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Sephiran is patient. He possesses a great deal of control. He can survive terrible, horrible things. He can deal with pain.
But even he tires, and he has been in a jail cell for almost a month. His wings, bound to his back, ache. He longs for a bath not done from a basin of dirty water with a greasy grey cloth, some hot food. Gruel is most of what he has gotten, and frankly, he is genuinely surprised nobody has tried to take his head for a trophy. Certainly the Senators have come to gloat at his untimely political (and forthcoming mortal) demise. Sephiran expected his death right away, but they have used him as a verbal punching bag more than they have a literal one. But instead he has lingered on, long past when they could have had a need for him, rotting in this ugly stone cell. Waiting.
He can guess that Sanaki has escaped, but nothing else. Of course, it doesn’t really matter, now. The wheels have been set in motion, and Sephiran could remain trapped here for months, years, and Tellius would reach the same ending. It doesn’t need his guiding hand to steer the reins any more. No, the beorc and the laguz, racing one another towards their inevitable destruction, corrupt and bloodthirsty, will do that all on their own.
Sephiran supposes he should feel some kind of remorse over this. Some kind of sadness for the hundreds, thousands, millions who will die because of him. But, no—they are dying because of themselves. Because mortals are weak, and foolish, and needy, and—
There’s a thunk at the end of the hall, and Sephiran looks up from his hands, folded on his lap, sitting on the edge of his cot. He gets up and crosses the small stone cell to the grating over the front, the jail bars that keep him trapped. It’s less than ten paces, and Sephiran leans his forehead against the bars as he turns to stare down the hall. There’s another thunk, and one of the guards by his door draws his sword.
“I’ll go take a look,” he says, and gets four steps down the hallway before the thunking is explained, a figure turning the corner, dripping blood, throwing another dead corpse behind him, and—
“General,” Sephiran says, and smiles. Zelgius glances to him, briefly, nods, and strides towards the first guard. His red armor is soaked in blood, and he wields Alondite—so he has abandoned all pretense, then. But, given where things stand, it is past time they stopped playing any roles other than their own. He is panting with exertion, his chest and shoulders heaving, but he barely spares a glance for the two rank-and-file soldiers. He doesn’t even bother to size them up. He knows what they are, and what they are is dead men.
“You!” The first soldier shouts, and Zelgius ignores him, sidesteps his swipe, and grabs his wrist and snaps it. The man screams as Zelgius runs him through, but he doesn’t even blink, blood pooling and staining the stone floor. He pulls Alondite free. “How did you get in?” The man whispers as he dies, falling to the floor. Zelgius turns to the second soldier, swiping Alondite through the air, blood spattering from the blade into a long sharp arc that cuts across the wall and the floor in a line.
“How did you find us?” The second guard snarls, drawing his sword. “Help!” The soldier calls, screaming himself hoarse as he takes the offensive, trying to catch Zelgius off-guard. “He’s here!”
“Nobody is coming,” Zelgius says, shortly. Sephiran can believe it. He knows Zelgius. And Zelgius—
The second guard fares slightly better, until Zelgius, almost like a bored cat, takes his hand off at the wrist. He grabs the man by his helmet, turns, and, expression twisted in a grimace, smashes the guard’s face into the wall. Once. The man screams. Twice. A third time. Each time there’s the distinctive crunch of bone and cartilage and viscera, and when Zelgius is done, the body slides down the wall, and leaves a long bloody smear after it.
Sephiran’s throat cannot sing, but when Zelgius looks at him with those deep blue eyes, still gasping for breath, sweat matting his blue hair black and dark and plastered to his forehead, his heart rises into his throat and he could cry in joy. Oh, he is beautiful, he is perfect. “My apologies for the long wait,” Zelgius says, shaking the blood off of Alondite a second time. “Step back, please, my Lord. If you would.”
Sephiran gets out of the way. Zelgius doesn’t bother searching the bodies for keys. He just lifts his foot, grimaces, clenches his jaw, and kicks the lock on Sephiran’s cell door. Once, twice, three times, and then on the fourth the force smashes through the fine metal that has kept it locked shut, and the door flies open, bent halfway off of its hinges.
Sephiran is in Zelgius’ arms before he even gets all the way inside, flinging himself forward. “Zelgius,” he whispers, throwing his arms around the younger man’s neck. Zelgius catches him, buries his face in Sephiran’s hair, and takes a deep, shaking breath. “Are you well? Is the apostle safe?”
How strange, that now as the world is ending, Sephiran should find that he has a family to care about. How very strange.
Rather than answer him, Zelgius pulls his hand back from around Sephiran’s waist, cups the back of his neck, and kisses him. Zelgius never kisses him, not without asking first. His breach of his own self-imposed protocol and the shake in his steady fingers belies just genuinely how much stress he has been under of late, playing role upon role upon role when all he truly wants is to be at Sephiran's side. Sephiran doesn’t force him to speak—he just leans into the kiss, grabs at the short hairs at the nape of Zelgius’ neck. There is blood on his mouth, and Sephiran doesn’t care. Zelgius scrapes teeth over his lower lip, and Sephiran opens his mouth into it, moaning against the other man, trusting his General to keep him upright.
When they part for air, Zelgius presses their foreheads together, panting in exhaustion, closes his eyes, and just for a moment, lets his weakness show. Sephiran lets him, brushes his fingers over the other man’s sharp cheekbones, feels the stubble on his jawline, downier and softer than that of any beorc. Scratches the nape of his neck, and feels Zelgius’ rattling heartbeat against the pad of his thumb on his throat. Once again, Sephiran is forced to reevaluate Zelgius, to consider another piece of his endlessly-complex puzzle. A man who would cross the world for him, without hesitation.
Zelgius squeezes Sephiran’s shoulder. It sends a spike of agonizing pain down into his toes. His wings burn; he needs to get them aired. Or something.
(Sephiran knows nothing can be done for his wings now. He knows, as soon as they can, he will beg Zelgius, and the other man will press his head under the water and hold him there until his lungs fill with it and he drowns into peaceful, blissful oblivion, darkness taking him one heartbeat at a time, and Sephiran will wake, later, free of pain and curled in Zelgius’ arms, and he will listen to Zelgius’ heartbeat as he cries, begging forgiveness for doing what Sephiran has only ever asked, never ordered.)
When Zelgius has regained control of his breathing, he takes a few, shaky quick breaths, and finally lets Sephiran go. He is clearly loathe to do it, and Sephiran keeps his fingers pressed to the vulnerable hollow of his wrist, under the weight of his plate armor.
“She fled to Crimea,” Zelgius says, at last. “Then exposed the Senate’s plots to the world.” Sephiran grins, all teeth. Good. Oh, good. His perfect, ruthless little girl. “Currently, she leads the Apostle’s army through Daein and is preparing to storm the Empire.” Sanaki will come back in triumph and glory. Oh, she has always been the best of him.
“I see.” Sephiran finally lets go of Zelgius’ wrist, brushes the back of his hand over the side of the other man’s face, and Zelgius leans into the touch, shuts his eyes for a moment, breathes. “Did you run all the way from Crimea?” He asks, voice low. “You look exhausted.”
“Warp powder,” Zelgius admits. It pains him terribly to use it, especially a great deal all at once, and the toll it is taking on him is unmissable. He has been all over Tellius, these past few months. His skin is pale and sallow, and it is not just from this last rush. Sephiran has begun to worry about what it will do to him in fifty or a hundred years—could Zelgius be burning through precious years of his life, doing as Sephiran has asked?
It's too late for thoughts like that now.
“But yes. Getting in here was not easy. I am afraid,” and here Zelgius gives Sephiran a wry smile, opens one eye a crack, “That I may have left rather a great deal more bodies in my wake than was strictly necessary to find you.” Sephiran cannot blame him. He loves him.
“Of course,” he agrees. “And only right that you should. But, you must rest. As must I. We are running out of time, and what is yet to come will be taxing on us both. It is time for us to make our move.”
Zelgius catches Sephiran’s hand in his own when he pulls away, tugs Sephiran back, and kisses first his knuckles—then, the centre of his palm, and then the hollow of his wrist, over his tendons, and Zelgius lingers there, his eyes closed, breathing the scent of Sephiran's skin, even after a month in gaol, like it is the nectar of home. “As you wish,” he whispers, and what Sephiran hears is I love you, “My Master.”