Fractured Magic: Egil Interlude V

Fractured Magic is a fantasy webserial about political and personal accountability, ghosts both figurative and literal, and a pair of estranged friends who act like they’ve gone through the world’s messiest divorce.

Present Day
Year of Unity 1880

Gareth and Roman returned to the Ranulfs’ rented flat to find Leandros laid out on a couch covered in bloodied sheets, the Ranulf family physician kneeling at his side and finishing a long row of stitches. Immediately upon seeing them, the alfar prince made his displeasure known.

"I thought you'd be longer," he grumbled. At his words, the physician paused and and Isobel appeared in the far doorway, the former nodding curtly at the newcomers and the latter stomping over to Gareth.

"Where have you been? Prince Nochdvor arrives here with your waistcoat soaked in blood and no idea where you went, and you couldn't even be bothered to call your wife? Let me look at you," Isobel demanded. "Prince Nochdvor said you weren't harmed, but I want to make sure."

"I'm so sorry, Bel. You're right; I should have called. I was never in any danger, I assure you."

"But you could have been." Isobel sighed and shook her head. "We'll discuss this more later. Mr. Hallisey, don't think I didn't notice your injuries. Let me get you some ice for that lip."

Through the exchange, Leandros watched Roman with a steady expression. Roman watched him back. Even at Isobel's offer, he self-consciously touched his swollen lip and nodded his thanks but didn't tear his eyes away from his old friend.

“Thank you for coming, Doctor Stewart,” Gareth said, settling in the plush armchair by the couch. “How bad is it? He lost a lot of blood, earlier.”

The physician, a thin man with a bushy handlebar mustache, sat back on his heels and let out a sigh. It was a defeated sort of sound, and Roman approached without thinking, his heartbeat picking up in his chest. He'd known the cut was deep, but he'd forgotten how debilitating injuries could be for people—for normal people. Surely, the physician would have said something immediately if it was truly dire.

“I gave him a heavy dose of laudanum, so he shouldn’t be feeling much now,” Doctor Stewart said. “He should have gone to a hospital, Gareth.”

"I know. We tried to tell him."

“I’m right here,” Leandros murmured. Now that the physician mentioned it, Roman heard a slight slur to his speech. He couldn't tell if it was the blood loss or the laudanum, though Leandros did look paler than usual.

Doctor Stewart ignored him. "He'll live, but it'll be some time before he can use that hand again. If he can use it again, I should say. I can't tell the extent of the damage without the proper facilities, so we'll only know as it heals."

"Isn't there anything you can do?" Gareth asked. "If we do move him to a hospital—"

"No," Leandros interrupted. The physician scowled. Clearly, it was an argument that had been attempted several times.

"Atiuh Above, man, don't you understand that you could lose use of your hand?" the physician asked.

"If you were in my position, Doctor Stewart, and you had lived your life with as many enemies as I have, would you go somewhere as public as a hospital? If I do, all of the newspapers in the city will know about it within an hour. All the newspapers in every city, across the entire continent, will know about it by the end of the day. I am a Prince of Alfheimr, Doctor, and next in line for the throne now that my uncle has gone missing, and I am more friendless and exposed than I have ever been in my life. Tell me—if I go with you to your hospital, if my arm is truly as damaged as you suspect, how much greater of a chance would your facilities give me? Five percent? Ten? Knowing that, would you go?"

The physician looked away without answering, an answer enough on its own.

Leandros turned his glare to Roman, next, who watched him with wide eyes. "And you—don't look at me like that; I don't want your pity. As a matter of fact, don't look at me at all. Didn't you used to have a fear of stitches, or was that a lie, too?"

Roman had been avoiding looking at the injury, actually, but he risked a glance at Leandros' prompting. It was a gruesome sight, pink and red and black, and Roman quickly turned away, fighting the urge to gag.

Leandros let out a mean bark of laughter. "It seems not."

Gareth raised an eyebrow at Roman. “Stitches? Really?”

“I’m not afraid of them; I just don’t like them,” Roman insisted.

Fortunately, Isobel’s return saved both him and Leandros from further interrogation. She pressed a bag of ice into Roman’s hand and told Gareth, “Prince Nochdvor shouldn't be living alone with that injury, so I invited him to stay with us. Ms. O’Neill went to fetch his things.”

Finally, the physician finished bandaging Leandros' arm and stood. "I'll be back. I need to get a brace for him—something to keep the prince from moving his hand too much while it heals. I’ve already gone over care and maintenance with Isobel; she’s more than capable of handling any issues that arise, but if I’m needed, don’t hesitate to call.”

Seeing Roman’s curious look, Isobel smiled and said, “My uncle was a doctor as well. The old Ranulf family physician, in fact. I shadowed with him for years before marrying Gareth.”

“Thank you again for your help, Steward,” Gareth said, clapping the man on his shoulder. He lowered his voice and added, “I’m sure I don’t have to ask you to be discreet about what you saw here today.”

The physician huffed a laugh. “His Royal Highness swore me to secrecy before he would agree to take the laudanum. I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into here, Gareth, but I wish you the best with it.”

While Gareth escorted Steward out, Roman claimed the chair he'd just vacated. Not staring at Leandros was proving difficult; while the alfar had always been handsome, he'd grown disarmingly so, having finally settled into his features. That wasn't what really drew Roman's attention, though: it was the fact that he couldn't read Leandros' expression. Once, he'd been able to guess Leandros' every thought.

Gareth returned and stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips. “Prince Nochdvor,” he ventured, “Do you…still plan on going to Orean? With your injuries—”

“I’m going,” Leandros said, leaving no room for discussion.

“Then we need to make sure you’re protected,” Roman said. “I’ve disrupted Unity’s plans for now, but that doesn’t mean the Enforcers won’t try anything on the journey.”

When Leandros looked as if he was about to argue, Gareth said, “Respectfully, Captain, no man can watch out for himself all of the time, especially one with a major injury and as much responsibility as you have. There's no shame in that."

“What if we find you a personal guard? If Gareth gets to appoint one to the team, you should as well," Isobel reasoned.

Gareth clapped his hands together excitedly. “An excellent idea, Bel! I’m sure we could find someone suitable on short notice. Then between Roman and this guard, you'd be covered for the journey.”

Leandros narrowed his eyes at Gareth. “What do you mean, between Roman and the guard? We’re leaving Gallontea in two days, and Roman isn’t coming with.”

“I am, actually,” Roman said in a quiet voice. “The Magistrates agreed to it just an hour ago.”

Leandros sat up. “It’s my team!” he snarled, his voice louder than most in the room had ever heard it. He tried to stand, lost his balance, and fell back onto the couch, wincing as he jostled his arm. The expression made the long, thin scar on his cheek twist. “Do I have a say in this?”

“No,” Roman said.

Leandros glared. Roman stared impassively back. After too long of that, Gareth awkwardly cleared his throat. “I’m going to check on the spare guest room before Ms. O’Neill returns,” he announced, giving Isobel a meaningful look.

Isobel raised an eyebrow and nodded once. “And I should ask the cook to make extra for dinner,” she said, hastily following her husband out of the room.

Roman had been alone with Leandros more times than he could count. Before this, it had always been easy. Comofrtable. Secure. Roman didn't trust easily, but from their first meeting, a thread of mutual understanding had connected him. Roman had been the one to cut it, but maybe he hadn't been ready for the consequences. This...this was the worst he had felt in his life.

“So,” Leandros said, finally. “You’re alive.”

“So,” Roman echoed, “You’re working with Unity.”

“So are you, apparently."

"We agreed to a temporary ceasefire. It's different," Roman said, shaking his head.

Leandros' lip curled with disdain. "Don't say that like you're in the right. You let me think you were dead for eighty years, Roman. I've been mourning you, all this time."

Roman dropped his gaze to the floor, tracing it mindlessly over the patterns of Gareth's geometric rug. "Me acting poorly doesn't exempt you from doing the same." He gathered the courage to look at his friend again. "What were you thinking, Leandros? You know what they are."

“You have no claim to my thoughts,” Leandros said coldly, “And no right to my reasons.”

“Maybe not,” Roman said with a sigh, “But I have my own reasons for going to Orean. What happens if those reasons clash?"

Leandros' eyes widened. He looked vulnerable, for a moment, as he searched Roman's face for—something. Something he evidently didn't find, as his expression froze over again. "If they do, I won't let you stop me."

Roman hated this. He suspected Leandros hated it, too, but he saw the resolve in his friend's eyes. "No," Roman said sadly. "I won't let you stop me, either."

Leandros' expression twisted briefly, as if he was in pain, and then he looked away. "You should leave. I have nothing more to say to you."

When Roman reached his room, he shut the door and sank immediately to the ground, his body changing against his will as the day's events caught up with him. Tears pooled in his eyes, but he couldn’t tell whether they were from anger or grief.

It was only moments later that he felt the telltale tingle lance up his arm, and he lifted a hand to find it brightly aglow. The white spread down like lava, pooling up his arms, and meant that his eyes had likely changed as well. He squeezed them shut and pushed the magic down, as he had so many times before.

321 Years Ago
Year of Unity 1549

Egil crept through the underbrush, careful to keep low. Strange sounds echoed through the wood ahead—familiar to Egil, but strange in that they didn’t belong in Lyryma Forest. They were the sounds of people shouting.

No matter how urgent the shouts grew, Egil didn’t rush, didn’t reveal himself. Though he hadn’t encountered them personally, he’d heard of creatures in this ancient forest that used compassion as bait, mimicking the sounds of people in distress to lure prey deeper. This being some trick of the wood’s made more sense than the alternative: that strangers had made it this deep inside. And they could only be strangers; anyone born to the forest knew better than to shout in it.

He didn’t know what he’d expected to see when he finally reached the source of the noise, but three finely-dressed alfar fighting an angry saelcla wasn’t it. The bear-like creature towered over them, swiping at the alfar with massive claws. It only took one glance at the stiff way they held their swords to know who would win this fight.

A fourth boy stood at the back of the group, far from the saelcla. Instead of wielding a sword, he clung to the reigns of their spooked horses, single-handedly keeping all four from running off. Egil crept around the edge of the clearing to him, ripping a large frond from a fern as he went, and whistled to get the boy’s attention.

“Give me your matchbox,” he whispered.

The boy—young man—jumped at Egil’s sudden appearance, though his expression remained calm. It impressed Egil; even faced with imminent death, this one kept his composure. In his experience, alfar were good at pretending when it was easy but broke the moment things got difficult. Certainly, this young man’s friends were proving that true. “Pardon?” the alfar whispered back.

“A matchbox. You have one somewhere, don’t you? Give it to me.”

“Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter. Trust me.”

The alfar stared at Egil a long moment, his ice-blue eyes weighing Egil. Egil was struck by those eyes, but before he could say anything, the young man nodded and thrust the reins into Egil’s hands and turned to a large dun horse. Egil watched him coo soft consolations to it while he rummaged through its saddlebags, finally retrieving a matchbox and returning to Egil. Egil used it to set the fern frond ablaze.

Across the clearing, the saelcla stood on its hind legs, towering over the humans at nearly twice their height. It swiped at one with a clawed, eerily human hand and sent him flying into a nearby tree trunk. Before it could strike again, Egil stepped up to it, waving the flaming frond between them. It reeled back, dropping back onto four legs.

“Shoo!” Egil urged, waving the branch again. It wasn’t the ideal torch; it burned fast, heat stinging his hand as the flame devoured the leaves. Fortunately, the saelcla retreated before it could burn all the way down, turning and lumbering back into the brush.

Egil dropped the branch and stomped out the fire while the alfar crowded around him.

“That was brilliant!” one said.

“How did you know that would work?” another asked.

Egil stepped away before they could fully encircle him, keeping his back to the forest so he could see them all at once. Too caught up in the excitement and adrenaline, they didn’t notice his unease. Guessing an alfar’s age was always difficult, but by their manner and dress, Egil knew these four were young. The equivalent of their early twenties, maybe, for other humans.

“What are you doing here?” he asked them. “This forest is dangerous.”

“So we were told,” one of the boys sighed. He was taller than the others. Older, too, with less baby fat and a trace of blond stubble along his jaw. “I didn’t know that meant giant bears that attack for no reason!”

“Dangerous means dangerous. Leave before you get hurt.”

“We can’t,” said another, the one who’d been thrown into the tree. He rubbed at his lower back but otherwise appeared uninjured. “Our friends are waiting at the edge of the wood. They dared us to keep going until we found a frìth. We can’t turn back now.”

“Then you’ll die and bring shame on your families,” Egil scolded. He met the fourth alfar’s gaze, the one who’d given him the matchbox. “Do you really want the blood of royalty on your hands?”

The boys stilled. Surprise flickered across the fourth alfar’s face, and he left the horses—much calmer, now that the threat had passed—tethered to a tree in order to join them. “How did you know?”

Egil rolled his eyes. “The crest on your saddlebags gave it away.”

The alfar considered this. “How did you know it was my horse?” he asked.

“It was the first one you turned to—not the closest, not the calmest.”

“Very clever. Who are you?” asked the tall alfar.

Egil hesitated. They might know of the Hound, and besides, he had decided to stop going by the name Unity gave him. The question was just what he wanted to go by instead. Before the alfar questioned his hesitation, he picked a name Unity wouldn’t be able to trace: “Call me Roman. Roman Hallisey.”

“It’s truly a pleasure, Mr. Hallisey,” the tall alfar said, holding out a hand. Roman didn’t shake it, and the boy awkwardly dropped it again. “I’m Helge Evanson. This is Kjell and Oskar, and the one you pointed out earlier is Leandros Nochdvor, grandson to the King.”

Roman eyed the Nochdvor prince. He looked like his grandfather—golden hair, pale eyes, and light, unmarred skin. Roman was about to dismiss him, as he already had the others, but then something strange happened: Leandros Nochdvor smiled at him, shy and sweet. It was a strange sight coming from an alfar, especially one from that family, and Roman stared a moment longer.

“Join us for a meal,” Leandros said. “We owe you for saving our lives.”

“I dare say we could have fought it,” Kjell sniffed.

“What, like you were fighting it when it sent you flying?” Oskar asked.

“Don’t be rude, you two,” Helge told them. “I’m with Nochdvor. Please, do sit, Mr. Hallisey. I’d love to hear what you’re doing in Lyryma, if it’s as dangerous as you say. Oskar, get a fire stared.”

Roman didn’t want to stay, but he couldn’t in good conscience leave these boys alone. They’d been lucky to get this far and only encounter a saelcla, but luck ran out quickly in Lyryma and Roman had enough blood staining his soul already. While he was still trying to decide, he found himself being dragged down to sit beside Helge at a small but growing fire.

Kjell broke a loaf of bread and passed it around the circle while Helge offered Roman a basket of fruit. Roman took a small red berry and considered it, then pressed it to his tongue. It was fresh, sweet. These boys traveled lavishly.

“Is a dare really worth your lives?” he asked. He met Leandros’ eyes by accident, and the alfar quickly dropped his gaze, a faint blush dusting the tips of his ears. Roman almost smiled. He’d never met an alfar so easy to discomfit. If he still worked for Unity, it would’ve been too easy to pull information from Alfheimr’s young prince.

“Yes,” Oskar said easily.

“We’re students at the Academy, you see, and we’re about to enter our final year,” Helge explained. “The Academy’s the best school in the entire province, you know, and it’s tradition that every year, the exiting class gives the rising seniors a dare to complete. Ours is to meet a frìth and bring back proof.”

Roman raised an eyebrow.

“You can’t possibly understand,” Kjell said. “You don’t know how important these dares are. If we turn back, we’ll be the first class in over sixty years to fail. Our fathers, our fathers’ fathers, they all completed their own dares. We’d be a disgrace.”

Roman looked at Leandros. “What about you? You’re quiet. Do you disagree?”

Kjell sighed.

“I’ve disliked this from the start. Our fathers,” Leandros began, shooting Kjell a sharp glare, “Were not given dares that are both disrespectful to an entire nation and actively life-threatening. In my opinion, being nearly mauled by a bear is excuse enough to return home.”

Roman’s lips twitched, almost into a smile. “It was a saelcla, technically. Same genus, different species.”

The alfar all looked at him with surprise, apparently not expecting a wild-looking stranger they found living in Lyryma Forest to know the difference between a genus and a species. Roman cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “There are worse creatures here, the deeper you go, which is why I advise you to turn back.”

“If you know Lyryma so well, can’t you help us? Do you know where we can find the frìth?” Oskar asked. This sparked Kjell and Helge’s excitement; soon, Roman had three eager alfar bearing down on him. He rose and stepped swiftly away, closer to the cover of the wood. The alfar all blinked, surprised by his speed.

“If I introduce you to the frìth, do you promise to leave the forest immediately after?”

“Of course,” Helge agreed. “We don’t want to be here. I have a soft bed and warm food waiting for me in Alfheimr.”

“Then I’ll take Leandros Nochdvor, and Leandros Nochdvor only,” Roman said. “The rest of you are to stay here.”

Leandros’ mouth fell open in surprise. The others spoke over each other, each trying to complain the loudest.

Kjell, “Why him?”

Oskar, “Why not take all of us?”

Helge, “Just who do you think you are?”

“Unity and your people have made an enemy of the frìth for centuries; who do you think you are? Even if you found them, do you really think you’d be welcome? If you even made it to Home, do you think there wouldn’t be consequences? Arrogant, thoughtless boys. You don’t know the harm you could do,” Roman spat. “Leandros is the only one who gave a single thought to the frìth. He’s the only one I’ll take.”

Helge spluttered. Soft hands, fine clothes, unearned confidence—Roman guessed he’d never been spoken to like this.

“We’ll be back in a few hours. If the rest of you are going to sleep, keep a watch. Don’t leave this clearing and always keep that fire lit. Most of the predators who roam the forest at night fear open flames—they should keep you safe until we get back,” Roman said before Helge could recover. To Leandros, he added, “We continue on foot. Keep close to me and obey my orders.”

Nodding, Leandros shouldered a single bag and followed Roman into the wood. As the glow from the fire behind them dimmed, soon swallowed entirely by foliage, Roman felt the alfar’s eyes on him. “Thank you,” Leandros said, finally. “For stopping them, and for the compromise.”

Roman shrugged.

“How do you know so much about Lyryma?”

Roman looked at him. Though his expression was hard to read in the darkness, it struck Roman as open, innocent. “I live here.”

“Your accent is Troasian, though, isn’t it? That’s a rather long way from here.”

“It is.”

Leandros smiled to himself. He walked beside Roman instead of behind, looking all around him like he couldn’t take enough of the forest in. “You’re not one for talking, are you? That’s fine. You know, Lyryma’s lovely when there are no monsters attacking you. And when you don’t have to listen to Helge talk on and on about himself.”

Despite himself, Roman laughed. He remembered the first time he’d seen the inside of this forest. He’d been weary and injured, stumbling in after his escape from Gallontea. He’d had Unity guards and other Enforcers on his heels and his heart had been breaking for Bellona, the girl he’d left behind.

For the most part, Leandros respected Roman’s silence, though he occasionally asked about strange plants or animals they passed along the way. Roman didn’t mind the questions, nor the wonder with which Leandros asked them. With the forest matching their easy silence, they head the music of Home long before they reached the city. Leandros gasped when he heard it and turned to Roman with wide eyes, but Roman just beckoned him on. Before long, the ground dropped out ahead of them and the city sprawled below. It was lovely at night, like a reflection of the sky; the lanterns lit throughout seemed as distant as stars. But if Roman squinted, he could make out central field and all the small figures that danced and swayed to strange melodies upon it.

“This is Home?” Leandros whispered. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the hill, staring down at the city with evident awe. “From the stories they tell in Alfheim, I was expecting…”

“Not this,” Roman guessed.

“Not this,” Leandros agreed. “This is beautiful.”

“You’d be surprised how many stories your people tell about Home are untrue,” Roman said, watching Leandros out of the corner of his eye.

Leandros snorted. “I don’t think I would.”

Roman pointed at the field. “There are your frìth. Do you need proof for your dare?”

“Just something small, yes,” Leandros said. “Can we get closer?”

“I don’t know if that’s appropriate. It’s not for me to invite you into the city. I’m only a guest here, myself.”

Before Leandros could reply, a deep voice called, “Egil!” Both Roman and Leandros turned to look, Leandros gasping at the sight of his first frìth. Roman could only imagine how she must look to Leandros, with her twisting horns and glowing eyes and towering size. She approached from the grand staircase, tilting her head quizzically as she took in the person beside Roman. “In all the time you’ve been with us, you’ve never brought a friend here.”

“He’s not really…” Roman began. He paused. He didn’t really know how to explain what Leandros was.

“But he’s someone you trust?”

Roman considered this. “I suppose.”

“Then welcome to Home, little alfar. I’m Senga,” Senga said warmly, crouching to be closer to Roman and Leandros’ level.

“Leandros,” Leandros said in return, dipping into a low, formal bow.

Senga’s ears pricked forward, revealing her pleasure at the respectful gesture. “Welcome to Home, Leandros. You’ve made it in time for the festivities.”

“Festivities?” Leandros asked.

“He’s not staying,” Roman asked. “Senga, can I ask you for a favor? Can I have one of your whiskers?”

Senga blinked at the unusual request. “A whisker?”

“Yes, a whisker. Leandros needs it,” Roman said.

Senga made a considering noise. “I will give your friend a whisker if you both attend our party, first. I’ve noticed the way you avoid them, Egil. It would make our good neighbors happy if you were to enjoy their wine. Besides, it’s Muir’s birthday. You must come and wish him well, then tell him a story as a gift.”

Roman couldn’t argue with that. “We can’t stay long.”

Together, they followed Senga down the stairs toward the stream of music flowing from Home’s heart. The minute they reached the clearing, glasses of shimmering wine were thrust into their hands. A faerie with elegant butterfly wings danced around Roman, playing with his long hair before whisking a bewildered-looking Leandros away for a dance. As a newcomer, someone fresh and exciting, the alfar quickly amassed an entourage of curious fae. Roman watched him for a while — he was all youthful excitement and awkward limbs compared to the ineffable grace of the fae, but he was something solid and true in a sea of the surreal. He was strangely magnetic.

With that thought, Roman drained his glass, then cast one final look at Leandros before setting off in search of a second. If he’d been on his guard, he would have remembered how hard it was to leave a fae party once you’d begun to enjoy it.

Nearly two hours had passed before he found Leandros again. It happened in the middle of a dance, when Roman stumbled after a particularly enthusiastic spin from the faerie he’d been partnered with. He braced himself on whatever was closest, which happened to be Leandros’ chest, and laughed as the world tipped dangerously around him. A strong arm caught him by the waist, holding him steady.

Roman blinked, finding Leandros’ face very close.

“I barely recognized you with that smile on your face,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. “Hello again.”

“Hello,” Roman echoed breathlessly. He cleared his throat, then pushed on Leandros’ chest, putting some space between them. Leandros released him without protest. “We should get back to your friends.”

“They’re not my friends,” Leandros said. He tugged Roman away from the party, deftly avoiding large, dancing hooves. “I think we should sit a while before we try to go anywhere.”

Roman shrugged and dropped down into the grass. He knew Leandros was right; it had been a while since he’d had fae wine. He’d forgotten how strong it could be. “Fine. As long as they keep the fire going, they probably won’t die.”

Leandros laughed, surprising Roman. It was a sound that belonged here, in a forest like this. If magic really existed, Roman had always thought he’d find it in Lyryma. He was right, in a way—he found it in this unusual alfar’s laugh. “How much did you drink?” Leandros asked as he settled beside Roman in the grass. “You’re like a completely different person.”

“I’m not drunk,” Roman said defensively. “I’m just…” Freed enough to be able to breathe, to emerge from the shell of a man who’d been broken and remade over and over and over. He hoped this would be the last time. Roman, he thought, was someone who could smile and feel. Egil was not.

When he didn’t finish his sentence, Leandros smiled good-naturedly. “Of course. My apologies.”

Roman ignored the teasing and changed the subject. “When does your term start?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“Kjell—or maybe Helge—one of them said you’re enrolled at the Academy. A new term starts soon, right?”

“Not until fall,” Leandros said.

Roman nodded and twirled a lock of hair around his finger. It was getting long, almost down to his waist if he didn’t tie it up. Without seasons, the passage of time was indistinct in Home. Weeks blended into months into years, and through it all, Roman didn’t age. He used his hair as a metric of sorts—soon, it would be time to cut it all off and begin the cycle again.

He couldn’t guess how many cycles had passed since his days at the Academy. He doubted anyone he knew still taught there, even with alfars’ long lives. He thought of the youngest professor on staff back when he’d been enrolled. “Is, ah…Elgar Silge still teaching there?”

Leandros had been watching the party, his foot tapping along to the music, but now he turned the full weight of his attention on Roman. “He’s been dead for decades, I’m afraid. But his daughter is the headmaster, now.”

Roman sat upright. “Asta?”

“…You know her?”

“We were friends when I —,” Roman paused, bit his lip. “I used to attend the Academy.”

With the expressiveness Roman had come to expect from him, Leandros’ eyes widened. “A human from Troas who attended the Academy and lied about his name, now living in Lyryma with the frìth. What a strange creature you are,” he said, watching Roman with an intensity that made Roman look away.

“I didn’t lie,” he said. He suspected he had far more to drink than Leandros had. A mistake. “Roman is my middle name.”

“Senga called you Egil.”

“That’s something else. Don’t call me that.”

Leandros held his hands up. “If you don’t want me to, then I won’t. I’m sorry for pushing; I like Roman. It’s a good name.”

“Thank you,” Roman said. Despite the warning bells chiming in the back of his head, telling him he’d revealed too much, he relaxed. Instinct told him Leandros wouldn’t abuse this information.

“What did you study?” Leandros asked. “When you were at the Academy?”

“Chemistry. I never graduated, though. I had to drop out before my final year.” He almost smiled. “Didn’t get to participate in any dares.”

“What happened?”

Roman shrugged. “I just couldn’t pay the tuition.”

Leandros leaned forward, into Roman’s space. “You could always return. They have scholarships, now,” he said, this sudden excitement the first sign of intoxication he’d shown all night. “You could finish the new term. We could be classmates.”

Roman laughed. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”

“At least think about it,” Leandros said. He pushed himself to his feet and held a hand out to Roman, who took it with little hesitation. “In the meantime, come and dance with me. Just one song. Then we can find Senga, get her whisker, and you’ll be free of me.”

Six Months Later

The schoolroom was sticky and humid, filled with laughter and chatter. While not Leandros’ favorite place in the world, the Academy gave him what he needed: competent professors and dormitories away from his family.

Helge, Oskar, Kjell, and several classmates who hadn’t been included in their fateful summer dare sat around him. Helge was telling some story about a hunting trip he took with his father and Leandros had long since tuned out, his unfocused gaze settled on the empty blackboard at the front of the room.

When the professor entered, a familiar figure trailing in behind him, Leandros was the first to notice. It was a lean young man with dark skin, a pretty face, and long, long hair pulled up into a ponytail. That face, in particular, had featured in more than a few of Leandros’ dreams since their night in Lyryma. Roman stood out among the broad-shouldered, fair-haired citizens of Alfheimr. More than his dark hair and eyes, he was so exquisitely sapien, without an alfar’s sharp angles, slitted eyes, or pointed ears. As in Lyryma, his clothes were in a traditional troasian style—he wore a flowing white tunic partially unbuttoned at the top, a sash around his waist, and a red ascot around his neck.

When Roman found Leandros’ gaze, Leandros couldn’t help but smile broadly.

“Your expression, Prince Nochdvor,” the professor warned, and Leandros quickly wiped it from his face. It had drawn the others’ attention, and they now noticed Roman as well.

“What is he doing here?” Helge asked.

“Mr. Evanson,” the professor scolded even more harshly. “This is your new classmate, Roman Hallisey. He is a personal friend of the headmaster, so I hope you all welcome him and show him how hospitable we can be at the Academy.”

“This is some kind of joke, right?” Helge asked, dropping the Unity-regulated Ellesian language to speak in Eld Alfar, traditionally spoken only among old Alfheimr families. “He’s a peasant from out in the woods. Why would the Headmaster have anything to do with him?”

“Shut up, Helge,” Leandros snapped, also in Eld Alfar. He turned to Roman, who’d settled on a stool at the empty table behind him, and switched back to Ellesian. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Gladr lig at vara hi,” Roman replied in crisp, flawless Eld Alfar. Glad to be here.

Helge nearly fell off his stool.

As they settled into the term, Leandros made multiple attempts to befriend Roman Hallisey. He tried inviting Roman out with the rest of the students, tried striking up conversations with him between classes, and once, when he was particularly desperate, tried following Roman to the market so he could later “pretend” to run into him. The latter attempt had been the worst failure of them all: somehow, Roman had disappeared from Leandros’ sight after just one block.

It frustrated Leandros. He was used to people who hid their emotions, but it sometimes seemed as if Roman didn’t even have emotions to hide. Sometimes, when Leandros looked at him, flat black eyes looked back. Whenever he was close to giving up, though, he’d catch a flicker of life—the way Roman smiled to himself when the professor got something wrong, the spark of anger that flared when the other students were being foolish, the thoughtful sadness that overtook him on rainy days. These flickers reminded Leandros of Home, when Roman had laughed, danced, and teased Leandros. They reminded him of the loneliness he’d glimpsed in Roman then. After that, he always doubled his efforts, because he knew that loneliness. It was the same as his own.

His chance finally came in the form of a partner project. Leandros visited the classroom early to speak with the professor and ensure that when the assignments were read out, he and Roman would be paired together. Roman said nothing when the groups were named, but he’d shot Leandros a curious, appraising look, like he knew Leandros had rigged it but couldn’t prove it. They agreed to meet in Roman’s apartment on their next free day to work. Leandros told himself he wasn’t nervous about it, but when the day came, he couldn’t even pretend to maintain the lie. He was very nervous.

He followed the address Roman gave to a corner of Alfheim he’d never been in. It was one of the less-than-glittering neighborhoods of the golden city, where people on dusty, dirty streets gave him curious glances when they brushed shoulders on the sidewalk. The building itself was small, a half-timbered little thing with a butcher’s shop on the first floor. Leandros went around the building and climbed the rickety steps to the second floor, planning what he might say to Roman, what they could talk about when not working.

All of his ideas fled his mind when Roman answered the door. All he managed was a choked-off, “Good morning.”

Roman smiled and stepped aside to let him in.

The apartment was…barren. Nothing more could be said for it. It consisted of only a kitchen, a lavatory, and the main room, and hardly any personal effects could be found in the latter. Leandros tried not to stare at Roman’s bed as they both settled on the ground with their assignment papers spread out in front of them.

They fell into an easy rhythm, focusing on their work. Leandros didn’t even need to use one of his planned conversation starters; he’d forgotten how easy it was to be alone with Roman. They worked well together, too, Leandros with an eye for the big picture and Roman for details. They worked so well together, in fact, that they worked straight through lunch without realizing it, finishing most of what was supposed to be a multi-week project in one day. Leandros was the first to put his journal down.

“I think we’ve earned ourselves a break,” he said, stretching his arms over his head.

“Mm,” Roman hummed, still staring down at one of their books with a frown.

“Roman,” Leandros pushed. He wasn’t sure if they were acquainted enough to use first names. They had in Lyryma, but Alfheim was different and the introduction of the schoolmates element complicated things. He was fairly certain Roman was much, much older than him, too, though he couldn’t prove it. “A break. This project isn’t worth giving yourself a headache over.”

“You’re right,” Roman admitted, finally closing the book. He eyed Leandros—not suspiciously, not warily. Curiously, perhaps. “What kind of break were you thinking?”

Leandros frowned. “I didn’t have anything in mind; I’d just hoped we could talk. I’m curious to know how you’ve been readjusting to Alfheim.”

Roman only raised an eyebrow.

Leandros tried again. “Erm. Do you…miss Lyryma?”

“Sometimes,” Roman said. Leandros found himself trapped in Roman’s gaze. They sat close enough that he could even see himself reflected in Roman’s dark eyes. “Leandros, I know you asked the professor to make us partners.”

Leandros’ mouth fell open. “Oh. I—I only—that is, I thought—”

While he stammered out an excuse, Roman sat up. Next thing Leandros knew, Roman’s warm weight was settling on his lap, one leg on either side of Leandros’ hips. He leaned in, his breath warm on Leandros’ cheek as he whispered, “This is why, right?”

Leandros’ mind stuttered to a stop. He turned his head to look at Roman, and before it could start up again, Roman kissed him.

His lips were as soft as Leandros had always imagined. Needing to touch, to confirm that this was real, Leandros rested his hands on Roman’s waist, making Roman sigh contentedly against him.

It was that sigh that finally broke Leandros’ self-control: he kissed back, pulled Roman flush against him. Roman smelled like fire and teakwood, warm and inviting. He was soft beneath Leandros’ hands, something Leandros wouldn’t have expected just from looking at him. Leandros’ hands slid lower, pulling a quiet moan from Roman’s lips.

Clarity returned to Leandros, just like that. He pushed Roman off, ignoring the man’s surprised grunt, and scooted back until his shoulders hit the edge of the bed. He knew his face must be bright red; he could feel the warmth rushing to his cheeks.

“What are you doing?” he gasped.

Roman looked as surprised as Leandros felt. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“What I—,” Leandros paused, took a moment to process the question. All this time, had Roman thought Leandros was after this? “I want to be friends with you, Roman.”

Roman stared at him, an awkward silence stretching between them. “Friends,” Roman repeated, like it was a foreign word. Leandros realized he was embarrassed as well, and they sat there, embarrassed together, until Roman finally asked, “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course,” Leandros said. He wondered, not for the first time, what happened to Roman that made him like this, unable to accept kindness without searching for meaning behind it. Leandros knew what Roman looked like when he let that guard down. He knew Roman wasn’t naturally cold.

Roman ran a hand through his hair, accidentally pulling some of the shorter locks free of its tie. “I don’t…I mean, it’s been a while since I—since I’ve had friends.”

“I can tell,” Leandros said. He smiled to soften the words. If it helps, it’s the same for me. Helge and the others don’t count—they only tolerate me because of my status. And besides, they’re awful.”

Roman laughed, just as Leandros hoped he would. It felt like a victory. “They are.”

Another silence fell between them. Both watched the other warily, as if they might try something else world-altering. Finally, Roman said, “We can try it. Friendship.”

A laugh bubbled out of Leandros. He wasn’t sure if it was over his own embarrassment or Roman’s, but when Roman happily joined in, Leandros felt his loneliness begin to fade. Seeing Roman smile again, Leandros vowed that friendship would be enough.

Before anything else, he would always be Roman’s friend.

This chapter is truly just Leandros Nochdvor's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day followed by Leandros' Nochdvor's Actually Pleasant Flashbacks That He'll Fall Asleep Crying Over In Gareth's Tiny Guest Room

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