“He’s in a bad way,” Srin murmured, guiding Mulin through the corridors. “All of us have guilt to wrestle with – it just seems so… so foolish, the things we so easily accepted as true. But none of us actually tried to do you true harm.” He shook his head. “Vhish had to put him to sleep, even before… before we were freed. That… thing… thought he’d be mad with guilt and try to get in the way; I think Vhish thought he’d do himself a harm.”

Mulin thought of that time by the fire in Mar Drerrasett, of those Sharliss had spoken of casting themselves from the cliffs in guilt and grief. He thought of how he’d have felt, if he’d had to fight Liri, if he’d done any of his companions injury, and rather fancied he could understand that horrible impulse now. He sighed. “Some things, just one death is too little to remedy,” he half-growled.

The Nightkin squeezed his shoulder. “Have a care for yourself, Mulin,” he breathed. “I’ve grown rather fond of your gentle self. Please… please don’t lose sight of that.”

He was right, of course. Mulin sighed again. “I know. I shouldn’t take pleasure in someone being dead, not when there’s been so much senseless death already.” He didn’t say, and didn’t really need to, that one being in this mess had truly deserved to die; and at least that one hadn’t escaped the butcher’s bill.

Now, though…

He stared at the door. He remembered passing it, remembered the excitement he’d felt. Remembered the horrible, sick feeling that had come after.

Srin drew a breath, as though to speak, but only shook his head.

“He’s a good man. I haven’t forgotten that, of all things,” Mulin assured him, touching his cheek.

The Nightkin answered the gesture in kind. “You’re better than any of us deserve, Mulin,” he sighed. “I don’t think I’ve known anyone with such a great heart.” And then he slipped away, leaving Mulin momentarily alone.

He took a deep breath, and eased the door open.

It was dark beyond; only the torchlight from the hall gave shape to the room. He slid through the door, hanging a small stone in its metal cage from the empty wall sconce; even as the door swung shut, he let a trickle of mana flow into the stone, making it kindle with blue-white light.

Through it all, Hark did not move; he lay on his side on the bed, curled up like a hatchling still in the egg, wings wrapped around himself, head and tail tucked under them. He twitched when Mulin touched his shoulder, curling tighter still.

“It’s me, Hark,” Mulin breathed. “I’m fine; it’s over, we won.”

“Through no doing of mine,” the Stonekin spat, such that Mulin couldn’t help but shiver from the intense self-loathing.

“Hark, that wasn’t you,” Mulin crooned, easing his fingers in to stroke the smooth curve of the fighter’s horn. “You got me here; when we were surrounded by foes, you fought like a demon to keep them from stopping us. You were strong; when I faltered, you were there, pressing on, giving me a precious example to follow.”

Hark lifted his head clear of his wings, but only to stare at the wall. “And then I took up that damnable knife and tried to end it all.”

“That wasn’t you,” Mulin repeated, but suddenly Hark twisted, gripping his shoulders, staring up at him with pain-stricken eyes.

“Yes it was,” he choked. “I remember. I remember… knowing that I had to stop you. And I couldn’t, not without… I just wanted to give you one final pleasure, to… to end it without pain, but…”

“Hush.” Mulin didn’t quite dare kiss him; he didn’t know if it’d just make the grief worse. Instead he gripped Hark’s shoulders in turn, bending down to touch horns with him. “Those thoughts were put in your head, Hark. They weren’t yours, no matter that they were going through your mind. The thoughts that were yours wanted me to be happy; that I can trust.”

The big fighter’s snout nudged under his chin. “How do you do it?” Hark sighed over his throat. “How can you just… just set aside something like this?”

“Because I know it wasn’t you,” Mulin repeated. “The one who did that to you is dead, Hark, by my hand. And when it happened, another of his thralls was there – I was furious at the moment, but even so, I could see the look in his eyes as his will returned to him. I may not have felt it myself,” he shook his head slightly, “but I have some appreciation for just how much that abomination could warp someone’s thoughts, and make even the outlandish seem sensible.”

“Outlandish. What a curious way of putting it,” sighed Hark. Abruptly, though, he shifted his hand, gliding his fingers along Mulin’s collarbone, squeezing around his arm. “…Odd. You seem… different.”

At least he was coming out of his shell enough to notice; Mulin took that as a good sign. “I had to copy my twin. Melding with a mana flow was a fair bit harder than shifting through stone at rest.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Wait… you didn’t sound as though you were speaking without knowledge, there.”

So he explained his stratagems, and Hark became still more alert, listening. Finally he sighed. “You truly are remarkable. I don’t know what I did to catch your eye…”

“You were yourself,” Mulin answered when he trailed off. “You were strong when I was faltering – and I could use that strength still. Liri is dead, Hark; the Siurrah, the one who clouded your thoughts, killed her.”

“Liri? Dead? Oh, storm and fire…” His eyes squeezed shut in pain of his own; but his wings finally unfurled, gathering instead around Mulin, drawing the younger male in close. They held each other tight, and finally Mulin’s grief ran free, the horrible ache of it wrenching at his heart as he trembled in Hark’s embrace.

How long they clung to each other, he couldn’t say; Hark, taken by his own fresh grief, was certainly in no hurry to push him away. He was the first to speak, though, his voice wistful and sad: “I envied you for her. I was fond of her; she was a good friend to me, a dear lover. If she’d been born in my generation, I think I might have courted her. As it was…” He sighed, stroking along the leading bone of Mulin’s right wing. “I still might have, except that I knew her heart was yours. And I envied her for that, too.”

“If only I’d known.” Mulin swallowed. “I’d have been so happy to be with you both, together or apart. But it was your strength I admired, when I felt so weak…”

“You’ve never been weak.” Hark shook his head. “If you’ve faltered, it’s only because of the great burdens you’ve needed to bear. But you don’t need to bear this one alone, Mulin.”

That was certainly true. And this was something he couldn’t share with his twin; Kralin had liked Liri well enough, and got along with her, but he hadn’t loved her, not nearly the same way. He hadn’t been so close to her; Hark had, at least almost so.

Now she was gone, and that would hurt; but they could at least have each other.

It took some coaxing from his fingers, but Hark was willing, and soon his body was ready to continue as they’d been before that gruesome interruption; this time, the Stonekin stayed on his back with Mulin facing him, and they finally eased together.

It felt… right. Oh, Hark was a stretch to take, no doubt there; that golden length was every bit as big as he’d thought before. But it felt as though they were completing something that had been waiting to happen. Something started but never finished.

Neither of them made much effort to further the pleasure once they were together; though Mulin’s own length was pressed tight between them, he wasn’t worried about tending to it. It was… rather like his last time with Liri, really; more about closeness, togetherness, than any physical sensation. He just splayed his hands over Hark’s broad chest, and listened to the beat of his heart, with the big male’s arms and wings curled around him. At least half an hour they rested together in gentle bliss; finally, with the Stonekin’s hands stroking his sides, he drifted off to sleep, for the first time in days.