like a chance to breathe once in a while. And we’ll get there. We will. We’ll have council members and advisers. And there will be people we can trust. We’ll get our chance to take a break and then…one day, leave.’
‘Adalei will be queen.’
‘She will, and you’ll find your successor. A little girl.’ Elician huffs a laugh. ‘Someone that all of Alelune will love without complaint. And on that day…we’ll be free.’
Alest tips forward. Their brows touch. He cups Elician’s cheek with his free hand and Elician leans into the warm, tingling feeling that still makes his stomach whoop as every part of his body registers the sensation.
Magnets, he has always thought. Two magnets pulling towards each other, never meant to be apart.
Slowly, gently, he turns his head. He meets Alest’s lips with his own, the touch light and sweet.
We’re getting better at this, Elician thinks, cherishing the pleasure of every fluttering sensation.
Alest slides forward and Elician is there to guide him down.
Down from his chair, down to Elician’s lap.
Straddling his hips and cupping his cheeks, holding Elician to him even as Elician ensures that Alest’s body is safe and secure.
He will always make sure that Alest is safe and secure.
Alest’s eyes are closed. His face a picture of beauty.
Absent is the flush of embarrassment or shame that crossed his cheeks the last few times they kissed for so long.
He seems, just for a moment, utterly uncaring.
As if finally, for the first time, his mind is still, and all he is focusing on is Elician willingly supple in his grasp.
One of Elician’s hands goes to Alest’s waist, the other to the back of his neck.
Their mouths move, lips opening in tantalizing possibility.
Elician slides his tongue between their sweet parting.
Alest’s breath hitches, his voice hums a sound.
A perfect, flawless sound that spears Elician through his very soul.
He wants to hear it again. Wants to relish the vibrations on his tongue.
He delves deeper, holding Alest’s hip steady against his lap as he kisses.
Just kisses. Whole nations could fall and Elician would still mourn the very second Alest’s lips were pulled from his. He never wants this to end.
Alest’s hands are warm at his cheeks. His fingertips slip into the nascent curls still trying their best to grow back into place.
A subtle prickle of sensation burns at Elician’s scalp, and he wants.
He wants everything. He wants to be touched.
Wants to press his body against Alest’s and feel his heart beating in tandem with his own.
He wants to taste Alest’s skin. He wants to taste everything he knows, and everything he doesn’t know.
He pulls back, and Alest whines, a heartbreaking cry echoed by such an expression of hurt. Why? is breathed between them in wordless misery. ‘I want to touch you,’ Elician says.
‘We were touching,’ Alest complains, trying to pull Elician’s face closer. But Elician holds strong. He leans his head back as far as he can, pushing Alest ever so slightly.
‘Wait. Wait.’
Alest waits, confusion overriding frustrated annoyance. Elician yearns to kiss his lips. To make it better.
‘I want to touch you,’ Elician repeats. He glances back towards the bed behind them.
Undisturbed. Clean. Waiting for their use.
Alest frowns, then, comprehension dawns.
The flush returns, embarrassment and shame and discomfort perhaps at the suggestion.
He squirms, dropping his hands from Elician’s face, and seems to realize just how very perfectly he is straddling Elician’s lap.
He shifts, gasps as their bodies align in an all too delightful way, then holds still.
‘I don’t know how,’ Alest says, looking at the bed like it might hold some secret mysteries within.
‘I don’t know either,’ Elician confesses.
‘You don’t have the same excuse as me,’ Alest murmurs.