Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sea is restless today.

Icy waves lick relentlessly over impassive, mossy stones and as they are thrown around by the ever-shifting current, the small pebbles thrum a never changing rhythm.

Something akin to a heart beat.

But he doesn't listen to it any more, has closed his ears off against waves and wind, ravens and rain – the voices they carry only taunt his dwindling soul.

Thus he simply sits and waits.

What for, he only remembers in dreams, when warmth caresses his skin and a second pulse beats steadily against his own. He always wakes with a strange pressure behind his lids and somehow drops of the ever present sea-water around him seem to have found a way onto his cheeks. He deems this mildly peculiar, but doesn't dwell on it, for the thought quickly dissolves in the salty air that presses against his body.

The concept of tears has been lost on him long ago.

And besides: a lot of strange things occur on this island.

The sea is restless today.

And it has been restless the day before.

Two meaningless nights ago he'd woken to the sound of wood groaning and men screaming, and as he'd darted to the grey, forgotten shore, there'd been a ship in the gruesome grasp of the crashing waves that cut the forsaken land off from the world.

The waters seemed hungry that night, had stamped and screeched as they reached for the boat and the hopes and hearts it carried.

The planks moaned under the strain, splintered and burst, as wave upon wave licked at them, until suddenly a thunder bolt split the sky and the ship was gone.

A chorus of cries arose from the open waters; life-lights refusing to wane, hearts not yet willing to still, and thus the doomed ones yelled for help and swam; clung to lumber and prayed.

The voices faded one by one and in the morning the colourless, bled out beach had been littered with bloodied flotsam; some still shivering in the cold clasp of eternity, some even wandering around – but their eyes were already broken, flesh and limbs devoid of soul yet still struggling on. Where to? What for?

Questions like these soon cease to exist beneath the endless grey sky and the salt that starts nesting in their hair.

Another round of hollows to roam the decaying grounds that even the gods have forsaken.

Now, after two dull sunrises, almost all of the staggering, swaying creatures have ventured from the shivering shore, have disappeared in the all-encompassing mist, to carry on with a quest that might have never been theirs to begin with.

He doesn't mind them, and the blank-eyed figures don't spare him a second glance, for he is a part of the island; as trapped and lost and forgotten as they are, so they have no use for him.

As far as he knows, no one ever has.

Sometimes he likes to think, that he'd once had a quest of his own, a reason to draw breath, a small flame flickering in his chest.

Sometimes he dreams about a ship and a princess and then he almost remembers why he'd ended up here and if his existence ever had meaning.

Maybe whoever's heart beat was ghosting through his dreams might have given him purpose, but then again: what does it matter now?

He lets his eyes stray aimlessly over the sea, knees drawn to his chest, and simply looks out. What for he doesn't know, but an inner voice had called him here ever since the ship sank, and he'd learned quickly to listen to its orders – it had kept him alive so far.

But today as well, nothing unusual meets his tired eyes – only shells littering the shore.

Those of clamps and those of men; a washed up pot-pourri of all the things empty and cast away.

All those things useless and unwanted. Just like himself.

He shakes his head wearily, looks out at the ocean again, when he sees a small speck of colour being carried by the waves.

It's a deep, rich red; the colour of royalty, valour, blood and heart, and after a moment he can define it as the robes of a figure clinging to a log of wood, as it gets flung this way and that by the currents.

With bored eyes he watches the form getting thrown against the sharp, rough rocks that make up the shore-line, and for a second he thinks he can make out wet strands of deep black clinging to pale, pale skin, before the motionless form hits the beach hard.

As he'd expected, it doesn't move; robes floating in the shallow waters, but he's sure that soon enough it will start twitching in undeath.

And indeed, after watching it lie for half an hour, the stiff, battered limbs of the creature start stirring and it starts coughing violently, as it spits water and foam.

Something has him snap out of his bleak revery at the sound and before he knows it, he finds himself already running down the slick steps to the beach.

The hollow vessels never coughed. Why would they? They had no need for breath.

So this hooded, drenched and drowned form hacking miserably on the cold, uncaring shore was yet to die for the first time; was still drawing breath and it was fighting for its life with a vehemence that made something deep in his heart spark.

He staggers over mossy, salt-caked pebbles, even slips a few times and sharp shards break his skin, but he hurries on; suddenly afraid he'll find the figure lifeless and cold and his mind gone a bit further, but when he finally falls to his knees next to the wheezing thing, he can tell, that it is alive.

He reaches for a quivering shoulder and rolls the curious piece of flotsam on its back, thus revealing that it is a man in his twenties, who's gasping for air with wet, gurgling noises flowing over his blueish, panting lips, while wide, clouded eyes search for something familiar to cling to.

He stalls dead in his tracks when locking gaze with the other, for he remembers eyes of this specific colour – a deep, intriguing red – even if the where and when is lost in the nothingness veiling the realm of ceaselessly whispering salt.

But the silent contact only lasts a second, for the heavy, dark lids, fluttering like tiny, black birds, slide shut and the stranger's body goes limp; stuttering breath dying on his parted lips.

He'd seen a handful of nameless men and women whisper their last words into the stale, leaden air of the forgotten shore, some of them clinging to his hands, some of them refusing to let their eyes stray from his face until they finally broke and it had never meant anything to him.

He'd seen the light leave their eyes and heart beats still beneath his fingers, but by the time the first living thing from the outside-world had found its way onto the land beyond the veil of mist, he'd already been too far gone to bring himself to care.

But today every last little voice inside of his head and heart – they're many by now, and they've never agreed on anything – urges him to 'Not let this man die!'

It seems as if something hidden deep down his very core is humming and buzzing erraticly; the sensation alien in its vehemence after such a long plain time of nothingness- and it's only with delay that he can name the emotions welling up in his guts:

It's fear and concern, but also gratitude and... something too soft and warm to belong to a place like this.

The fear, however, is a thing he knows; a thing he recognizes and it's the only one he can actually do something about.

With firm hands he compresses the silent, unmoving chest again and again, until the stranger coughs up an enormous gush of water and opens his eyes once again.

He's blinking rapidly, a soft whine leaving his cracked lips, as he desperately tries to make out his surroundings; confused, frightened and dim, before his darting gaze finds the face hovering above him and the wine-red eyes lighten up in disbelieve while the forcefully restored breath is snatched away once again.

A trembling hand – weak, so incredibly weak, and yet oh so very determined – reaches out to cradle the other's cheek.

The motion is incredulous, almost as if he was certain that the bubble would burst and he'd find himself alone at the salt-covered shore, but the sudden warmth of skin on skin tells both of them that this was as real as anything could get, here in the realm of wraiths and waves.

The stranger still looks at his face; awestruck and unmoving, before he whispers hoarsely:

“Sting?” and his voice is as small and broken as his body; a raw, brittle sound that seems so insignificant as the wind attempts to scatter it in the endless skies.

And yet, the small negligible syllable that is almost drowned by the ceaseless pulse of the shoreline causes something in his heart of hearts to click back into place.

Meaningless and profane as it might be, the short, slurred noise is the stranger's unimaginably precious gift.

It is his name.

And with this realisation the grey veil of oblivion that had clouded his mind for god knows how long thins and rips – it doesn't lift, nor does it dissolve, but there are some holes where only white noise used to dwell and it conjures a handful of memories.

Memories of warm red eyes, an afternoon bathed in golden sun, a dragon made of the fairest light, a strange sensation of belonging and affection – and a name.

So he grabs the shivering, lifeless fingers as gently as he still can, before breathing a tuneless, choked:

“Rogue?”

The stranger's eyes glow like embers when the faintest of smiles grazes his features, the sight unsettling and wrong, what with the still ashen hue of his skin and the purplish, bloody lips, but Sting sees beyond it.

Takes in the open, overwhelming gentleness in his gaze and simply squeezes his hand, unable to speak, unable to feel or think or touch.

The man, however, only coughs:

“I finally found you!”

Before unconsciousness claims him and his head sinks limply against Sting's hands, soft puffs of air warming his palms.

And even though his flesh is bruised and beaten, the tiny, tired smile clings adamantly to his lips and something inside of Sting's chest comes back to life.

Chapter Text

That night Sting dreams once again of warmth and steady breaths wafting over his touch-starved skin and for once the shivers coursing through his body don't stem from the unforgiving cold, but from a strong sensation of completion, affection and trust.

The reminiscence of soft lips trailing over his benumbed face with abandon is still etched into his flesh, while the mere imagination of someone actually reaching out for him, someone willing to caress a filthy piece of cast-away motley such as himself feels alien and wasteful.

And yet he clings to the fading illusion, holds on to the waning dream, until even the last little threads have slipped through his fingers and he is once again left with nothing more but the cold isolation made up from salt-heavy winds and never resting waves.

But tonight the sensation of closeness doesn't wane once that he's woken...

Tonight the feeling of an all-encompassing completion and safety is accompanied by soft puffs of air that ghost over his chilled skin; and the distant heartbeat that had been thrumming against his chest is still there; a steady thud-thump counterbalancing the ceaseless stomping of the sea outside.

For a second he's certain, that finally one of the far-away gods that had turned their backs on the island - forgotten at the edge of this cursed world - has listened to his mirthless, cruel prayers and made his heart stop its fruitless endeavours in his sleep...

And thus he desperately hopes for the the dark womb of intimate, overwhelming gentleness to be, indeed, the afterlife.

That is, before something akin to a raven-feather tickles his cheek and his flickering gaze finds a mop of pitch-back hair nestled against his shoulder.

The stranger – no, he stops himself- no stranger... Rogue...

Someone dear and familiar, someone who had actually ventured out to search for him, someone who had given him back his name and a purpose to draw breath...

Rogue lies curled up against his chest; must have moved closer at some point during the night; maybe in an unconscious pursuit of warmth or maybe because his body remembers something Sting's mind and flesh have long forgotten.

The dark haired man is still unconscious, hasn't woken for hours and his exhausted, hypothermic figure shivers miserably in the draughty cave that Sting calls his sanctuary.

And even though Rogue's laboured breathing had eased and the bleeding cuts littering his flesh had knitted back together, the moment Devara's divine water had trickled past his cracked lips; he is still more dead than alive.

All the while the merciless, icy winds and wraiths of the island keep reaching for the dim, stuttering flame with cold, relentless fingers...

Pressed up against him as he sleeps, Rogue's features seem unstrung, peaceful and so very vulnerable, that something nameless stirs deep down Sting's heart.

Without even thinking, he wraps his arms around the shivering form, and when he almost wants to marvel at how neatly the other's body fit against his chest, a violent flashback races throughout his being, leaving him with tingling lips and the bone-deep sensation of finally coming home etched into his very core.

He presses a small, gentle, probing kiss to the pitch black strands, fastening his hold, while he starts rubbing Rogue's arms fiercely.

But then, however, a small, choked whisper tumbles over the parchment-dry, cracked lips:

“Cold...” and suddenly the shaking body in his arms goes limp; too exhausted to keep on shivering, too weak to stay warm; all the while the pale forehead pressed up against Sting's neck seems to burn up with fever.

Realisation hits him like a rock...

If he didn't find means to keep the broken, lifeless figure warm, he would lose him, as quickly and volatile, as fate had flung him back into his life.

And even without really knowing what exactly this thrumming, albeit invisible, alluring and intimidatingly powerful bond was, that unmistakably tied them together, he jumps to his feet in sudden urgency; despair heavy in his veins and concern grinding deep down in his guts.

He stokes the fire using the last logs he has left - results of tedious, demanding work, where he'd haul every wooden piece of flotsam he could lay his hands on back up the steep, slippery shore, to have it dry in a world of constant mist and rain – and carefully drapes the only thin blanket he calls his own, around Rogue's limp body.

Then he grabs a pouch stuffed to the brim with a random assortment of supplies and what meagre amount of currency he'd managed to loot, before attaching a razor-sharp dagger and a couple of bright red vials, to his waist.

Thusly prepared he heads out into the darkness, urged on by the unbearable need to safe the shivering, flickering life-light back in the sanctuary and with it the last remaining embers of his humanity.

The night curls around him, greedy and eager like a lover, and he melts into its embrace, as he moves with swift, soundless steps, almost a shadow himself, and even though the thought seems oddly wrong to him, he can't shake the feeling of familiarity, as if he'd been shielded by blackness before; once – at a time beyond the veil of oblivion.

There's no moon to lighten his path and in the salt-heavy air hangs a foul stench of moulder and decay, while the steep slope leading away from the shore, towards the withering ruins of a once proud fort seems to be crawling with hollows.

In the pitch black nothingness they're little more than slow, staggering shades, but almost all of them still cling to the blades their hands had wielded, once upon a time, when their flesh had still been warm and thrumming with life.

Now the only thing that courses through their veins is a mindless hunger for hot, salty blood and the urge to protect something that had never even been theirs to begin with.

The creatures usually don't bother with the few living inhabitants of the island; maybe because their beating hearts are almost as dead and tired as the cold, still lumps of rotting flesh hanging in their own ragged rib-cages; but right now Sting isn't only an impassive onlooker, a silent form awaiting the day his body would finally give up struggling and turn to salt.

Tonight, Sting is an intruder in their territory, a predator, driven by a solid purpose and a strong will to live, so his stubbornly thundering pulse seems to lure them in like moths drawn to a flame.

And even though they're many, some heavily armoured, some logging great-swords and battle-axes around, they all fall prey to the small, silvery dagger – its deadly glitter the last thing broken eyes would ever see in their accursed, hollow, not-quite-life, before eternity finally claimed their soulless flesh and death could reap whatever paltry remains had wandered the god-forsaken grounds at the end of the world.

Sting moves through the darkness determined and swift, mindful not to lose his path, for the thick mists could be deceiving;

could lead a careless wanderer to a cliff shrouded in fog or into the fangs of a creature much more dangerous and vile than the pathetic, stumbling undead flotsam loitering the beach.

But he's got to find her.

Of course he's not the only living thing stuck and forgotten in the realm of whispering salt

- there are other's strewn randomly all over the island – each of them crooked and distorted by their fate and the odd powers ruling this lands, and even though most of them aren't specifically hostile against one another, for some reason all of them rather keep to themselves, only help one another out, when something is to gain from the deal.

The withered hag he is currently looking for is one of the oldest prisoners of the isle, and even though her mouth is toothless save for one black stump, her skin wrinkled and discoloured and her hair thinned out, she adamantly claims to be a princess, who had once been sent off by her father to marry a foreign emperor to form an alliance and finally bring peace to their war-ridden lands.

But a storm had seized the ship and she woke between corpses on a beach shrouded in mist.

Sting doesn't know if the story is true, but what does it matter, anyway?

For her this is the life she'd been ripped away from, the memories still left, and he couldn't care less about royalty, origin and birth...

The only thing that matters right now, is that the crazy old witch keeps a flock of sheep, and therefore has woollen blankets and clothing for sale.

It would cost him dearly, he's well aware of that, for not only does Granny demand to be addressed and treated as royalty, she also has the hang of throwing people out of her shag quite volatile and violently, thus he is already prepared to sweet-talk and flatter her as much as he's still capable of.

Still...

She really takes an arm and a leg... And all the cajoling doesn't help shit, for the damn hag is a cunning, clever thing and she can smell fear and despair from a mile.

One look at Sting's face is all that it takes for her to know, that she could name just about any price for the thick, sufficiently soft blankets and he'd pay up, for he's impatient and concerned and more agitated than any other visitor in her poor hut has ever been.

And yet...

Even though she's taken a hefty bite out of his supplies, has gone for the direly concocted health potions, wound dressings and remedies he'd scraped together or crafted himself from scrap, he couldn't be more thankful for the warm fabric now weighing comfortingly heavy on his shoulders.

He'd headed back into the night without a single word of good-bye, and by the time he'd set foot outside of her door, the crone had already turned back to gobbling down her bland, tasteless dinner.

So he wanders the night again, but this time his haste makes him reckless.

This time the scurrying in the darkness doesn't stem from one of the mindless shells wandering the lands, this time the sound of footsteps is accompanied by the ominous clanging of heavy armour and a humongous weapon scraping over the ground.

Sting only recognizes the approaching threat for what it is, when it is almost too late; namely when a ray of starlight suddenly sparks angry red in the blackness beyond, as it meets a polished copper breast plate and the deadly blade of a pike-axe that comes crushing down.

It's only his quick reflexes, that save him in the very last moment from a fatal blow, but the tip still grazes his shoulder and salty, hot blood starts trickling down his arm.

The silhouette slowly emerging from the shadows is humongous, to say the least, and the meagre light from the wide, impassive heavens paints sharp, unforgiving contours onto heavy, brazen plates covering the stomping form from head to toe.

Sting's luck seems to have run out...

He should have known, that whatever sadistic, cruel entity was to rule over this godforsaken rock of unholiness and undeath, wouldn't allow him to intrude into his tainted darkness unpunished, let alone for vain reasons such as compassion and love.

Love...

Sting would never remember that in this second he'd called the desperation rising in his chest, the ache, the longing, the unfamiliar, almost eradicated warmth just that; but it is nothing but the truth. Right at this very moment, it is nothing but raging, unrivalled love, that drives him... and this is a feeling the disembodied Master of the island just would not permit.

Thus it had send one of the countless champions at its disposal...

The mindless remains of a once proud knight, now forever trapped inside of his ever walking, ever killing suit of brazen armour...

An armour that had probably dragged him to his watery grave, only to rise from the floods again when wicked, warped magic breathed second life into the cold, impassive metal, to have it at its utter will and command; while the decaying flesh of a once virtuous man was forever entombed within the mindless cage of soulless steel.

Sting had only crossed paths and blades with one of those Bronze Knights once and the encounter had left him with a rough, purplish scar running all across his chest and the almost too realistic sensation of his heartbeat stilling and his body crumbling to dust.

He'd woken in the sanctuary with his wounds dressed and almost healed up, but without a recollection of how, exactly, he'd gotten there.

While - unbeknownst and unnoticed - another part of the memories of his previous life had been snuffed out...

So, knowing fully well, that his puny dagger was no match against an almost impenetrable suit of walking plate armour, he immediately tries to make use of the one advantage he has in this unfair fight...

He darts past the creature with unpredictable agility and speed, a quick roll manoeuvring him out of the reach of the deadly pike, and he's already breathing an inaudible sigh of relief, when suddenly something crushes his shin with a never-known force.

The blonde crashes into the ground hard, black dots dancing in front of his eyes, and the white-hot pain that sears through his leg is sheer unbearable.

The only thing that he manages, is to hoist himself up to stand on unstable, shaking limbs, as he leans heavily against a crumbling wall and watches his oncoming doom with wide, darting eyes.

In this very moment of seemingly endless, mind-robbing fear, a burning, consuming will and need to survive ignites in his blood, surges through his veins and sings in his ears, while a veil of deep, intriguing red descended onto his vision.

And after that everything happens if a flash...

Sting's fumbling fingers find the rough earthen pot fastened to his belt in the same second the heavily stomping figure emerges from the shadows and when he pours the thick, oily liquid onto his dagger, flames erupt around the blade in an all-encompassing, passionate halo of righteous, burning anger.

It's the only chance he has left.

He is well aware, that he can't run any more, what with the splinters of his shin-bone breaking through his skin in cascades of heart-blood and pain, but he also knows, that a weak, flickering candle back at the sanctuary needs him to return, needs him to survive.

He wouldn't have cared, had it not been this very special soul; but feeling Rogue's heart beat against his chest had awakened something, he'd long since deemed dead and buried.

And now, that his own heart had become so much more than a simple muscle pumping blood through his veins, he realizes, that this man must have been the most precious, most beloved thing he had ever called his own in this mist-covered, stolen life beyond the shores of salt.

So, when he can already see the nauseatingly beautiful glistering of the halberd's blade as it rushes towards his head, he flings the vessel with the remaining oil right at his pursuer's head, allowing a small film to build around the hollow, empty slivers it has for eyes, before he pushes himself off the wall with every ounce of strength he has left in his not-injured leg, and drives the flaring blade right into the opening.

The knight shakes him off easily, and when he gets flung against a massive tree, he almost feels his mind fleeing into the black abyss of unconsciousness from the raging, red searing pain that runs through his leg, but then he feels the vibration of something heavy hitting the ground hard traversing throughout his body.

In the next moment, the heavy knight had sunken down to his knee; hands clutching the crown-adorned helmet, as keen, greedy flames wrap around it, and it screeches in agony.

Still down on the cold, uncaring floor, Sting realizes, that this was going to be the only opening, Devara would grant him, so despite the sickening crunch and the bone-deep agony shooting throughout his whole being, he still launches himself forward and buries his dagger once again in the armour's first crack he could get to, only to be thrown off once again.

And this time his head connects forcefully with a crude wall, leaving him with ringing ears and darkness descending upon his broken form.

At least I got to see him once more...

That's the last conscious thought running through his head like the dying spark of a bonfire.

Then there's nothing and Sting lets go.

Chapter Text

Sting claws his way out of the oppressive, suffocating darkness surrounding him, and the world almost immediately explodes into searing hot, merciless agony.

Every last fibre of his beaten body seems to be on fire, while his leg is barely more than a throbbing, bloody pulp made of raw flesh and splintered bone, and the sharp twinge coursing through the mauled limb very nearly sends him back into the pitch black void of unconsciousness.

Then, however, he remembers Rogue’s heart-beat fluttering against his chest, Rogue’s feverish forehead pressed up against his neck, Rogue’s weak body shivering in his arms… And all the excruciating, unforgiving pain suddenly gives way to a mind-robbing, all-encompassing fear.

He can’t tell for how long he’d been out cold, but the moon hangs concerningly low and ominously crimson in the night-sky; its dying light bleeding out over the fog-shrouded landscape in cascades of scarlet and black, while a stinging scent of copper and decay stabs his nose with metallic, lifeless cold.

For a short-lived moment of unaltered panic his head snaps up and his dazed eyes dart around, certain to find the Bronze Knight looming over him, the razor-sharp edge of his great-sword the last thing he’d ever see in this accursed, hopeless life of his, but where the creature had sunken to its knees only a copious pile of a fine-grained, white powder remains.

Stings eyes widen at once and his mouth goes dry with anticipation….

If he was to offer this much salt at the altar of Devara’s sanctuary, he’s almost certain, it would be enough to heal both him and Rogue completely, so he scrambles closer arduously to shove the unexpected loot into a well-hidden leather satchel attached to the inner seem of his vest.

He’s already turning away – the pouch now hanging comfortingly heavy from his belt – as a wayward ray of starlight gets caught on shiny metal and when Sting reaches for the small glittering object, his searching fingers retrieve a ring adorned with a crudely cut triangular rune.

Even though it feels cold to the touch and dew covers its surface, there’s an undeniably curious energy humming through the thin silver band, and as soon as it has slipped over Sting’s finger the pain in his leg lessens just enough for him to stagger to his feet.

He downs one of the red vials fastened at his hip – the bitter, coppery taste making him shudder – before tying two straight, sturdy sticks to his injured shin as a makeshift splint.

“Hang in there, Rogue… I’m coming…” he mumbles with a sharp hiss of pain upon putting weight onto the broken limb, but all the agony in this world couldn’t match the despair and ache of losing is other half – once again and this time for good. So Sting bites down onto his lip hard and limps on, even though there are stars dancing in front of his eyes, even though he has to stop twice to throw up.

Forward.

Keep going.

He needs you.

Don’t stop.

Sting finally slips through the concealed entrance of his sanctuary and the nearly completely burned down fire confirms that he has been away for much longer than he’d ever anticipated; thus the sudden onslaught of concern and fear immediately steals his breath.

At once he’s thankful that he had the prudence of collecting some firewood on his painstakingly slow way back but right now the fire is the last thing he could care about, for as he reaches out to stoke the dying embers, his hand brushes Rogue’s fingers and the impassive chill carelessly biting his skin has his heart-beat start in panic.

“Rogue?” he whispers quietly, reaches out for his throat with shaking fingers, as he prays for the obvious to be a lie.

But then his quivering fingertips graze the lifeless, pale flesh of Rogue’s neck and they’re met with nothing but stone-cold silence, while his own pulse rages in his ears in a maddening crescendo of:

“Too late! Too late! Too late! Too late!”

A broken, strangled sob leaves his lips then; an elegy for something dear and precious now forever lost and when he pulls Rogue’s unmoving, empty form close, the coldness of his sallow skin seeps right into his very core.

“No… no….” he whispers against the rapidly cooling brow, his voice hoarse and raw with unshed tears, and the sheer unbearable grief eats away at his very heart with ceaseless, precise incisions.

Suddenly all dams are breaking as he cries out in anguish, the still body of the man he used to love clutched to his chest as he laments their cruel fate, all the smiles they would never get the chance to share, the arguments they were never going to have – the future so viciously stolen from them, as Rogue’s life had trickled out of his beautiful heart on a forgotten, cursed island at the end of the world.

He’d died all alone; hurting, freezing, scared- and Sting hadn’t even been by his side as he’d breathed his last breath.

And only the restless winds and waves had guided his soul into to the uncharted territory beyond his reach, leaving behind nothing more than another empty shell of flesh and bone to litter the unholy grounds.

Bile rises in the blonde’s throat as he realizes, that any moment now Rogue’s abandoned form might start stirring in undeath; the once strong, caring and beautiful lively man he’d fallen for reduced to a will-less, staggering hollow, with his gemstone-like eyes broken and dull and neither mind nor memory to call his own.

With horror tightening his chest Sting wonders if he had it in him to drive his sharp, keen dagger right through Rogue’s unmoving heart to deliver him from this accursed state of eternal unrest or if he’d just watch him stumble into the darkness, as his own heart turned to salt.

Would he be able to endure crossing paths with the ever-wandering ghost of his beloved again and again until his mind had withered away and he’d finally given in to the voices calling out to him at the highest point of the cliffs?

Or would he fall prey to Rogue’s slender, quick katana himself, taking the sight of cold, emotionless eyes with him into eternal sleep?

He could imagine worse fates than dying by his lovers hands; but not here.

Not like this. Not when it comes down to either kill or being killed himself.

The realisation brings painfully hot tears to his eyes.

Tears that fall onto milk white, marble still cheeks; but it is only when he presses a last lingering kiss to the unresponsive, blueish lips that their gruesome chill makes him fully understand what exactly it is, that he'd lost.

The raw wail suddenly ripping itself free from his tender throat is a lacrimosa yelled out in unaltered agony and bereavement; a sound so broken, so hurt and accusing, even the gods that had left this isle long, long ago, must have heard it.

Sting’s whole body is on fire; the heart-ache too much to bear after this long years of impassive numbness, and now the grief is racing through his form like an unholy venom; burns him from the inside, as it swallows him whole, and when the heat, the agony, the pressure threatening to rip him apart get almost too intense to withstand any longer, a piercing scream rings throughout the thick, claiming blackness of the cave and a bright, dazzling light of the purest white erupts around him; the pristine shine engulfing both him and Rogue’s still body cradled in his arms.

The sensation is unfittingly soft and soothing, a sweet pulsating warmth flowing throughout his whole form like a gentle summer wind and all at once he feels the pain subsiding.

The frost leaves his bones and his harsh sobs die down until only silent tears fall from his closed eyes, while the fair light embraces them like sunlight in May.

For a moment he wants nothing more than to just fade into this light, leave the hideous, cruel lands that took his beloved from him and follow Rogue into the endless night beyond, but somehow the radiant shine seems to brim with life and won’t allow it.

So he sits in silent shock, his face buried in the shimmering obsidian-black strands, and chokes a wordless, desperate farewell against Rogue’s temple.

The soft light he still feels whirling around them starts taunting him mercilessly all at once, for its warmth has the bloodless skin beneath his lips appear vivid and inviting, and he curses Devara for her cruelty, her scorn, wants to yell his despise into her sanctuary and defile it, when suddenly…

Suddenly the dazzling nimbus is gone without a trace.

Not even a faint afterglow remains and the air becomes heavy with harsh, biting frost once again; the small token of comfort abruptly snatched away by the mirthless, vengeful Master of the island, as it couldn’t allow such an unearthly beautiful tribute to life and love.

But there has been a certain something Sting has sensed in the silvery shower of purest energy, something achingly familiar that has called out to him in a tongue older than time, and now a small, muted voice; buried beneath the aloof linens of forgetfulness; is whispering a prayer in his heart of hearts that his numb lips can’t help but repeat.

His voice rings through the silence all foreign and broken, while a string of words tumbles from his mouth he has no recollection of ever hearing before.

He still mutters them with the reverence of a true believer, lays all his longing, all the grief and heart-ache into each and every syllable of his remorseful elegy - but the thick nothingness still closes in on him - relentlessly and with a silent mock.

So he clutches his already piously folded hands together ever harder, revels in the stinging sensation of his nails carving bloody crescent moons into his flesh, and he’d almost given in to the sudden irresistible need to fist into the red glowing remains of the bonfire to extinguish the agonizing throbbing in his chest. But then an inaudible, gentle voice holds him back…

All at once he finds one tiny spark dancing happily and bright around him- a tiny reminiscence of the dazzling supernova enclosing them earlier- and it swirls playfully around his head, tickles the nape of his neck carefully, before coming to a halt right in front of his eyes; obviously eager to attract his attention.

So when sky blue eyes widen in heart-broken disbelief and reflect its airy shine, the little firefly goes completely still, before it buzzes a last time in determination and then sinks down slowly.

Sting watches it almost mesmerized; his mind suddenly blank and dazed; as it descends directly towards Rogue’s head, the light casting deep shadows over his face.

After what seems like hours played out in the stark interlude of impending blackness and waning light, it touches his brow gently.

Then it vanishes abruptly with a last burst of dazzling radiance that illuminates his features and – for a fleeting moment – has him appear more bright and beautiful than ever, as it tinges his cheeks with a soft, lively blush.

            After that it’s gone without a trace and the spell is broken, so Sting lets his lips graze his lover’s forehead one last time, his hand already reaching for the sheath of his dagger, when suddenly gentle puffs of air tickle his skin and he finds that Rogue’s chest is no longer silent…

There’s a heart-beat thrumming stubbornly where stillness dwelled only moments ago and slow, steady breaths ghost over the slightly parted lips.

Sting stares at him, mouth agape, his own breath stolen away in wide-eyed wonder and all at once a fierce trembling takes a hold of him.

Without thinking he presses his forehead to Rogue’s brow, revelling in the soft warmth spreading throughout his body now that his blood is no longer frozen in place, while the ghostly pallor slowly leaves his face.

Before he can do much more than choke out a raw sob, a small noise falls from Rogue’s lips, something between a whimper and a sigh, and then his long, black lashes start fluttering.

Rogue blinks himself back into the present – slowly, arduously – and starts glancing around all searching and confused; before he finally finds Sting and a small jolt runs through his whole body.

Within seconds a smile blooms on his lips… A smile that creeps over his features; nestles in his wine-red eyes and sets them aglow until they flicker and shine like amber.

“You’re really here…” he breathes, voice rough and low from neglect. “I was afraid that I’d only dreamt you…”

He sits up with another small whine, his eyes never straying from Sting’s face, and his expression falters when he takes in the tear-stains glittering on his cheeks and the traces of a bone-deep, unbearable pain still etched into his features.

“Sting? What….” He’s already reaching out when he suddenly stalls dead in his tracks and withdraws his hands to look at them wary and pondering for a moment.

Then his face darkens and he clenches his eyes shut with a weary:

“God fucking dammit…. Again?”

When he turns to Sting once again his eyes have gone soft with sympathy and concern while regret tinges his voice a deeper shade of sad.

“I’m sorry, Sting. Sorry you had to go through this again… You must feel horrible…”

The blond, however, just stares at him without understanding, an eerie hollowness surrounding his exhausted form, and his tune his flat and empty when he inquires:

“What are you talking about? I… What the hell just happened?”

Rogue looks at him strangely, concern worming its way into his expression, as he mutters:

“You had to bring me back just now, didn’t you?”

“Me?” Sting whispers in apparent shock. “I didn’t do anything… I… there was this light… And… and suddenly you… you weren’t breathing and…”

Out of the blue he’s sobbing almost hysterical, voice trembling and hitching as the sickening aftermath of the adrenalin-rush mingles with the sensation of hot relief in his veins.

“Shhh…. It’s alright… I’m right here… it’s fine…” Rogue sooths quietly, as he lets his fingers ghost over the blond’s hand. “Of course you saved me! I mean I can still feel your magic all around us…”

Sting’s jaw drops down in disbelief when he breathes an incredulous: “My… magic? I don’t…”

But suddenly his eyes become distant and unfocused, colour draining from his face, and a flood of pictures surges through his mind.

The white Dragon of ephemeral light.

A warm, soft aura buzzing in his hands.

The feeling of life flowing through him freely, filling him to the brim.

A dazzling, radiant shine traversing through every fibre of his being…

“My magic!” he repeats, this time more certain and full of wonder, before extending a hand and summoning a small blindingly bright orb of purest energy.

For a second it thrums quietly in his palm, then he sends it off with a quick flick of his wrist to have it swirl merrily around them.

Within moments it starts dancing around Rogue’s head exuberantly and bouncing, obviously drawn to him just as much as its Master.

“I completely forgot…” Sting mutters quietly, as he follows the quick sprite with awe in his eyes.

Rogue looks at him softly for a moment, before a shadow of pain flits over his features and he mumbles: “So it’s true then… This island does steal your memories; your previous life.”

He averts his gaze for a moment, grief all at once open and raw on his face, before he swallows hard as he braces himself, and then whispers hesitantly:

“Tell me… Do you remember me?”

For a moment he doesn’t dare to meet Sting’s eyes, afraid he’d find amnestic emptiness and a lack of recognition there, but then the blond caresses his cheek gently as he coaxes him into lifting his gaze and when they look at each other there’s a warm, endless longing written all over his demeanour.

For a moment they remain like this - frozen in time and barely daring to breathe – then Sting leans in without hesitation and brushes his lips against Rogue’s.

For the fraction of a heart-beat the dark haired man doesn’t react, but then he sighs softly and smiles against the other’s skin, before reciprocating the touch.

“You’re the one thing this place couldn’t steal from me after all…”
Sting whispers gently, still lip-locked, and Rogue breathes in his words, stores them away deep down in his heart and lets them heal the wounds time had ripped there.

Above their heads the small ball of holy magic frolics and flares.

Chapter Text

A seagull cries its lament into the west wind as it soars high in the ever moving clouds above a shore line shrouded in fog.
Deep down below the windswept cliffs relentless waves lick restlessly at the rocky beach that is the Shivering Shore.

Sting bestowed this name upon the desolate black bay when he first tried to draw a crude map of the cursed island.
For this is what he remembers from when he had christened the sharp rocks with gushes of coughed up sea-water: the shivering.

All things stranded here shivered.

With cold…
With dread.
With ache, fear or strife if their hearts were yet to still -
in undeath if the sea had already claimed them.

Rogue had been no exception.

Even now with the heavy woollen blanket almost swallowing him up, his curled up form is still wrecked by harsh tremors and the persistent clattering of teeth proves that the icy chill of the island is still nestled deep within his bones.

Sting hands him a hand carved wooden mug full of steaming tea and lowers himself right next to him.

His arm is already half raised to sneak around the other’s shoulder in an instinctive attempt to offer comfort and warmth, when he stalls.

His body obviously remembered a lot of things the grey veil of steadily falling salt had taken from him and his heart tells him, that whatever Rogue is to him is genuine and kind – and yet, a tiny nagging voice at the back of his mind tells him to be cautious.

The events of the past day were too beautiful and miraculous to actually come to be in the realm of the merciless, unnamed Master.

So Sing lets his arm fall away before Rogue could take note of the gesture and scrutinizes him subtly with new eyes; eyes that try to look out for oddities, cracks in the facade, hints that his silent form was another mirage to erode whatever was to remain of his sanity.

The only thing he sees, however, is an unguarded, pensive face and kind, honest features; so beloved and familiar, that he’s suddenly certain this island couldn't possibly conjure up something as beautifully wholesome as Rogue.

So he reaches out after all, pulls the dark haired man against his side and even though the wind tears at them with a haunted howling, he feels warmth spreading through his whole being the moment Rogue is nestled against him.

The morning had already dawned when the two of them had finally fallen asleep in the draughty sanctuary; with Rogue wrapped up in every last piece of fabric that could be found and his head safely cushioned on Sting’s chest.

There hadn’t been much talking after those tear-drenched, shell shocked first moments of revival; only longing.
Longing and almost desperate kisses until their bodies finally screamed to have their basic needs of healing met.

Thus Sting had carefully taken the hidden satchel from underneath his vest, turned towards the altar and while mumbling a prayer to Devara, goddess of everything living and light, emptied the whole bag onto the roughly carved stone slab.

For a few never ending moments nothing happened, then a soft glow begun spreading over the pile of salt.
A shy glimmer at first, then mere seconds later the emanating shine gained momentum and bathed the whole cave in an otherworldly, dazzling light.

As soon as it swallowed their forms all pain waned.

Sting could feel the bones in his leg fusing back togehter with a marrow deep shudder and Rogue’s still somewhat laboured breathing eased, while the last of his wounds faded into thin pale scars.

Both men basked for a few fleeting moments in the ephemeral aura, letting it seep into their very cores and then some place deeper to fill up those wells of power hidden in their blood.
By the time the brilliant white had burned itself out only an after-image on their retinas and a leaden, unscalable exhaustion remained.

Within moments Rogue’s heavy lids had been drooping, his still weak, worn-out form starting to sink to the ground, so Sting caught him in his arms with waning strength and eased both of them down onto his meagre bed of moss.
For a second it felt as if the draft around them had picked up, had brought in a harsher gust of the freezing outside world, and with it came concern, doubt and everything dark.

Then, however, the soothing warmth of another body close to him repelled the wrongness of the island taunting his heart.
So he just held Rogue’s peacefully sleeping figure a bit closer, relished in the soft breaths tickling his pulse line and gave in to the irresistible pull of sweet, all-encompassing nothingness.

Sting pressed a last gentle kiss to the unfurrowed brow beneath his lips and then only deep, dreamless slumber embraced him.

When he woke almost half a day later Rogue was still cradled against his chest; was still breathing and beautifully unscathed, and he felt well rested, whole and filled with the gentle guiding light of hope for the first time in since forever.

He stoked the fire then and began preparing a simple breakfast, shooing Rogue out of the smoke-heavy sanctuary as soon as he found the dark haired man coughing miserably in the thickening fumes.

All attempts at the conversation so direly needed died on both of their lips- either drowned in painful hacking, or buried beneath years of oblivion and only now that they’re outside; on the lofty perch atop the cliffs, huddled close to each other, both finally seem to recover their voices.

And still…
The words Sting so desperately wants to mutter prove as fickle as sprites,
while the thundering of the waves down below threatens to swallow all the fleeting things yet to be said.

In the meantime Rogue has lifted his head from Sting’s shoulder and now glances at him with a fearful hope in his eyes as he works up the courage to ask:
“What do you remember? How much has this place already stolen from you?”

Sting’s face contorts with the strain of finding an answer as he tries to follow the worn out lifelines of memories beyond the veil of salt… To little avail.

“I...” he starts cautiously, “I’m not quite sure what is real or not… I was assigned a mission, I guess… Something to do with escorting a princess... Wasn’t she to be wed off to to form a peace treaty?”

Rogue simply nods absent-mindedly as he looks out at the stomping waves and droplets of froth cling to his ever so soft hair, then he adds quietly:
“Yeah, that’s right… Princess Hisui of Askaria, to be precise. That's our homeland, in case you've forgotten. She was promised to the Crownprince of Tristin, so that we could finally seal a peace treaty after almost fifty years of war. The Covenant assigned you as her bodyguard so that she would be delivered safely to her destination. But after two months we received word from Tristin’s High Court, blaming our Royal Family of breaching the contract, as Princess Hisui never arrived at their shore.”
He sighs sadly and hugs his knees a bit tighter to his chest before continuing:
“In return our King blamed the Tristinee of perjury, because the hostilities continued unperturbed… it’s been a mess ever since. Even more people have died, because now the fronts have hardened and both parties deem themselves betrayed and played for fools.”

Sting looks at him in stunned bewilderment even long after Rogue has fallen silent, and the incredulity on his face is almost palpable.
“And I was sent to protect her? I was tasked with something so crucial? Where they out of their minds? Someone like me could never...”

“Sting?” He gets interrupted quietly and the look Rogue gives him is a strange mixture of sadness, concern, bewilderment and genuine humor.
“Who else but you would they have sent? You’re the strongest bzzzzzzzzzzz whhzzzzzzz brrr...”

Sting suddenly starts clawing at his ears, shakes his head harshly and an expression of unaltered fear appears in his eyes as they cling to Rogue’s lips.
“What?” he almost yells against the wind. “What did you say?”

The raven haired man looks at him oddly, then repeats: “I said, you were the strongest among bbwwwwrrrrrr sssshhhhhrrhshshsh...”

Sting presses his palms to his ears; the buzzing white noise too much to bear; and he's afraid, that something had taken his hearing.
That something was punishing him by taking their means of communicating, but then Rogue’s voice cuts through the chaos in his reeling mind.
“Sting? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Understanding what’s being said leaves the blond close to tears of relief and he shakes his head wearily, reluctant to worry the other with something that might have been nothing but a figment of his imagination, just yet.

“It’s nothing...” he begins in an uncertain voice, but then he trails off… A trail of thought had just crossed his mind and he wants it proven right or wrong... “Rogue… tell me how we’ve met.” He requests quietly.

A gentle smile spreads on Rogue’s pale features; a nostalgic sight full of fondness and affection, but as soon as he opens his mouth to speak nothing but mind-robbing buzzing and screeching reverberates through Sting’s ears.

With his eyes squeezed shut in pain he gestures for the other to stop and only when sweet silence surrounds them once again does he dare to meet Rogue’s gaze.

He’s positive he doesn’t deserve to be looked over with this much concern and kindness, but he still basks in it for a second while he finds his suspicions confirmed.

“They wont allow me to remember...” He whispers pensively. “At least not like this...”

“What are you talking about?” Rogue asks carefully, as if Sting was mental.

Maybe he was right.

Who could possibly know where sanity ended and madness began, here on the isle where despair and decay reigned supreme.

“When ever you start talking about my… about our past, it’s just static… I can’t make out a single word. It’s as if some entity here doesn’t want me to remember who I was…”

“They’re scared.” Rogue simply states, as if it was one of the fundamental truths of the universe. “They’re scared of your power alone. But now that I’m here, too, they’re getting desperate. Together we could wwwwwzzzzzzz.”

When Sting flinches in unease Rogue immediately stops, but whatever it was that he said must have confirmed his musings, for he just nods to a statement only he could hear.

For a long moment silence settles over their huddled forms, Rogue rests his head on Sting’s shoulder again and smiles ever so slightly when he feels a soft kiss being pressed to his crown.
Then the blond asks: “How did you find me? Nobody knew that the ship sank and where...”

With a heavy sigh Rogue turns to face him and now his features speak of exhaustion, of hopes that had been crushed countless times and the stubborn refusal to give up.

Something warm fizzles quietly inside of Sting’s chest and before he can even consider his actions he has already leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to the other’s pale forehead.

For a moment Rogue closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then he straightens his posture and begins:
“You never made it to Tristin, that much I knew, because your usual letter upon arrival never came. And when the first rumours spread about the betrayal and the missing Princess I instinctively knew that something bad must have happened.”

He shakes his head wearily and pauses for a moment, giving Sting the chance to dig deeper:
“How did you know that I was still alive?”

Rogue remains silent for another long moment, bites his bottom lip hesitantly as he searches for words that wouldn’t be swallowed by impenetrable white noise.

“Because I was still sane...” is what he finally comes up with.
“Because my magic didn’t go haywire. That meant, that the bond was still intact. You had to be alive somewhere… So I boarded every ship that would even remotely follow the route yours must have taken.
For the past three years I’ve rarely ever had solid ground beneath my feet for more than a couple of days at a time.”

The way his face turns a reminiscence of greyish green at the sheer thought of being aboard a ship has something wiggle at the back of Sting’s mind…

Nausea, miserable retching, faint limbs and his head feeling twice the size.
Of course… motion sickness was a well-documented quirk among the…
Among the what now?

The answer is there, dancing around Sting’s head just out of his reach, but the more he concentrates, the harder it evades him, so he finally gives up and focusses on Rogue again.
“You endured three years on a ship? Three years of motion sickness and loneliness, just to find me?”

“I would have continued for the rest of my life. As long as I felt that the bond was still there, I just couldn't give up hope. I knew you were alive and that kept me going.”

He pauses for a long moment, the nuzzles into the hollow of Sting's neck, whispering: " When the ship sank I was on deck. The storm was raging all around us, but I couldn't stop looking out into the darkness. It was as if something was calling me. As if the wind carried your voice..." He shakes his head subtly and leans a bit heavier against the blond before adding: "It sounds strange; I know. Even more so, because in this very moment something heavy sent me over board. After that I barely remember anything... Just the cold. Your face for a few moments that could have been a dream..."
A fine shiver runs through his body, cueing Sting to pull him closer and run his hands gently over his back and arms.

The blond searches for words for a few tension filled moments, uncertain if and how to ask about the one sensation no living being should ever be able to describe on this side of the mirror...
But he needs to know...
His heavy heart needs Rogue's absolution for letting him slip beyond the veil all alone, frightened, feverish and without his light to guide him; and if the other had left this world in agony, then it is only just if his conscience was to haunt him with this knowledge from this day on to his grave.
Therefore he inquires through gritted teeth:
"Tell me... Honestly... Do you remember... Did it... I mean..." he sighs exasperatedly before forcing the words out like a bad taste in his mouth.

"Did it hurt, when you... died?"

He hangs his head in shame, tries to avoid Rogue's gaze adamantly, but his companion gently nudges his shoulder with his head and murmurs:
"No. It was like falling asleep after a very long day. I'd found you. I'd been close to you one last time. And I knew that this wasn't the end, but a new beginning. I trusted you to bring me back, as you always do. I'm sorry for worrying you like this, though."

The simple honesty in his voice makes Sting’s breath hitch quite a bit and he feels warmth rising in his cheeks, so he hurries to shift Rogue’s attention to his next question.

“This bond… What exactly...”

While he’s still fumbling for words, Rogue stares out at the steel grey sea and thinks hard how to describe something that can’t be put into words in the first place without using words at all…
If the island really wanted to keep Sting from remembering his noble origin, the powers running deep in his blood and the sacred bond that tied them together, then it wouldn’t allow him so much as a single syllable when it came to the very foundation of their beings.

But then again, if the two of them wanted for even a fleeting chance of leaving this cursed place alive, he needed his other half to understand the role he’d been assigned, the path written in his stars and the powers entrusted to him.

Powers so tremendous, mere descriptions wouldn't do them justice... Sting had to rediscover the otherwordly rush of magic in its purest form for himself.

Rogue could have spent a lifetime talking about the sensation and it would only result in the loss of a lifetime, if it wasn't swallowed by warped spells alltogether...

But maybe… Just maybe…
The Elders in their dignified wisdom had foreseen a possible fate like this and therefore given him the means to convey his message in silence… in a wordless way meant for Sting and Sting alone...

So a bold idea forms in Rogue’s mind…

He pries his hands free from within his warm cocoon of wool and carefully reaches out for Sting’s shoulder.

The blond, who’d also been gazing out at the mist veiled horizon with unseeing eyes, flinches subtly at the sudden touch, but when Rogue hushes him quietly he allows the gentle, probing fingers moving all across his arm.

With barely perceptible motions cool cautious hands start removing layer upon layer of cloth until the salt-heavy winds hit the bare skin of Sting’s left shoulder.

Upon tugging the last thin tunic’s sleeve from the well-toned arm goose-bumps bloom beneath Rogue’s hands and the fine hairs now standing on edge prickle his palm.

For a moment he stalls, leaving small pinpoints of warmth where his fingertips linger on the touch-starved skin.
Sting looks at his skin in anticipation, but the only thing he finds is his bare shoulder and the scars criss-crossing almost every inch of it.

Then Rogue begins to follow outlines only he can see on the shivering flesh.

His motions are measured, careful, but there is a certain undercurrent of power; a tingling and buzzing that speaks of ancient magic accompanying the sensation.

The dark haired man furrows his brow, then clenches his eyes shut in determination, while the soundless whispers flowing from his lips become a bit more urgent.

Right when Sting is almost convinced that whatever Rogue was doing wouldn’t amount to anything, he guides another burst of bustling energy into his arm while hissing: “Undersight!”

Suddenly Sting feels something cold and incorporeal trickling from his crown over his whole body, the sensation alien, yet not unwelcome.

Then thin bright lines blossom all over his shoulder, erratic and pale at first, but then they merge into an intricate, stark white mark bristling with Holy Magic.

When the dazzling aura slowly fades Sting finds himself looking blankly at the image of a tree that seems to hold the heavens themselves what with the wide spreading, sturdy branches and the stars caught in their steady grasp.

The mark stands in heavy contrast to his sun tanned skin and now that it has been revealed it seems like an endless spring of raw magic power has come forth in his heart of hearts.

He feels a blindingly bright, all-encompassing light bursting from his very core; a sensation brimming with life, warm to the touch and yet overwhelming in its ever rushing current of brilliant magic.
His magic… he realizes belatedly.

Within moments he feels heat spreading throughout his veins; scorching and unrestrained; his eyes are blinded by the iridescent super nova threatening to swallow him whole and when he’s sure that this wild surge of power would burn him to cinders, another cold touch counterbalances the searing heat.

All of a sudden the bright white silhouette of the tree seems to sprout anew; as a faint, black mirror image spreads from the broad stem in the opposite direction.
And with every shadowy root growing down his arm the almost unbearable burning subsides.

Somehow heat and cold, shadow and light, up and down don't start fighting within his soul but slowly establish a comfortable equilibrium that runs brazenly through his veins.

Sting’s fleeting breath evens out and when he finally examines the curious sign that had so suddenly been pried from the manipulative magic of the forgotten shores, he feels something deep down in his very core shiver.

It’s a tree, alright.

The upper half stark white and beautifully intricate on his shoulder holds the heavens in a sound embrace, as it brims with everything living, warm and radiant.
The roots are a lingering, steadfast shadow, but they seem to ground him; add a sheltering shade to hide from a light too powerful and bright to be wielded without a shield of cool, calming darkness to counterbalance to dazzling shine. And like Rogue the shadows aren't intimidating and malicious, but quiet, gentle and soothing like a new moon night.

And suddenly he not only understands – he remembers.

Oh, Dragon of ephemeral light.
Oh, Dragon of the moonless night….

The beginning of a prayer, too holy to be uttered at a place like this.

An afternoon drenched in golden sun.

A promise that breathed “Forever. Even if death was to part us.”

And the sensation of complete and utter contentment for the first time in his life.

Pale, cool fingers carefully come to follow the line separating white crown and stem from shadowy hidden roots with a barely noticeable touch; once again murmuring a spell too soft to understand. A strange tingling spreads rapidly throught Sting's whole being and in the next moment his mind is being swept away gently, to a place shrouded in brilliant sunlight. His body sways unsteadily for a few heart-beats, then crumbles into Rogue's patiently waiting arms.

And now not even the malevolent, disembodied Master of the realm of whispering salt can intervene and twist the moment.

For Sting is caught safely in a hauntingly beautiful dream of days gone by and Rogue’s ever shifting shadows guard his sleep against keening wraiths and howling winds.

Chapter Text

The first sensation that registers with Sting in the all-engulfing radiance is springy grass tickling his feet.

A gentle breeze wafts past his face, carrying the scent of hay and dog roses; wet earth and the first shy traces of autumn crispness in the still warm air.

Bird song rides on the whispering wind as well as the soft lapping of waves on a nearby shore… and hushed, excited voices.

The world reemerges from the white-out like a painting coming to life on a blank canvas;

one small detail at a time; until Sting finds himself in a lavish park-like landscape with afternoon sunlight filtering through lush foliage, where fall has already begun to leave its golden marks.

Ancient, overhanging trees are scattered over seemingly endless meadows, hedges weave through them in a harmonious pattern of forest green shades and a small lake glitters merrily in the midst of it all.

There, at its nearby shore Sting finds the loitering forms of three boys- two of them busy throwing rocks and bothering the frogs in their quietly croaking afternoon daze, the remaining one staring out over the sky blue waters.

They’re about thirteen years of age, give or take; and albeit completely different in build and size, all three are starting to show the lanky, somewhat awkward posture of early adolescence.

Sting doesn’t recognize the two loud, almost rowdy ones… the strangely quiet one, however, is himself.

And he is literally glowing.

A faint, but pulsating aura of light seems to surround him, as if raw magic was seeping out of each and every pore of his body. Together with his heavily embroidered, stark white robes there’s something otherworldly about him.

The two boys next to him are clad in equally pristine, yet far simpler clothing that speak of a difference in rank but judged by the bantering way they chat with each other they seem to be well acquainted, maybe even friends.

He moves closer to his younger self and his two companions to get a better look at their faces, but as soon as he’s within a ten step radius he feels a harsh yank behind his navel and all of a sudden his perspective changes from third to first person as he gets violently pulled within his own head.

And there he remains, a silent spectator without any means to intervene… so he makes himself at home and just watches. Something tells him, that it is important for him to pay attention.

So paying attention is what he does.

Meanwhile the willowy, dark haired guy to Sting’s left seems to have asked a question in a voice too timid to be heard, and when he received no apparent answer from the blond boy gazing over the waters the rather burly one to his right bumps his shoulder.

“Awww...” he mocks in an annoying falsetto.

“Is Stingy-boy showing nerves? Getting cold feet now that the altar is in sight?”

Sting is either too lost in thought to notice the biting scorn in his voice or simply not in the mood for bitching, so he just continues to stare at nothing in particular and mumbles:

“Why would I be worried, Greg? I’m gonna meet my soulmate today. What’s there to be afraid of?”

“Soulmate??”

Both of Sting’s companions now roar with laughter. “For real?? You actually believe this crap they’re telling us? Oh, c’mon…

Has it ever occurred to you, that the Elders only spout this nonsense, so that all the Novices powerful enough for the bonding comply with being magically mind-glued to someone they’ve never met before? What if you get bound to some ugly stuck up bitch? What if they stink? What if they’re a serial killer?”

Sting just shrugs. “If it’s my soulmate, it’ll be fine. If not the bond won’t work and then it won’t matter any more, anyway. Besides… The one I’m being bound to has been foretold by the Twin Dragons and they’d never been wrong in their scrying.”

“You’re absolutely incredible…” Greg sighs.

“Your precious soulmate bond is probably just a reoccurring case of Stockholm-syndrome because everyone got pressured into this simply to avoid being eaten alive by their magic and once it’s all said and done the bond can’t be severed any more without either of you kicking the bucket… “

“Yeah, say what you want…” Sting answers in a calm, almost bored voice.

“You and Alec… You’re just jealous, because you’re too dumb and lazy to ever even need a bonding...”

The freckled boy with the chestnut brown hair, Gregory, snorts dismissively, before retorting: “Oh please, oh chosen one… tell us more about how much of a prodigy you are… The youngest Novice to ever need to be bonded within centuries… It sure as hell isn’t enough that the Elders won’t shut up about it.”

Sting’s head suddenly snaps up in anger and, reaching for one of the rings on his fingers he hisses:

“Do you think I’ve asked for this?” The silver band in his clasp is buzzing erraticly and it feels brittle, worn out and ready to break any moment beneath his touch. It wouldn’t last much longer… Then he yanks it off.

Immediately the whole lake side vanishes in a super nova of searing, glistening light with Sting as a tiny, pulsing sun at its centre.

For a second it seems as if the world has come to a brilliant, white, all consuming end; burning meadows and trees, waves and the three boys at their edge to nothingness.

Then, with two horrified voices still screaming against the raging cataclysm, Sting puts the ring back on his finger and the incredibly powerful nimbus retreats into his panting form.

“Holy fuck...” Alec breathes, when he’s finally regained his bearing…

“Yeah...” Sting murmurs in a daze. “Holy fuck. Literally and in every other possible way… If this goes on much longer, I’ll be toast before the winter comes. So I can only hope that those scriptures and our teachings are true. Who ever my soulmate is… They better be here and ready to deal with this kinda shit… “

“But...” Greg intervenes, “Won’t the other one be struggling with something similar as well? Their power levels should match yours, right?”

“So what… Their shadows are acting up? Fine by me. I got plenty of light to share… I just wished, I finally could. It hurts. It’s exhausting to suppress all the time and the seal is barely keeping it contained any more... ”, the blond answers tiredly.

He buries his head in his arms for a long moment, praying for the ceremony to start, as he had done countless times for the past four months, after the first outburst of wild, uncontrollable power. His magic has been steadily growing ever since and now it has become almost unbearable.

Right now, he just wants the constant searing heat to stop burning him from the insides, be it with or without his true soulmate.

“Sting...” A hand suddenly shakes his arm. “They’re here… It’s starting!”

Two priests in robes identical to Sting’s come walking towards him, another boy a few years his senior in tow.

He joins the group with a formal, respectful bow, trying hard to ignore the moronic jokes his friends send after him.

“I pray for you, that she’s not fat!” Greg snorts. “Or frigid.”

“Or a guy.” Alec adds, shaking with laughter.

Sting only rolls his eyes and pays them no heed. What did they know.

They were spoiled ass heads, the third and fifth sons of rich families that had no use for troublesome heirs.

So they’d been pawned off to the Covenant and though it was obvious that they would never show either potential or will to become an even remotely useful cleric, the constant, generous donations from their families bought them a secure place within the ranks of the White Mages.

Sting stuck with the two of them mostly because they were the only other boys his age among another dozen of giggling girls and because they were mildly amusing in their incompetence.

But now he sincerely hopes to meet someone more… mature? No, that wasn’t it… he wasn’t mature himself at all… Sensitive? Maybe… Honest, genuine… He can’t really put it into words…

He just longs for someone to fill the hollowness inside of him, someone who’d want – even need – all the warmth and light he had to give.

And he doesn’t give a rat’s ass if it’s a girl or a guy. What they looked like… Hell, he isn’t obliged to fall in love with them, even though it happened frequently among bonded pairs.

They just had to long for him the same way he longed for them…

The small procession meanders through the ample gardens and past the well know premises, deeper into a wooded area where only the consecrated members of the Covenant are granted access, until they reach a secluded clearing amidst a ring of birch trees that already shed the first yellow leafs in a never ending shower of September gold.

And here Sting’s breath catches as he stares in shell shocked wonder at the guardian deities his whole life has been devoted to.

In the centre of the clearing a humongous rock structure sprouts from the ground; atop grows the mightiest birch tree, Sting has ever seen.

It seems as if the whole, autumn deep heavens rest within its branches, complete with the pale sickle of the waxing moon that hangs early and silvern in the late afternoon sky.

The tree had grown around the rocks with thick, sturdy roots and they embrace the pitch black entrance to a cave leading right into the bowels of the earth.

Then suddenly, something seems to shift within the golden green canopy as well as the shade-shrouded entrance to the cavern.

Sunlight gets reflected from scales of the most immaculate white and it scatters over Sting’s face in every colour of the rainbow.

“Oh, Dragon of ephemeral light...” He whispers helplessly.

A pair of red eyes ignite in the darkness and giant teeth glitter between skin the colour of onyx.

“Oh, Dragon of the moonless night...”

Sting is overwhelmed by the sight of the Twin Dragons, had imagined the moment countless times and yet finds himself utterly unprepared for the sheer power that presses against his body.

Weisslogia, the brimming life, guardian deity of the Covenant of Dawn, granter of all magic holy, healing, bright and protective.

And…

Skiadrum, the shrouded guard, revered by the Order of Twilight; wielders of powerful shadow magic, bringers of a swift death to any foe but also guides for the souls of those who are to slip beyond the veil.

Sting is so engrossed with the two Dragons and the beauty of the tree – a birch, he thinks offhandedly, off course… because even in the bark black and white mingle harmoniously- that he doesn’t even realise another small group of people approaching.

It’s two arch-mages of the Order and a petite, strawberry-blond girl. All three of them are clad in black, silken robes embroidered with an intricate pattern of silver and crimson.

For a moment he marvels at their sight, then he stalls… There were two Novices from the Covenant here…

So why was there only one Acolyte from the Order?

Did they make a mistake after all?

He looks around in growing concern, then the small delegation is upon them and warm greetings are exchanged, before one of the Mages starts glancing around with a mildly annoyed expression.

With a furrowed brow he turns to the girl and inquires urgently: “Deirdre, where is...”

“I’m here, Master Constantine.”

Sting’s head snaps around towards the hoarse, low voice and not far to his left, at a place he is certain he’d found empty only moments ago, another boy now lounges.

His finger still marks the most recent page of his book and his form seems almost surreal with the ever shifting shadows he had probably just materialized out of.

His posture appears to be deliberately casual and bored but Sting senses an almost unbearable tension somewhere not too far beneath the surface.

Never before has Sting been so captivated by a moment like right there and then, as his eyes dart back and forth from the pitch black, restlessly swirling shadows, where only now and then a glister of an eye, tooth or talon was to be seen, towards the translucent, fleeting shape dancing through the leafs in a silent shower of everything radiant.

And then, time and again, his gaze would come to rest on the enigmatic, raven haired boy that seems to be almost swallowed by the hungry shadows churning around him.

Their eyes meet only once, then the pale boy turns away with a disdainful twitching of his upper lip.

Even though the motion is fleeting it tells Sting everything he needs to know.

It speaks of aversion, distrust and everything cold and dark. It screams: I want no place within your heart. And you’re not welcomed in mine.

Or so Sting thought.

He had been too absorbed in watching the strangely hostile behaviour of the other boy to notice that the prayers and offering to the Twin Dragons had already come to an end.

Only when his mentor nudges him discretely, does he realize, that it’s time for him to join the other kids in front of the Holy Tree.

All three of them are looking at him peculiarly, but only one pair of eyes glares daggers…

‘Well, glower all that you want, bastard, I wont be seeing you ever again.’

Sting thinks, as he turns towards the flawlessly pretty, petite girl.

For him it is absolutely out of question that he would be bonded to anyone but her and he welcomes it.

He’s already smiling giddily, for she is too comely not to; and her eyes, even though they appear rather blank, at least don’t harbour a barely concealed animosity.

And they’re green… An ordinary colour for an ordinary person, not a shade of crimson that reminded him of bloodshed.

He should have known it by then… For the sparkling blue of an early autumn sky that dwelt within his eyes was a far cry from ordinary just as well.

Once again he’s too lost in thought to pay attention to his surroundings and needs to be ushered on towards a crude stone carved basin.

Two figures step forward, a High-Priest of the Covenant and an Arch-Mage of the Order, both carrying a pitcher full of a liquid too incorporeal to be water.

They empty the vessels simultaneously into the roughly cut stone well, all the while the other two Elders guide the four reluctant youths to form a circle and extend their hands above the offering’s restless surface.

Only now Sting realizes, that it’s holy spring water and pitch black seed oil that’s swirling sluggishly around in the shallow depths of the altar bowl; dancing around each other, always touching, but never completely merging…

One immersed within the other but both still whole, unbroken and together they could silence even the raging seas….

A beautiful metaphor for what’s about to happen...

And then, with another excited gaze at Deirdre, Sting joins the recitation of one of the oldest, fundamental of prayers bestowed upon their Elders by the Dragon Gods themselves.

“Oh Dragon of ephemeral light,

Oh Dragon of the moonless night,

We call upon your flawless sight

and offer you those souls to guide.”

The effect is instantly.

Four black and white tendrils arise from the ever shifting surface and each wraps around one of the outstretched wrists.

Then they start pulling with an irresistible force.

Sting doesn’t even have time to process what’s going on when he feels another hand coming to rest on his own, both tightly linked by an unbreakable bond.

It happens so fast, that it takes a long, long moment for him to realize, that it isn’t Deirdre’s fingers pressed against his palm… With immediate dread he finds himself linked to the boy with the wine red, hateful eyes.

Eyes that now meet his in open disgust and scorn.

He tries to to pull away, yank their hands apart but the bindings wouldn’t allow it, keep their palms pressed against each other, even though Sting’s vis-a-vis is still struggling against them with raging vehemence.

“Sting...” the Hight Priest says calmly, “meet Raios.”

And finally the fetters fall away. The peculiarly cold hand is pulled back immediately and its owner gives the blond a stare as if he’d been somehow tainted by the touch alone.

“It’s Rogue!” The boy spits and Sting couldn’t find another name more befitting for his demeanour.

The amusement over the introductions seems to have shown on his face as a fleeting grin, for Rogue gives him a side-eyed glance and hisses:

“What? What’s so funny?”

Sting recoils from the chill in his voice, the same way he wanted to withdraw from the chill of his skin, but he is still very aware that this boy is his foretold soulmate, so there should be some way for them to get along.

Maybe they had just started off on the wrong foot… So he hurries to shake his head, smiling and just laughs: “Nothing… I...” he stammers a bit, then simply extends his hand and continues: “I’m Sting. It’s… uh... nice to meet you, I guess?”

Rogue makes no move to accept or answer the greeting, completely ignores the offered hand and just shrugs, as he turns away, towards the Arch Mages, who seem about to give a short speech.

“The sacred bond of companionship has now been bestowed upon you. From now on you will share each others burdens and pains, pleasures and joy.

It is a bond that transcends the realms of life and death, goes beyond our plane of existence. It is a promise that you have given to one another.

And it means: Forever. Even if death was to part us.

Your magic power needs to readjust to your partner’s presence to become complete and stable, and for this to happen you’ll share quarters from now on...”

“No!” All heads snap towards Rogue who had just protested so disrespectfully and harsh, a sharp frown appears on the Arch-Mages forehead.

“Master, with all due respect, but you can’t expect me to share my room with a walking, human light bulb! It’s not like my nights are...”

But they never got to know what exactly Rogue’s nights were not, for Master Constantine immediately growls a low:

“Raios...” his voice so dangerous, the dark haired boy refrains from correcting him, even though he’s already opened his mouth.

“We talked about this. This had to happen. And thus it came to be. I will tolerate neither your impudence nor your dourness. You have received a sacred gift and gratitude is in order. Nothing but gratitude, for this might just have been your only chance to repent and find salvation.”

The dark haired boy tsks and mumbles “We both know, that’s not gonna happen...”

“Hold. Your. Tongue.” the Elder warns icily. “Gather your belongings and see to it, that you get accustomed to each other! And not another word!”

Rogue rushes past Sting with an angry expression, as if the whole situation had somehow been the blond’s fault and stalks off the sacred clearing with long, aggressive steps.

Fearing he would be left behind and without a clue where to find their newly assigned dormitories Sting quickly grabs the other’s wrist… and comes dangerously close to a fist hook sending him flying.

“What the hell?” he yells, but then he takes in Rogue’s expression.

Eyes wide, chest heaving, and for a second there is genuine shock on his features, then they harden again into raging anger.

“If you touch me again, I’ll kill you!” he hisses.

“Here are the rules: Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch my stuff. And most of all: Don’t touch me. You got that?”

With that he turns away without waiting for an answer, only grumbling as he walks past: “And put a lid on this light thing of yours. It’ll be annoying to sleep around.”

Sting remains at the edge of the sacred clearing, petrified and upset; lost and afraid…

Something must have gone horribly wrong here… Maybe the youngest Novice to ever be bonded simultaneously turned out to be the first one to be failed by the prophecies.

Rogue vanishes between the trees and he’s alone.

The afternoon basked in golden light dissolves and wind begins to tear at Sting’s form.

He opens his eyes to a grey, cloud-heavy sky and the overwhelming presence of salt and sea press up against his body immediately.

His head is safely cushioned in Rogue’s lap, his long fingers carding through his hair with abandon, and he watches over Sting with vigilant, keen eyes.

Eyes that soften and start shining as soon as he finds the blond awake, but he remains silent for another long moment, just caresses his cheek gently and Sting can’t help but wonder, how much this Rogue differs from the boy he’d met ages ago in the birch sanctuary.

“Did you see it?” the Shadow Mage now asks curiously. “What did you remember?”

“The fact that you were an absolute douche… What the hell, man?”

“And you were an unbearable cry-baby… Your point being?” Rogue simply snorts, but there is a pang of pain and guilt in his eyes.

“How did we become friends, again? Or do I really just suffer from Stockholm-Syndrom?”

Rogue looks at him without understanding for a second, then he mumbles: “Telling you now wouldn’t do you any good. Just wait, it’ll come to you; I’m sure.”

He looks out at the ocean again, follows a seagull crying into the rising tide and his fingers still on Sting’s face, but the blond isn’t satisfied with being put off, so he tries a different approach:

“Rogue… you seemed to absolutely hate my guts… Please, tell me...”

But the raven haired man just shakes his head silently, sadly. “For now I just need you to have faith in our bond. It's genuine. It's strong. It saved us both. The rest will come back to you, I promise."

Chapter Text

“It’ll come back to you...” Rogue had said; and sure enough it does. And sooner than expected, non the less. 

The very same night Sting wakes to the small sound of Rogue whining in his sleep and shadows curl around him in restless, ever shifting swaths.

His heavy lids twitch erratically, his breathing comes shallow and fast while his whole body seems tense and ready to bolt up any given second. 

The familiarity of the situation hits Sting like a brick out of nowhere... 

Suddenly he’s thirteen once again… 

Thirteen, helpless, lost and upset... 

About a week had passed since the fateful, failed ritual. 

Eight days, seven nights and ten hours to be precise, and Sting was absolutely miserable. 

About a week ago he had looked forward to meeting his companion with giddy anticipation, had time and again tried to imagine how feeling another person so intimately close would be like… and now he was irrevocably stuck with THIS… 

After almost being left behind at the Birch Sanctuary without so much as a second glance Sting had followed Rogue’s retreating figure with a safe amount of distance to a complex of buildings and into a bright, sufficiently spacey room. 

A room that might have been cosy, what with the huge windows opening to a wide stretch of lawn and the old oak tree shading the porch, if it hadn’t been filled with a hostile, buzzing silence that ground hideously on Sting’s nerves. 

The first two days the blond had honestly tried befriending Rogue; had shown genuine interest in him, gave it his all to be amicable and accommodating in his presence- but to no avail. 

The Shadow Mage had adamantly refused to even so much as look at him and paid the countless friendly gestures no heed, so Sting had resolved to getting on his nerves only to coax a reaction out of him; no matter how gruff; no matter how abrasive. 

For half a day or so his plan seemed to bear fruits. 

Rogue had lashed out and yelled at him a couple of times, almost establishing some kind of twisted, cruel routine, before he eventually came to notice Sting’s ulterior motives. 

His relapse into cold, gloomy callousness had been immediate and like an unforgiving blade severed even the most flimsy of threads that fate might have spun around them. 

Once or twice in his steadily growing despair Sting had even entertained the thought of reaching out and pinning the dark haired boy to the wall; to ask what the hell his deal was, why he spited him of all people so much, but then he remembered the hatefully hissed threat well enough to refrain from touching his disdainful room-mate. 

He had never felt so unwelcome and lost in his whole life. 

The one person who had supposedly been born only for him, who should yearn for his friendship just as much as he did the other way around, for some reason hated his guts and as things stood, he would never even find out why… 

The nights were especially bad, leaving Sting wide awake and all alone with his increasingly painful thoughts and the ceaseless buzzing of his rampaging magic; the fact, that he still glowed like a firefly a constant reminder, that their bond hadn't been established, yet. 

And while he tossed and turned for hours on end, Rogue melted into a shapeless, incorporeal ball of pitch black shadows that wafted around his bed menacingly and unnaturally cold. 

Sometimes he thought there was the glittering of an eye as red as carnage piercing through the veils, right into his soul and it had positively terrified him. 

The ever-present shadows scared Sting more than he would ever admit to out loud and he let his light more than willingly flare around him to ward off the unsettling tendrils. 

On this specific night, however, the darkness seemed to swallow the whole room, filling the walls with a never known chill not suited for this side of the grave and Sting had long since become a tiny speck of bristling light within a threateningly stomping ocean of gloom. 

Amidst the screeching silence Rogue’s laboured breaths sounded louder than ever before and spoke of a desperate fight he was loosing shadow by shadow. 

A much more ominous power lurked in the blackness of that very night and when something ragged and strained wormed its way into the ceaseless panting, a nameless feeling at the far back of his head forced Sting out of his bed and over towards the other side of the room. 

There the darkness had turned almost corporeal what with the sudden drop of temperature and the frost patterns creeping over the window panes. 

It took even the stark light of his a moment to find the withdrawn figure obscured by the fogs of his own breathing, but as soon as Rogue noticed his approach he hissed: 

“Stay back!” 

And somehow his voice held more urgent concern than anger for once. 

“Don’t you dare come any closer!” 

He continued, when Sting made no motion to stop and he was about to retreat to the far end of the mattress, when two small hands flew out and gripped his wrists firmly. 

“No!!” 

Upon contact a violent flinch ran through the tense body and he started struggling in honest, but Sting would have non of it. 

He dropped down next to Rogue and simply held on; let his magic flow freely for the very first time in his life and the shadows shrunk back the tiniest bit. 

Ever so slowly the air began to warm, the darkness to dissipate, but then the Shadow Mage fought back. 

“I’ll kill you!” He hissed once again, but it wasn’t a threat any longer, had turned into a warning full of genuine fear and Sting felt him tremble with the vain effort to stay in control. 

He wouldn’t last much longer, that much was abundantly clear when his voice started to quiver with strain: 

“Let go!” and when nothing heeded his words except for more light flooding the space between them: 

“Let! The fuck! Go!” 

Followed by a barely audible: “Please...” as all strength seeped out of his tone. 

And only then Sting answered - calm, soft and steady: “No, Rogue… You let go.” 

In a last desperate rebellion the shadows rose and darkened, reached for Sting with ice cold hands and he felt Rogue’s whole body quaking beneath his fingers as he yelled hoarsely: 

“Are you nuts? I told you, it’ll kill you. Get the hell away from me!” 

The blond, however, only shook his head no, stating quietly: “It’ll kill you, if this keeps up much longer. Just let go, Rogue. This is what the bond is for. Let go, let me help.” 

For a moment mirthless laughter was his sole answer, then another gush of darkness erupted from the almost completely hidden form, causing Rogue to rasp: 

“Better me than you. I belong to the shadows, you can’t help me! The bond won’t work for someone like me!” 

“Bullshit!” Sting retorted, now equally agitated and he pitched his magic against the impending darkness, only pressed on when he felt resistance and let wave after wave of searing heat eat away at the frost consuming the air around them. 

Rogue was still resisting fiercely, still clung to the last few worn out threads the hold on his uncontrollable magic tethered on, but Sting could feel his resolve fading. 

“Let go, Rogue.” He whispered again, pleadingly, and then he pushed down hard with his magic. 

There was the almost physical sensation of something brittle and hollowed shattering within the raven haired boy and a harsh sound just shy of a sob left his throat, before he breathed shiveringly: “God... you’re warm...” 

Then he admitted defeat. 

Immediately a cataclysm of blackness burst forth, pressed up against both of their bodies with crushing force and for a moment Sting was certain that he would drown in this freezing current. 

Then he let his light break free and sing, struggled against the darkness with an all encompassing radiance that burned the chill away. 

He dully realized that the sealing ring had split and fallen from his finger, while he showered the whole room with the dazzling shine of a new sun coming to life. 

He guided that heat into Rogue’s shaking body, willed it to warm his heart and in return greedily welcomed his cold to soothe the sensation of his insides being consumed by holy flames. 

How long the chaos raged around their tightly linked forms neither of them would ever be able to tell afterwards- it could have been mere moments or a century, but after the booming after-image of an unrivalled, raw magic power had finally dissolved into a faint static buzzing in the air, only the two boys remained. 

Both were panting heavily, unable to move as they tried hard to understand what exactly just had transpired. 

Rogue stared at Sting’s hands still clamped around his wrists – his eyes wide in concern and a mind-robbing fear written all over his face when he lifted his gaze, whispering absolutely shell shocked: “Are you… are you all right!?!” 

The blond looked at him with equally huge, but lively, disbelieving eyes: “Yeah! Yes, I’m… I haven’t felt that good in ages! Why wouldn’t I?” 

His fingers gave the other’s forearm a tight, enthusiastic squeeze, but Rogue once again flinched violently. 

Something raw and painful appeared on his features; a bone deep exhausted expression of shame, guilt and an ache far too grave for someone his age. 

“Rogue?” Sting inquired quietly; easing his hold so he wouldn’t spook the distraught boy any further. 

For a long moment the Shadow Mage remained silent, minded his bottom lip with his teeth while he kept his eyes glued to the sun-kissed fingers still resting loosely around his wrists. 

“The last time someone touched me, they lost a hand.” 

He finally admitted shakingly. 

And when Sting sucked in air sharply, he added, this time his voice nothing but a tuneless whisper: 

“My… my step-sister… When my magic acted up for the first time… my little sister…” his breathing became ragged with held back sobs and the blond’s heart got heavy with sympathy, “She just wanted to help me. But I lashed out at her. She lost her hand...” 

He was silent for such a long moment, that Sting was afraid, he wouldn’t continue at all, was already searching frantically for something to say, when Rogue continued with disdain in his voice: 

“She almost lost her life … My...my father,” he stammered on, all the while trying hard not to notice the way Sting’s face had just faltered, “He cast me out immediately. And rightfully so. I had no place back home any more. So I was left with the Order from that day on. And my father made it perfectly clear that I was neither to be touched nor spoken to, if it could somehow be avoided. By no one; under any circumstances.” 

“What? WHY?” the blond interrupted completely dumbfounded; heart-achingly compassionate and oh-so-very unspoiled in his innocent naivety that it had Rogue choke out: 

“Because I’m dangerous to be around. So that no one would ever suffer the same fate as my sister. And as a punishment. I’ve committed the sin of Fury. One of the seven deadly ones that can’t be forgiven. So… 

I’m begging you, once again...  Let go of me.” There had been no heat to his words any longer, no anger or hatred, only weariness and a never ending sadness. 

Sting, however, didn’t even seem to hear his plea, just searched for the wine red eyes bright with unshed tears, and asked almost inaudibly: 

“How long?” 

Rogue looked at him without understanding, humming a tuneless, quizzical “Huh?” when the other was already repeating his words: 

“How long, Rogue? How long has this been going on?” 

A barely noticeable shaking of head was his sole answer for a moment, but then Sting begun trailing his thumbs gently over the soft skin of the other’s forearms and Rogue squeezed his eyes shut with a sharp, wet exhale. 

“Three years...” 

All colour rapidly drained from Sting’s face. 

He’d deemed the one week of being ignored a fate almost worse than death; had always been tactile and awfully clingy at times, so the though of having to go three years without another person’s warmth or comfort was way beyond his imagination. 

“C’mon here!” the White Mage finally breathed, tugging at the delicate wrists carefully. 

“No… Don’t” his companion begged, but it wasn't being acknowledged. 

Sting just pulled at his swaying form with the smallest amount of added force, repeating: “C’mon here. This has gone on long enough now.” 

He sensed that Rogue had barely any strength left to resist, could feel the hollowness in his whole being, when he muttered 

“Please… Get away from me… It’s not safe...” one last time. 

Then the fight went out of the dark haired boy and he allowed Sting to pull him in; curled into a tight little ball on the comforter and his head came to rest in the blond’s lap. 

Gentle, probing fingers found a way into his hair, started carding though the soft strands with slow, repetitive, feather-light touches. 

A strangled, aborted sound rang through the quiet evening as Rogue sucked in a stuttering breath… 

A second one, while his body already started to quiver uncontrollably with pent up sobs and in the next moment all dams were breaking. 

It was harsh and loud, ugly and pathetic; three years of soul-crushing loneliness and crippling guilt surging from his mistreated, kindness-depraved heart and he wailed the agony kept under lock and bar for so, so long into the silence of the night while he shook, and shook and shook. 

Sting’s hands had already moved from his hair to his shoulders; roaming there in steady circles and their touch had become firm, warm and grounding. 

Something deep down his guts told him, that if he didn’t hold on tight right in this very moment, Rogue would shatter beyond repair and recognition. 

The onslaught of anguish seemed to last for ages, but Sting remained patient and quiet; didn’t inquire, or pry and crooned no meaningless little nothings of insufficient comfort; he just remained a steady, unwavering source of closeness and warmth and provided the so direly craved innocent intimacy of a gentle touch. 

Eventually Rogue’s painfully ragged sobs began to quieten, the harsh trembling eased and his breathing gradually evened out. 

Careful fingers returned to his crown, once again busied themselves with sweet, barely perceptible motions and Sting felt a sad smile tugging at his lips, when the other boy leaned into the touch for a second. 

Then, however, he drew back for good as he sat up and buried his face in his arms.  

“I don’t deserve this...” He muttered miserably. 

“Please… Sting… please… My father is right… I’m too dangerous to be around… I belong to the darkness… I shouldn’t have allowed this in the first place...” 

Realization hit him full force then… this boy, that had been longing for closeness and comfort for so, so long had denied himself what his mistreated soul was crying for, to keep Sting safe. 

“You were being a jerk on purpose, weren’t you...” Although it came as a question, it was obvious that he didn’t need an answer… 

His vis-a-vis still provided one in a painfully small, strangled voice… 

“I don’t want to hurt you! You’re… you’re supposed to be my soul-mate… And even though that would never work, I don’t want your blood on my hands, as well...” 

“Why wouldn’t it work?” Sting asked in confusion; his body, mind and soul having long since registered the moment the bond clicked into place; filling the emptiness at the back of his mind with something yet not clearly understood; but something living never the less. 

And whatever this something was, felt overwhelmingly right. 

So he asked again: 

“Why wouldn’t it work? Rogue… don’t you feel this? Look… I’m not glowing any longer...You’re not being swallowed by the shadows… Your skin”, he reached out gently again to confirm his assumption, “...isn’t cold any more… So why...” 

“Because I don’t deserve this!” he got interrupted with a hoarse, wounded hiss. 

“I told you… I belong to the darkness… There’s no such thing as a soulmate for someone like me! There’s too much blood on my hands...” 

He averted his gaze, hung his head in guilt and shame as he forced his confession through gritted teeth: “I didn’t only mutilate my sister; I also killed my mother. I selfishly killed my mother, do you hear me?” He ended on a yell. 

One hour ago… only one hour ago Sting would have believed him; if he had spit those words out all calloused and cold… But that had been another lifetime… Another boy in front of him. 

This… this was truly Rogue...maybe even Raios… a kind, tortured soul that even in anguish tried to remain noble, tried to do keep others from harm; thus he asked puzzled: 

“How?? How did you kill your mother?” 

Rogue didn’t answer right away, only shook his head for the longest of moments, and when he finally spoke his voice came harsh and full of self-loathe: 

“Because I just had to live. Because I had to come into this world my mother had to die.” 

For a second Sting didn’t understand, then realization hit him hard. 

“Rogue...” he inquired carefully, “Are you trying to tell me that your mother died giving birth?” 

A single silent tear spilled from Rogue's red rimmed eyes as he nodded and hung his head; his whole form nothing but misery incarnate. 

“My father has never forgiven me. I took from him what he loved most in the world. He always hated my magic, my powers and when I almost killed my sister, too, he had every right to get rid of me.”

Sting was at a loss for words… How could someone blame a child for simply existing?

How could a father condemn his own son to a life of guilt and pain, deprive him of any kindness or warmth as a punishment for something he couldn't even remember? 

'This ends right here and now…' He thought

Without hesitation he reached out again, gently wiped the stray tear from Rogue’s cheek and cradled his face firmly in his hands as he forced him to look up. 

The amount of agony that dwelt in the deep red eyes hurt him almost physically and he wondered, how the other could have lived like this even for a single day, let alone for three years of solitude and neglect. 

It was high time someone showed this mistreated soul the affection he’d been secretly yearning for. 

So with his heart in his eyes, Sting stated:

“That wasn’t your fault! You didn’t cause those things; they happened to you.”

And because he could see the disbelief in Rogue’s features he added in an honest, gentle voice: “You’re not the culprit here. You’re the victim... It wasn’t your fault!” 

This had probably been the very first time Rogue had been told so and Sting’s words, genuine and true as they might be, just couldn’t hold up against a lifetime of self-loathe and guilt. 

So when he found the Shadow Mage shaking his head he realized, that he could spend decades trying to convince Rogue of his innocence and it wouldn’t be enough. Understanding dawned upon him. 

“It’s not your fault...” he repeated. “But that’s not what you want to hear, is it?” 

Something nameless flickered over the pale features when Sting continued: 

“So how about: I forgive you?” 

In a heart-beat the nameless something turned to sadness as Rogue tried to withdraw. 

“I’m afraid that you aren’t in the position to forgive me ...”

The blond smiled gently, let his hands fall away from the other’s face to entwine their fingers, before he replied:

“I may not look the part, but I’m a full-fledged Priest of the Covenant, so I’ve been granted the right to shrive and the power to absolve together with my consecrations.”

The tremors had returned to Rogue’s tense form and his eyes widened in utter disbelieve when Sting reached out for him.

Index and middle finger of his left hand were all of a sudden emitting a soft, silvery glow of purest white and its holy shine illuminated the strong, prominent features as they slowly came to rest upon his brow.                                                                                       

The Shadow Mage shuddered under the touch, but otherwise remained frozen in place, didn’t dare to breathe in fear of breaking the fragile moment of ephemeral wonder.

“You have laid yourself bare in front of me and the Gods- You have confessed those sins of yours and repented. So, by the power bestowed upon me by Weisslogia, the Brimming Life, I hereby declare them remitted. You have been forgiven in the face of life itself.”

The n he let the light rush from his fingertips and baptized Rogue anew in a surge of everything warm and bright.

Sting had recited the Rite of Absolution without fail and for the first time he came to grasp the overwhelming weight it carried, when a single sob tore itself free from Rogue’s lips.

The blond pulled him in again and this time the dark haired boy sank against him unresistant and weak, pressed his head into the gentle hands and wordlessly begged for the closeness he had been forbidden for far too long.

And Sting was more than happy to oblige, showered the shaking form in his lap with every ounce of gentleness and kindness dwelling in his heart and marvelled at all the things big and small that made up the Shadow Mage.

But amidst the feeling of content, pride and pure unabashed affection he suddenly sensed sadness - raw and stinging - as well as fear, insecurity and a sheer endless well of gratitude.

It was only belatedly that he recognized all those emotions as Rogue’s – namely when he noticed that the strangely regular rhythm of his sobs was a never ending string of “Thank you”s- and the realization of how deep this newly established bond already ran made him speechless.

“You’re forgiven.” Sting whispered as his fingers grazed the soft curve of Rogue’s ear, his temple and then all of his face.

“You’re forgiven. An if you really feel like you have to atone even further...Then do me a favour... Please accept this bond. Please let it save you...”

Rogue still choked on every breath that he drew, still spilled wet, hot tears against Sting’s stomach and the unaltered pain wrecking his lithe form ate away at his soul just as well.

But amidst the chaos Sting had felt the most timid of nods. A shy new beginning.

So he tried using the peculiar, uncharted link to say all the things his lips were too afraid and clumsy to convey .

So he silently spoke of warmth, acceptance, friendship and trust; promised “together”… in life, in death and everything in between, just as the scriptures foretold.

He poured all of his heart into the quiet soliloquy and prayed that he would be heard.

And heard he had been.

From this day onward the bond became a fundamental way of communicating where words became insufficient and evasive.

Rogue’s ragged breathing eventually grew quieter, less desperate; and his whole body unwound beneath Sting’s perpetually caressing hands.

And even though he liked to think that it was his presence, his comfort and succour that had accomplished this, it was actually simple exhaustion that put a timely end to the second onslaught of pain that very night.

Ever so slowly Rogue’s head grew heavier in the blond’s lap, his hands, that had fisted into the back of his shirt unclenched and fell away and when a final twitch ran through the worn-out form Sting could feel the frantic buzzing at the edge of his mind fade into a warm, gentle ocean of nothingness .

F or a very long time he didn’t dare to move, just kept on running his fingers through the silken black hair and only when he was absolutely certain, that Rogue was dead to the world he slowly, carefully got up and bedded his head on a pillow without waking him up.

When he wanted to sneak over to his own bed, however, he suddenly found his hand restrained.

His head snapped around in surprise, and he was instantly miffed for disturbing the other's rest when he found that Rogue was still sound asleep. His hand, though, had unconsciously reached out.

As if his body had somehow found the courage to ask for what his waking mind would never have permitted.

For a moment Sting hesitated, then he threw caution to the wind and carefully slid back down behind the curled up form, allowing one of his arms to sneak around his waist and entwine their fingers.

That night both of them slept a deep, unperturbed sleep and their dreams had been gentle things full of light.

Within the dark confines of the sanctuary, with only the fire’s dying embers illuminating his face, Rogue once again looks very young and vulnerable in the clasp of his nightmare.

So Sting reaches out with his mind, soothes the threatening chaos in the other’s with the general idea of everything safe, gentle and warm, while pressing a lingering kiss to the fine scar marrying the bridge of his nose.

Rogue sighs against his skin the and cracks an eye open, inquiring blearily:

“Som’thng wrong?” When Sting only shakes his head subtly and keeps on studying his features he adds: “Did you remember something?”

Still searching for words, the blond simply nods, before admitting: “I just remembered, that you, Rogue Cheney, have a beautiful soul.”

And Sting is probably the only human being on the planet that could whisper something like this with a straight face without making a complete idiot out of himself.

His voice isn’t mocking, holds no taunt, only honest, barely concealed affection and trust.

“Oh, hush now, you sap!” Rogue groans, but he’s smiling and his ears turn pink in the fire light. “Go back to sleep, I wanna start searching for a way off this damn rock tomorrow.”

For a short moment Sting feels fear pricking at his heart, but then he remembers the sheer unstoppable force of nature the two of them could become if they were to call upon the deepest aspects of their magic and all at once even the impossible appears to be easily achieved.

If the two of them were to set their minds on going home together, even the Nameless Master of the island and all of his distorted knights would not be able to stop them.

And suddenly the morning couldn’t come soon enough.