Chapter Text
The lion's roar shall pierce the night,
Bringing forth the land's new light.
The silver castle crumbles down,
Darkness falls without a crown.
Bound once, then broken, lovers renew,
The belts and bells will ring so true.
None can defeat, things are unknown,
Except themselves, and all they own.
⟡
On the distant horizon, a castle materialized like a vision. A gleaming silver fortress, perched atop a jagged rocky mountain, its spires reaching towards the sky and its walls glistening under the sun's golden rays. It commanded a panoramic view of the sprawling land below from its lofty heights, where busy city nestled among its busy road.
The townsfolk erupted into jubilant cheers. They showered him with flowers, the colorful petals swirling in the gentle breeze. Overhead, a red banner emblazoned with a winged lion fluttered proudly, as if the lion had roared, following the shouts and praises of its people.
His gaze transfixed on the castle, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching him in return, its silver walls shimmering like an understanding eye. As he made his way through the crowds of adoring people on top of his noble steed, their shouts gradually faded into a haunting silence.
Static. Buzzes.
There's a faint soft pealing of a bell, chiming in the distance.
"Was it worth it?" A voice, hoarse and dripping with weariness, pierced the stillness. He couldn't tell who spoke those words, yet, deep inside, he seemed to know them all too well.
Slowly, he turned his head.
There's a figure cloaked in shadows, adorned with silver hair that gleamed like moonlight and eyes bloodshot with sorrow. A crown fashioned from twisted metal rested upon the figure's brow, crimson droplets of blood trickling down from its temple like tears of anguish.
"You've achieved it," the figure declared, a smile twisting its lips into a mocking sneer. "But was the price you paid truly worth it?"
A chill swept through him, and the once radiant castle now seemed to loom ominously, its silver facade taking on a pallid, spectral hue. The cheers of the townsfolk echoed hollowly in his ears, mingling with the haunting question that lingered, unanswered in the air.
⟡
Gasps!
Bartholomew woke up with a start. His shirt clung to his back, his entire body drenched in sweat. His head pounded, and so did his heart. He tried to stand, but the shock of his nightmare caused him to trip on his sheets, sending him tumbling from his bed.
"Gaia's tits," he groaned, muttering curses to himself as he slowly hoisted himself up.
"The good folk of Thitia would likely faint dead away if they heard the tempest currently erupting from your royal gullet. Why, their most colorful curses pale in comparison to the symphony of profanity you've unleashed upon this unfortunate chamber," a soft voice interrupted his string of curses. Bartholomew turned his head towards the sound, finding a man leaning on his windowsill with a book in hand. His eyes never left the pages, seemingly focused on the content even though Bartholomew knew he had finished the book at least twenty times already. The afternoon light shone on his delicate features, accentuating his slowly emerging defined jaw.
Bartholomew loomed over the man and snatched the book from his grasp, prompting a groan of protest. "By the forgotten gods," he wailed, "you'll surely answer for this outrage! I will have your head for that," the man said, and Bartholomew could only chuckle in response.
"Don't be dramatic, Malachi," Bartholomew teased, rolling his eyes with mock seriousness. "Besides," he continued, slamming the copy of Alchemilia Vol. I shut with a resounding thud, "You are not the king. Seven Hells, the King himself never placed a death sentence since Gaia-Knows-Sunturns ago."
"Then a reformation is nigh! When your snores echo their final breath, and the King, faced with the yawning abyss left by your absence, deems me the lesser evil–and yes, the lesser evil than you or that gaggle of grasping cousins–I shall ensure such disrespect withers from the court!"
Malachi leaped from the windowsill, snatching his book from Bartholomew's grasp. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the book snapped open again. A pout, as dramatic as a fallen prince's soliloquy, etched his features. Bartholomew, despite himself, couldn't help but harbor a sliver of fondness for Malachi's theatrics. His amusement bubbled over into a chuckle. "Do you always have to sound like a court jester auditioning for a tragedy?" he teased.
Malachi, however, remained ignoring him. With a theatrical sigh, he flung himself onto Bartholomew’s luxurious bed, limbs splayed like a starfish, the sheets rustled in protest.
"Your bed is all wet, for Fates," Malachi cringed when he noticed the sweat marks on the sheets. "Did you wet yourself or something? Yuck." Bartholomew heard him mutter and laughed, while Malachi sighed, placing the book on the end table before lying back.
Bartholomew shrugged and sat at the edge of the bed. "What can I say? That's what you get from sleeping till broad daylight."
Malachi hummed thoughtfully, his demeanor shifting to solemnity as he fixed his gaze upon Bartholomew.
"You were tossing in your sleep," Malachi observed, his eyes drilling into him. "And you woke up with a start. Another dream troubled you, didn't it?" he asked, quietly. And Bartholomew turned away slightly, avoiding direct eye contact. He offered no reply, his silence speaking volumes.
"What haunted your dreams this time?"
Bartholomew looked down at his hands. The dreams were a jumbled mess, fleeting glimpses that left a cold dread clinging to him. It came to him in random, intangible flashes. But he knew enough to say, "The Loathing Road... I was marching on it, the banner of our kingdom flapping above. I think there was a war, but I don't know for sure. The people were cheering on me as I walked past them. There's the castle, impossibly white against the bleak sky. And then..."
He trailed off, the memory solidifying like ice in his veins. Behind his closed eyelids, an image flickered into existence: a man clad in night-black armor, his helm casting a chilling shadow that concealed his face. A cascade of silver hair, moonlight turned to ice, streamed out from beneath it, and twin crimson embers glowed with an unnatural light from the eyeholes.
Bartholomew paused, sensing Malachi's intense gaze.
"He... He stood before me," Bartholomew rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "And he asked. He asked me... if it was worth it."
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the phantom away, but the chilling sensations lingered. It feels like it wasn't a dream, not truly. He felt as if he could hear the metallic clank of the armor right in his ears, the huffs of the horse, and the sinister cackle in the man's mouth. But he knew it wasn't true because he had not dreamt of that part. The mysterious figure never laughed, never walked an inch closer. He always kept his distance and always asked the same question.
A single, bone-chilling question that echoed in the silence it left behind:
"Was it worth it?"
The weight of the unspoken answer pressed down upon him, a suffocating cloak made from regret and doubt.
A shudder ran down Bartholomew's spine. He tried not to think of it, but the mysterious figure seemed so familiar. It felt like someone he knew, someone close, nearby. But what ? What had he done in that dream to warrant such questioning? Bartholomew pondered the haunting images, knowing he shouldn't dwell on them any longer. It was just a dream, after all. And yet, somehow, he was unable to shake their persistent grip. The dream had recurred too often now. The first time, he thought it was a nightmare. The second time, he figured it was fatigue from all his sparring matches with Commander Owen. The third time, he was convinced it was some sort of omen. The fourth time? By the fourth time it happened, Bartholomew just thought he had gone insane.
"Have you figured out who that person is?" asked Malachi.
"I don't know," replied Bartholomew honestly. "He feels... familiar. Like I should know him. But I can't place him." Bartholomew sighed heavily.
"If it were my dream, I might unravel the mystery," said Malachi. And Bartholomew couldn't help but snort, though it lacked mirth and more frustration that crackled like a live wire.
"How, Malachi? Because of your magical affinity to understand the grand scheme of the universe, or perhaps you've stumbled upon some more books filled with fantastical nonsense?" The words tumbled out, harsher than he intended, but the weight of the question, the constant speculation, had finally pushed him over the edge. A dull ache throbbed at the back of his skull, a physical manifestation of his mounting irritation. He pivoted on his place, his eyes daring to face his best friend to see any sign of irritation or, worse, pity.
But unlike the usual barrage of concerned glances he received, Malachi's gaze held a quiet understanding. No mockery flickered in the depths of his pale blue eyes, no pity marred their serene surface. It was a reaction so unexpected, so utterly devoid of judgment, that it momentarily stunned Bartholomew into silence.
A hush fell over the room as Malachi leaned forward, toward him. "I had a dream, before," he whispered. "In it stood a king, a titan carved from granite, his age I could not tell. His armor, a polished mirror reflecting the faintest gleam of sunlight even amidst the darkness surrounding him. And in his hand, there was a blade that sang with power, with beautiful wings on its hilt, a choir echoing in its every swing."
"The monster it faced," he continued, his voice dropping, "was a nightmare given flesh, a monstrosity that defied description. Hideous and filled with malice. Every time it speaks, I feel my lungs constricted and my head pounding. I would not be able to stand next to it without fainting, perhaps. And yet, the king stood firm. His face, though, remained a blur. Never for once, I can see his face clearly. Who was he, my brave warrior? Every time I dreamt of him, my heart seemed to skip a beat. At some point, I thought that it was just a wet dream. Some horrendous kink about having my knight in shining armor that would save me from the blasted, hot smithery and into his castle where I could use his wealth to freely make my share of special weapons. Perhaps the line between nightmare and twisted desire blurs in the crucible of your subconscious."
A warm feeling, like the first rays of a summer sun, spread through Bartholomew's chest as he watched Malachi retold his dreams. His hands danced in the air, mimicking the epic clash from his dream. A glint of amusement flickered in Bartholomew's eyes. The weight from his nightmare seemed to lift from Bartholomew's shoulders, replaced by a lightness borne solely on Malachi's animated words.
"Just a dream, I scoffed at the time," he muttered, a flicker of self-deprecation crossing his features. "A figment conjured by an overactive teenager's mind. But still, the dream lingered, like a thorn in my side. And as the suns bled into rays," he continued, "truth began to dawn. Deep down, buried beneath layers of doubt and disbelief, I knew who that person was."
Malachi looked up to Bartholomew. His eyes filled with resolve. "That king, that champion, was none other than you."
A scarlet tide surged up Bartholomew's neck, staining his cheeks and warming his ears to the point of burning. Malachi's words hung heavy in the air. Was it just the flickering firelight, or did his gaze linger a beat too long? Bartholomew's heart felt like it had threatened to burst from his chest.
"How so?"
Malachi shrugged. "Because only you could defeat such fiend."
⟡
Commander Owen was one ruthless man. He was a force, a man of unyielding ferocity. His punches were relentless, his sword strikes unrestrained, each sparring session a vivid reenactment of defending the realm from encroaching darkspawns. He battled with the intensity of one whose very survival hinged on every move, where a single error spelled doom. There was no room for hesitation, no allowance for misplaced steps. It was a crucible, a desperate fight for breath against a relentless storm.
Thus, Bartholomew always emerged from training battered and tired, his body bearing the marks of Owen's rigorous instruction. Bruises bloomed across his body like grotesque wildflowers, and every muscle screamed in protest. He felt like he'd scaled the treacherous slopes of the Mountain Ironhold in a single, breathless sprint, every muscle burning with the effort. At least, in those moments of physical intensity, he found rest from his ceaseless nightmares. He dared not let himself be distracted, not when the stakes were so high.
Commander Owen, a mountain of a man with a voice like gravel scraping against stone, loomed over him. "Footwork, boy," he grunted, the word a boulder tossed at Bartholomew's battered form. Unlike Bartholomew, sprawled on the training ground like a ragdoll, Owen stood tall, his chest barely heaving. It wasn't a victory lap, not a moment of smug satisfaction. It was simply another sun for Owen, another session of molding raw clay into a weapon fit to defend the kingdom.
Bartholomew felt like his lungs were on fire, his vision swimming, forcing air into his starved muscles. How long has it been? Five sunshifts? It probably wasn't five sunshifts. But to Bartholomew, each clang of steel, each parry and thrust, each agonizing moment under Owen's relentless assault, stretched into an eternity of pain and exhaustion.
"Am I even improving?" he snarled, the words dripping with frustration. Each training felt like a perilous gamble. Sometimes, a glimmer of fulfillment sparked within him; other times, he was engulfed by a wave of despair. He loved the feel of his swords, the thrill of the dance of blades, yet being ceaselessly bested by a war-hardened veteran like Owen left him doubting his progress. Despite his efforts, there was no tangible evidence, no clear sign that he was making progress.
"Back then, you wouldn't last two heartbeats before I'd disarm you," Owen remarked, removing his gauntlet with a metallic clink. "Now, you held your ground for seven minutes."
Bartholomew struggled to a sitting position, prying off his helmet with a weary sigh, allowing the cool air to caress his sweat-drenched face. They always trained in full battle armor, each session another grueling ordeal that seemed to teeter on the edge of mortality. His mortality. Across from him, Commander Owen's stern face cracked into a smile. That smile was the closest sign of hope, a silent acknowledgment that Bartholomew had put up a good fight. It lifted his spirits. For if Owen, the battle-scarred commander, could smile at his efforts, then surely he was on the right path.
But Owen's gaze faltered, the fleeting smile curling into a mischievous smirk. "Ah, your betrothed is here," Owen teased. Bartholomew's brow furrowed at the words. He had received no word, no herald, that the Duke of Black Hounds' daughter would visit. As the heir to the royal kingdom, his fate had been sealed from birth. His father had pledged him to the duke's daughter long before he had drawn his first breath.
Bartholomew slowly turned his head to follow Owen's gaze. "Leilana isn't supposed to visit me just—"
Oh.
Standing on the balcony, Malachi stared down the courtway at him. His head rested on his hand, and a slow smile spread across his face as he saw Bartholomew's realization. He waved, a gesture filled with an unexpected warmth. Bartholomew, still processing Owen's words, raised a cautious hand in return. The reality of what Owen had said dawned on him. Did he just say that Malachi was his betrothed? The revelation hit him like a bolt of lightning.
"Master Smith Dwayne's apprentice is a talented lad. While his skill with forging swords is well-known, did you know he crafts exquisite jewelry as well?" Owen remarked, shifting his gaze from Malachi to Bartholomew.
Of course, Malachi was gifted with his hands. His slender fingers gripped the hammer's haft with precise strength, avoiding any unnecessary strain. His palms were rough, proof of the countless sunshifts he spent tempering steel. He regarded his creations with the reverence of a devotee, a Maker infusing life into each masterpiece. His intense gaze scrutinized every detail, filled with both critical analysis and profound adoration.
Bartholomew felt his cheeks flush with heat once more. How long had Malachi been watching him? In the shadow of Malachi's skill in blacksmithing and his mastery of enchanting weapons with magical runes, Bartholomew's swordsmanship seemed almost an insult. It felt as though his unpolished skills diminished the craftsmanship and dedication Malachi poured into forging the finest blades. And next to Owen, he must have appeared pitifully inadequate. The thought of looking like a failure, especially in Malachi's eyes, gnawed at him. He yearned to be seen as worthy, to rise above and earn the respect of the brilliant smith.
Bartholomew shook his head, tearing his gaze away before Malachi could decipher his thoughts. "He's not my betrothed," he muttered, turning back to Owen. The commander only laughed at his obvious discomfort.
"Aye, child. But if you think you're subtle in your pining, then you surely need to improve more than just your footwork," Owen cackled, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
"Wait—what?"
"The Knight Orders know, if you're wondering. There's a betting pool to see which of you makes the first move. And judging by your hopeless expression, I might just collect my 10 sovereigns."
"Wait, you're betting that Malachi will make the first move on me? Why would you do that? If anything, I should be the one to initiate. Not that I'm planning to! He's just a friend. My best friend. But that's beside the point. Nothing is going on between us."
Owen's laughter echoed as he walked away, leaving Bartholomew sitting there, a mix of frustration and embarrassment coloring his cheeks. When Bartholomew turned to find Malachi gone from the balcony, a sigh escaped his lips.
⟡
Thitia, the kingdom where he was born and raised as a lamb to slaughter (an exaggerated way to say how he does not want to be a king), lay to the west of Chayotia, just south of the Dwarven realm of Maouara and north of the wildlands of Hidum. Far to the east, the region's borders were defined by the towering pine trees and cold, rocky passages of Ironhold, marking the edge between Thitia and the expanse of Eshkol. Unlike the beauty of the Elven forests in Nirim or the serene sanctity of the Chantry stronghold in Duyenia, Thitia often seemed mundane to Bartholomew. Perhaps it was because he had spent all of his eighteen years within its confines, where even the majestic white castle of the Thitian Kingdom had lost its luster through the course of his life.
Then again, home often loses its charm when compared to distant lands glimpsed only in fleeting visits.
King Wilhelm of Thitia was an anomaly among monarchs—a man quick to smile and quicker to laugh. One might expect a king to be stoic and stern, but Wilhelm defied such expectations. He could often be found sharing jests with his courtiers, even amid crucial meetings. Perhaps it was his way of navigating the tedious labyrinth of political affairs. Bartholomew had learned from his tutors that the King had been much like himself in his youth, restless and eager for battle, always jumping first to throw some punches and never seeming to know how to hold back his swings. Despite this, Wilhelm was a beloved ruler. The people of Thitia thrived under his reign, and neighboring monarchs respected him. Bartholomew often wondered if he would ever rule as effectively when his time came. He couldn't envision himself maintaining a facade of politeness in the face of the curt remarks, especially from the Eresian Kingdom. Gaia, those stupid men. Those damned people. If it were up to him, he might have punched King Tywenor of Eresian in the face long ago. If it were up to him, the whole of Chayotia might already be embroiled in war.
Politics and subtleties were not Bartholomew's forte. They had always been Malachi's.
Malachi was a blacksmith—no, a blacksmith's apprentice—yet somehow, he maneuvered through the maze of courtly intrigue and veiled barbs with an ease that Bartholomew, despite years of rigorous training and tutelage, could never master. Malachi possessed a persuasive charm, twisting words deftly to make anyone agree with his wishes. Bartholomew knew this was not just bias towards his best friend; he had witnessed Malachi's ability firsthand many times before. Such as when he managed to convince the knight guarding the castle gate to open the door so Bartholomew and he could visit the market. He recalled a sun when Malachi had convinced his language teacher to release him from the purgatory that is three sunshifts of lectures, simply because Bartholomew had confessed his frustration with the cryptic runes they called an alphabet. Malachi could be intimidating when he chose to be, he could be mean if he wanted to. Yet, Bartholomew adored most of the moments when Malachi was sweet. When he allowed Bartholomew to brush his hair, when he shared sketches of the blades he dreamt of forging, when he laughed at his absurd jokes and foolish antics.
These softer moments revealed a depth to Malachi that few others ever saw, a side that made Bartholomew's heart ache with something complex that he couldn't understand or, worse, voice out loud.
Bartholomew believed that Malachi would have been better suited for kingship. But he was merely an orphan of a deceased apostate who happened to find refuge under Master Dwayne's wing at the smithery. His luck continued with a benevolent king who didn't hold him responsible for his father's sins. And perhaps Bartholomew himself was fortunate to have Malachi by his side.
He knew he might not be able to maintain the expectations of the kingdom, to follow in his father's footsteps, to bring glory to the Thitian Kingdom. However, he found peace in knowing that Malachi would always stand beside him. Perhaps, he could persuade Malachi to become his Hand, a trusted member of his royal court. King Bartholomew of Thitia with Lord Malachi as his Hand—this vision made the future seem a bit brighter.
A rasping cough tore Bartholomew from his woolgathering. Master Gregoir's voice, heavy with disappointment, boomed through the dusty library. "Lost, are we, lad?" Bartholomew flinched, his head snapping up like a startled colt, slightly dazed. Gregoir sighed deeply at the confusion etched on his face. He tapped his bony fingers on the parchment before him, sprawled across the worn table was a paper that bore the sigils of the Dwarven Kingdom, Baraz'Kavod.
Bartholomew, mustering a smile as weak as a flickering candle flame, stammered, "No, no. I've been following your words closely; I was simply taking my time to fully grasp them," he fibbed. A blatant lie, but hopefully one that wouldn't land him in the disciplinary stocks.
Gregoir's single eyebrow shot up in question. "So it seems, Prince Bartholomew," he replied, his tone dripping with doubt. "Then, perhaps you can enlighten this old scholar with the third decree of 'Resource Stewardship' within the 'Hammer and Anvil Decree'?"
Bartholomew's face mirrored the confusion of a lost hatchling separated from its brood, his hopes of an early study session dashed as he contemplated his answer. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. Just as he was about to fumble through a response, a soft voice intervened from behind, drawing Gregoir's attention away from Bartholomew's predicament.
"The third law of the 'Resource Stewardship' provision in the 'Hammer and Anvil Decree' pertains to the Dwarven Communal Reserves, Master Gregoir," the voice spoke calmly. "It dictates that a tithe, a lifeblood of the extracted bounty, be set aside for the communal good. This reserve serves as a bulwark against hardship, times of scarcity, a wellspring for grand undertakings of the collective, and a beacon of hope in times of desperate need or emergencies."
Bartholomew turned, a flicker of relief chasing away the shade of embarrassment from his face, to find Malachi standing beside him. The smile on his face seemed to radiate a soft luminescence.
"Very astute, Malachi, your wit is as sharp as a dragon's claw," rumbled Master Gregoir, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "And what constitutes these 'emergencies' that necessitate a plundering of the communal coffers?"
"Natural disasters, economic crises, as well as wars and invasions, Master Gregoir," Malachi replied confidently. "The provisions regarding wars and invasions, outlined in the Legionnaire Covenant, specify that during widespread conflicts across Chayotia, akin to the darkspawn invasion three centurns ago, these reserves are to be mobilized for the good of all Chayoteian peoples. After all," he continued, a sly grin tugging at his lips, "it would behoove the Dwarves to share their bounty, considering their reserves are as overflowing as a dragon's hoard–though perhaps a touch less ill-gotten."
A hearty chuckle erupted from Master Gregoir. "Ah, Malachi," he boomed, wiping a tear from his eye, "your humor never fails to bring a smile even to this old scholar's face. Perhaps you should take pity on our dear prince here and become his permanent tutor. It seems his mind is prone to wander, like a lost puppy chasing butterflies."
Gregoir's eyes darted back to Bartholomew, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Before Bartholomew could voice any protest, Malachi appeared behind his chair. His hand rested on Bartholomew's shoulder. His long hair brushed against Bartholomew's ear like a whisper as he leaned in, voice low and soothing.
"Perhaps," Malachi interjected smoothly, his words laced with sweetness, "our esteemed Crown Prince finds himself taxed. He did undergo Military Training this morning with Commander Owen, didn't you, Bartholomew? You know how rigorous Owen's training can be, Master Gregoir."
Bartholomew, seizing the lifeline, offered a shaky nod. Malachi's gaze, now brimming with feigned concern, flickered towards Gregoir. The old scholar stroked his beard thoughtfully, a low rumble slipping from his chest.
"I suppose you are correct," Gregoir conceded, the tension in the room easing slightly. "Owen, bless his heart, wouldn't know a gentle breeze from a hurricane when it comes to training. Sometimes I suspect his muscles outweigh his brain."
A hint of a smile tugged at Malachi's lips, a silent victory against the looming threat of further embarrassment for Bartholomew.
Malachi leaned closer, and Bartholomew found his senses overwhelmed by the fragrance of gentle flowers of his perfume with a hint of burnt metal of the smithery, an intoxicating scent that threatened to drown Bartholomew in its potency. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Malachi's hand, warm and soft, drifted down from Bartholomew's shoulder, leaving a trail of tingling fire in its wake. It settled on his chest, sending a jolt through his spine.
"Master Gregoir," Malachi murmured, his voice a silken thread that wrapped around the old scholar's attention, "what pearls of wisdom could the Kingdom possibly offer when you hold the very wellspring of knowledge at your fingertips? We are but mere fledglings, desperately flapping our wings in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the sun's brilliance that is your mind."
A heavy sigh escaped Malachi's lips, a theatrical display that drew a hearty laugh from Gregoir, and a choked out, embarrassing sound from Bartholomew as his hot breath fan on his cheeks. Gregoir's face crinkled with amusement, his eyes twinkling with mirth. Bartholomew, however, remained frozen, a silent prayer escaping his lips. He pleaded with the heavens above that Malachi wouldn't hear the thunderous clamor of his heart, nor notice the fist clenching at his side, yearning to reach out to his hand in a gesture of gratitude (or perhaps something else entirely).
"Aye, well said, young Malachi," said Gregoir, the laughter subsiding into a chuckle. "But tell me, what brings you here so unexpectedly? If this summons you away from your post as my student's ever-present shadow, it must be a matter of some import."
"Indeed, Master Gregoir," Malachi declared, his voice laced with an urgency that mirrored the frantic pounding of Bartholomew's heart. "Our esteemed prince has obligations that demand his immediate attention. Might we be granted leave? Time, alas, is a swift-footed beast, and it brooks no delay."
Gregoir rumbled a sound that could have been either amusement or skepticism. "Very well," he answered. "But heed my words, my prince. By dawn, three suns from now, I expect your studies to be mastered. Let not your… engagements hinder the pursuit of knowledge."
He gathered a formidable armful of scrolls that dwarfed his already small body. With a final, lingering glance at Bartholomew, Gregoir lumbered towards the exit, leaving behind the distinct thump of the heavy oak door slamming shut.
Alone with Malachi, a relieved sigh escaped Bartholomew's lips. "Do I really have any time-sensitive issues to attend to?"
A sly glint sparked in Malachi's eyes. "No, Your Highness," he drawled, his voice and smirk held a teasing edge. " I merely grow tired waiting for you. Besides," he leaned in closer, the scent of his perfume filling Bartholomew's senses, "consider it a full sunshift of lectures relieved from your weary shoulders. Shouldn't you be eternally grateful?"
Bartholomew's cheeks burned with a heat that could rival the sun. He stammered, suddenly acutely aware of the scant space that separated them. "Oh, uh, yes," he fumbled, his voice barely a whisper. "Thank you."
Malachi's smirk softened, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by a warmth that sent Bartholomew's brain into haywire. "Consider it a debt repaid, then," he replied. He straightened, the playful tension dissipating with a gentle sigh. "Now, where do your fancy-free feet lead us?" Malachi asked, a playful glint in his eyes.
Bartholomew fidgeted, the weight of his nonexistent errands suddenly heavy. "Well," he stammered, "what would you like to do?"
A mischievous smile spread across Malachi's face. "Truth be told," he confessed, "I wish to indulge myself in some reading. I overheard scholars from Marah discussing Etz HaNeshamot, the Tree of Life at the heart of Viesmaa, and their research into its connection with Arbor Bios in Striayodalar. They're diligently studying how these trees interact—perhaps through their roots—and how swiftly their messages travel across the miles of sea that separate Chayotia and Striayodalar. They're even speculating if this root connection could facilitate swift communication among the elves of Dunya."
"Maybe," he continued, a playful nudge in his voice, "your royal library might hold a text on the subject."
Bartholomew's brow furrowed, a frown deepening on his face "Etz HaNeshamot? Arbor Bios? Sounds like the ramblings of a bard who's spent too much time in the tavern."
Malachi threw his head back and laughed. "You oaf. There are seven of them, do you know that? Not just two, but seven Trees of Life all across Dunya! Their roots burrow deep into the earth, intertwining like the veins of the world itself, forming a network unseen by mortal eyes! Surely," he continued, his voice regaining its composure but laced with a hint of playful challenge, "it must spark a flicker of curiosity, wouldn't you agree?"
"Sounds dull," Bartholomew countered. He had no love for books or reading.
Malachi's smile faltered for a brief moment before he recovered, a sly glint returning to his eyes. "Ah, of course. Why am I surprised? Dusty tomes are never exactly your cup of Sylvan tea," he said. "If reading doesn't suit you, maybe you'd rather hone your swordsmanship while I observe," he suggested, casting a glance at the blazing sun through the window. His eyes squinted. "From the cool shade, naturally."
Bartholomew slumped further in his chair, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I'm done with swords. Owen was impossible."
"Then how about braiding my hair as I read? What do you say to that?" A playful glint danced in Malachi's eyes. Bartholomew liked that glint.
"I don't know how to braid hair. I've fumbled over your mane countless times before, and with its impossible silkiness, it always ends in a tangled mess."
Malachi's grin widened. "Then you'll learn again."
⟡
Bartholomew had lost count of how many suns unfolded in this familiar rhythm. Whenever Malachi found respite from his duties at the smithery—whether due to important matters that forced the close sign to stay on through the sun or a rare break granted by Master Dwayne—he would always make his way to the castle. Arriving early, long before Bartholomew awoke, Malachi would sometimes slip into his bed, dozing off beside him. Other times, he would read loudly at the table, undeterred by Bartholomew's groggy protests against waking him.
Suns like these, Bartholomew cherished as his own 'High Sun', even though the duties of being the crown prince are ceaseless and never-ending. Malachi never complained. He patiently waited until the end of Bartholomew's morning sparring sessions, occasionally spiriting him away from his other lessons, dragging him along to indulge in whatever whim had taken hold. Now, Malachi lounged on the floor, engrossed in a book he had taken from the library, something about the Tree of Life or whatever he had said before, occasionally muttering comments and sharing intriguing facts he found, while Bartholomew focused on braiding his hair. It felt almost like another lesson—one where knowledge was imparted in hushed tones and woven strands, rather than from the stern lips of Master Gregoir, who, after all, had no hair to braid.
This was the very thing Bartholomew despised most—remaining indoors, performing idle tasks while someone droned on for sunshifts. Yet, with Malachi, he found himself enjoying it. He ran his fingers through Malachi's long, blonde hair, marveling at how light the strands, contrasting starkly with his own darker complexion. The strands give an illusion that makes Malachi look even paler than he already is. Malachi, often locked away inside the Smithery and away from sunlight, appeared as an anomaly among the sun-kissed people of Thitia, Bartholomew included. If his skin bore any color, it was the flush of heat or the smudged ash of coal. Under the sun, he would just turn red, and he always complained about that.
Then again, Malachi wasn't born in Thitia. His origins, his parents, were a mystery nobody could actually figure out. His lineage likely mingled with something other than human, Bartholomew suspected. Perhaps an Elf, or maybe it was merely his assumption, for he found Malachi really pretty. Pretty, and isn't that how most Men see Elf-kind? They're pretty, and so is Malachi. Malachi is pretty, but not in the delicate way his betrothed, Leilana, was. She was like a fragile flower, delicate and soft to the touch. She was like the soft ray of morning sun, warm and comforting. Her beautiful brown eyes were the very same shade of finest coffee from the distant land of Arnavia, a bittersweet melody in his sense.
Malachi, on the other hand, was misaligned. Not quite either day or night, something caught between white and black. His gaze can be sharp and piercing, cold as the cruel winter storm that withered crops and made the townsfolk pray harder for Gaia's mercy. His smile was oftentimes laced with hidden meanings, sneers and sharp remakes as if it had come out from a viper's forked tongue. Scars and burn marks marred his hands, arms, and other parts of his body, a telltale sign of his work down the smithery. His arms were lightly toned from years of hefting irons and ores, wielding swords, and hammering steel.
But he was also soft. Soft to touch, soft to hold, soft to see. When he smiled at him, his cheeks gave a faint hue of red. Something so sickeningly sweet that makes his inside dying to melt through, causing the particles in his body to part and combust. There's something altering in the way he stares at him, how his gaze seems to penetrate inside the deepest part of his brain, how it tore his chest and gnawed at his heart.
Malachi is either born in Hell or Heaven-sent. Either way, Bartholomew thinks that he's really, really pretty.
"Dwayne is meeting with the king, you know," Malachi remarked, flipping a page in his book. Bartholomew fastened a silver clip in Malachi's hair, securing the braid he had meticulously crafted, feeling a sense of satisfaction as the darkness of the night closed around them.
"What did he say the meeting is about?" Bartholomew asked.
Malachi paused, then shrugged nonchalantly. Rising to his feet, he strolled to the mirror in Bartholomew's chamber, inspecting the braid and muttering a quiet, "Not bad," to himself.
"Seems the King has another scheme for Dwayne," Malachi said, turning to look at Bartholomew. "Some grand expedition to Maouara, I believe. A land rich in ores and gems, perfect for a geologist hiding under a smith skin like our dear Dwayne. Means I'll likely be chained to the smithery like a loyal but bored guard dog. Still, perhaps there's a way to squeeze in some time for revelry after the sun dips below the horizon." Malachi chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, how suggestive that sounds! 'What is this? The Smith having late-night rendezvous with the Crown Prince? Absolutely outrageous! This is preposterous! We must stop them at all costs!' Just imagine the scandal it would cause in the prim court," Malachi's laughter echoed as he mimicked a member of the King's court, one who had once accused them of engaging in illicit activities. Seven Hells, the only atrocities they committed was staying up past curfew, and they had been free of that restriction since they were fourteen. That felt like an eternity ago.
"Whatever became of that pompous peacock, anyway?" Malachi asked as his laughter subsided.
Bartholomew winced, the memory of the man's accusations still sour. "The longer he remained at court, the more the King questioned his sanity. His paranoia... The court dismissed him with a swift kick to the backside, as it were," Bartholomew replied, recalling the face of the man who had leveled those ridiculous accusations.
A satisfied grin stretched across Malachi's face. "Good riddance." He clasped his hand. "This kingdom has enough troubles without court jesters playing judge and jury!" Humming contentedly, he gathered his scattered books and parchments from the floor, placing them on the table beside the bed. He then climbed onto the bed, claiming his usual spot on the left, as close as possible to the flickering candlelight. Bartholomew followed, sighing deeply.
A serene stillness settled over them. Malachi immersed himself in his reading while Bartholomew lay with his eyes closed, not quite asleep yet. The silence grew heavy, and eventually, Bartholomew could no longer bear it. He rolled onto his side and, unable to resist, gently tugged on Malachi's hair.
"By the Fates, Bartholomew," Malachi mumbled, glancing up from his book with a mock sneer. Emboldened by the familiar gruffness, Bartholomew took it as an invitation and leaned closer, bridging the distance between them.
"What makes you think Dwayne won't ask you to come?" Bartholomew whispered, unable to resist twirling a long strand of Malachi's hair between his fingers, finding comfort in its silky texture.
Malachi raised an eyebrow and closed his book, setting it on the bedside table before crossing his arms. "I don't know. Does it matter? Dwayne never sought my presence on the King's missions, and I doubt this time will be any different."
A blush crept up Bartholomew's neck, stark against the pale moonlight filtering through the window. "True, but we are of age now, are we not? Dwayne would want you to understand the depths of a battle smith beyond the wall of the smithery."
Malachi snorted, a puff of air escaping his lips. "A battle smith's duty lies within the forge's embrace, Bartholomew, and it shall remain there for many centurns in the future," he said, his gaze turning a bit distant as Bartholomew believed he was reminiscing the times he spent in the smithery.
He paused for a moment, a considering glint in his eye. "But then again," he continued, slowly lowering himself into a more comfortable position, stretching and yawning as the bed creaked below his weight. "Thitia's battle smiths are a different breed, are they not? They delve into the earth itself, as if we do not have miners for that. Dwayne, Fate bless his stubborn soul, insists on inspecting the ore itself before parting with his coin. Inefficient, perhaps, but if that's the price for the finest steel in the land, then so be it."
Bartholomew watched Malachi settle down, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced across his features. The thought of Malachi might be leaving for an expedition stirred something deep within him, a mix of worry and longing that he couldn't quite articulate. It was a foolish thought. Malachi wasn't even promised a quest.
Malachi rolled to his side, his back now facing Bartholomew. For a moment, Bartholomew simply watched the rise and fall of Malachi's chest until his breathing evened out. Then, summoning a bravery he didn't know he possessed, driven by a yearning he couldn't quite define, Bartholomew inched closer. His body instinctively sought solace against the warmth radiating from Malachi. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around Malachi's middle and pulled him closer, their bodies now flush against each other.
The faint scent of wildflowers, a lingering trace of Malachi's recent travels, filled Bartholomew's senses. It was grounding and familiar. Lulled by the steady rhythm of Malachi's breathing, sleep, a long-awaited visitor, finally claimed him. He drifted into slumber, anchored by the silent communion with his friend. If Malachi was awake, he didn't say anything, nor did he complain about their arrangements. Bartholomew was content with that.
That night, Bartholomew had a dreamless sleep.
⟡
The stewards and chamberlains had long grown accustomed to Malachi's presence within the castle walls. Since childhood, he had accompanied Master Dwayne, ever-present at the blacksmith's side as they delivered weapons to the knights and army. Thus, it was no surprise to them if they glimpsed Malachi slipping out of his quarters in the early morning, before even the roosters heralded the dawn. His comings and goings had become as familiar as the changing of the seasons, a constant thread sewn into the fabric of castle life.
As fate would have it, Bartholomew awoke to find Malachi absent from his side. He had expected as much; duties at the forge awaited Malachi, and Bartholomew had his own responsibilities to fulfill if he wished to keep the king's wrath at bay.
The sun proceeded in its usual rhythm. Bartholomew engaged in a morning discussion with Master Gregoir, pushing his tutor to the brink of exasperation with his easily bored self. He visited the stables to check on his horse and then participated in a brief, sparring session with Commander Owen, more of a friendly match than their usual rigorous training. As the sun dipped below the horizon, he returned to his chambers, still sweating and weary from his exertions. But as he pushed open the oak door, he was met with an unexpected guest.
Malachi sat at the round table near the window, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. He looked up as Bartholomew entered, offering a warm smile that quickly faded into a look of concern.
"You look terrible," Malachi remarked, rising with a concerned frown. He approached Bartholomew, his expression softening. "Well, I did have a spar with Owen. Didn't expect to come away unscathed after that, did I?" Bartholomew raised an eyebrow, and Malachi chuckled. "I suppose not."
He unclasped Bartholomew's pauldron, a practiced familiarity guiding his movements. With a satisfying clang, the heavy metal fell away. His deft hands moved swiftly, stripping away the sturdy metal. "A bath is the very least you deserve after a day like that," he suggested casually as he undid Bartholomew's belt in one fluid motion, a gesture that momentarily sent his thoughts reeling. His breath caught, realizing the foolishness of his own fleeting hope that Malachi might be hinting at something more. Damn, his distracted mind.
"I intend to," Bartholomew replied, setting his sword aside once Malachi had helped him remove his armor down to his gambeson. When he turned to face Malachi, there was an unusual gleam in his eyes.
"What's the matter?" Bartholomew asked, unsettled by the expression.
"There's much to unpack," Malachi replied casually, though his eyes betrayed the seriousness of his intent. "But not until you've cleansed the stench of your battle from your very bones. I've prepared the water. I'll wait until you're finished."
"You sound grave," Bartholomew frowned. "Can't we discuss it now?"
"This conversation needs a clearer head, not one clouded by sweat," Malachi paused, his gaze drifting to the bruises on Bartholomew's skin. He sighed. "I wish I knew of any healing spell, but my talents lie in lesser magic. A rune here, a sharpened blade there," he added with a weak smile.
Bartholomew glanced at his bruises and offered a reassuring smile. "I'll take that bath," he said, and Malachi nodded before returning to the table.
As Bartholomew soaked in the warm water, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease about their impending conversation. Even after drying off, his thoughts remained preoccupied. When he emerged from the bathroom, his damp hair dripped onto his shirt. Malachi sat at the table, holding a book, but his distracted demeanor suggested he hadn't progressed far beyond the third paragraph.
"What do you need to discuss?" Bartholomew asked, taking a seat beside Malachi. Malachi looked up from his book and sighed softly. He hesitated, then reached for the towel draped over Bartholomew's broad shoulders, his touch light and familiar. Bartholomew didn't flinch, instead leaning into the warmth as Malachi gently dried his damp hair. Bartholomew closed his eyes, letting out a sigh of relief as the gentle pressure soothed the ache in his head. But the moment wouldn't last. Malachi cleared his throat, his voice barely a rasp.
Malachi's lips barely moved as he spoke, the words a mere above whisper. "There has been an attack," he said, the word scraping against the silence like rusted metal. Malachi's eyes avoided him as if he was scared, and Bartholomew's brow furrowed, a flicker of alarm replacing the weariness in his eyes. He reached out, his hand closing around Malachi's wrist, urging him to meet his eyes. As their eyes met, a storm of emotions brewed within Bartholomew. The Crown Prince's expression darkened as he absorbed Malachi's words, a sinking feeling of dread settling over him.
"An attack?" he echoed, his voice barely audible. He studied Malachi intently, trying to discern the gravity of the situation. "Where? When? Were there casualties?"
"Darkspawn," he whispered, his voice even and leveled though Bartholomew could notice how it trembled slightly. "Abominations, creatures beyond imagination. Those foul remnants of a much darker age of the Dark Lord's reign, those who defy the natural order. Orcs, goblins, wargs, unimaginable horrors. The attack struck south of Maouara, at the border of Dwarven lands and the wasteland of Sheoloth. If the dwarves fall, we are afraid that the gateway to the south will be open."
Bartholomew's face was drained of color. Darkspawns were infamous for their brutality and relentless assault. The realization that such monstrous creatures had breached their borders sent a chill down his spine.
"Darkspawns," he repeated, his voice low. "And they targeted Maouara, of all places. Did they manage to breach the border? Were there any casualties?"
Malachi's face remained grim. "More than a skirmish, more than a mere border raid," he rumbled, his voice heavy with worry. "The Dwarven army held firm, pushed back the Legion of Dark. But the fear remained. They believe this is just the first wave. The attack feels… calculated. As if testing the defenses, probing for weaknesses. It never happened before. They rarely strike so boldly or, with that of a strategy, not unless…" He trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. He sighed, a hint of frustration in his eyes. "Your father undoubtedly knows of this, though perhaps he keeps it close to the vest, unwilling to spark panic."
Bartholomew clenched his fists, a mixture of anger and frustration welling up inside him. The thought of innocent people being hurt and killed by such brutal creatures filled him with a burning sense of justice.
"Damn it," he grumbled. "I knew Father was hiding something from me. He always tries to shield me from reality, even if it's a serious matter like this."
Malachi let out a ragged sigh. "Perhaps shielding you isn't the only reason," he admitted, his voice laced with a weary understanding. "The King… he carries the burden of the entire kingdom. Sharing news like this before the time is right could spark chaos. He must choose his moment carefully."
A flicker of pain crossed Malachi's face, and Bartholomew furrowed his brow, sensing there was more to Malachi's distress than met the eye. "Malachi, what's wrong?" he asked softly, concern lacing his voice. "You look troubled. Is there something else you're keeping from me?"
"I..." he trailed off, "I will go to Maouara."
Bartholomew's eyes widened in shock and alarm at Malachi's revelation. He stared at his friend, disbelief and fear mingling on his face.
"What do you mean, you're going to Maouara?" he bellowed, sitting up abruptly. "You can't go there! It's dangerous, especially if there are still darkspawns lurking."
"That's precisely why I must go," Malachi explained urgently. "Maouara isn't just any border town; it sits upon a treasure trove. You know how the Kingdom of Baraz'Kavod is located inside the very belly of Ironhold, right? The mountain is renowned for its ores and minerals, and it holds a deposit of Barzelem. Stronger than any known alloy in Chayotia. Owning the resources could turn the tide of any battle. If the darkspawns got their claw on it, they could wreak havoc with weapons forged from such power."
Bartholomew's heart sank as he listened to Malachi's logic. He knew the other was speaking with a resolute determination that could not be swayed.
"But, Malachi," he protested, his voice growing desperate. "You can't just go off and endanger yourself like that. What if something happens to you? What if I... What if I lose you?"
"Then you lose me," Malachi chuckled bitterly, a hollow sound in the tense air. Seeing the concern etched across Bartholomew's face, he reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"I'll weather the storm, Bartholomew," he vowed. "Survival is a skill I've honed in the forge, and I won't be alone. Dwayne will accompany me, and we'll have the might of the Dwarven army at our backs. Our mission is to secure as much Barzelem as we can find and bring it back to bolster our defenses. It's our insurance against future threats."
He sighed heavily, the weight of impending danger evident in his eyes. "Even if... I don't survive, my life is but a small sacrifice," Malachi murmured, his voice tinged with resignation. "Whether I live or die, it may not alter the course of fate."
Bartholomew's heart ached at Malachi's words. He despised the casual disregard his friend showed for his own life.
"Damn it, Malachi," he cursed, his voice thick with fear and desperation. "You can't talk like that, as if your life means nothing. Your life is invaluable, and I won't stand by while you throw it away on some dangerous quest."
"I'm not—this isn't reckless," Malachi insisted, his tone firm. He seized Bartholomew's collar, his gaze ablaze with unwavering resolve. Leaning in close, his face mere inches from his friend's, Malachi's intensity was palpable. "This is about duty, Bartholomew, a duty that weighs heavy on every loyal citizen of Chayotia. This is the king's command, and I will not stand idly by while the people face such a threat. If my journey eases the burden you'll bear in the battles to come, which I certainly believe there will be, then the risk is a pittance compared to the cost of failure."
Bartholomew stared into Malachi's eyes, the other's determination like a flame, ready to burn everything in its path. He felt a pang in his heart at the thought of Malachi putting himself in harm's way.
"But what about what I want?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly. "Have you ever considered how I feel about this? I don't want to lose you, Malachi. I can't lose you."
Malachi's eyes flickered with an indefinable emotion. The silence stretched, the closeness between them suddenly apparent. Bartholomew could just lean in just a fraction more... The thought teased Bartholomew's mind, a tantalizing notion.
"What do you want, Bartholomew?"
Bartholomew's heart beat rapidly in his chest as he stared into Malachi's eyes, their faces mere inches apart. The desire to lean in further, to close the gap between them, grew almost irresistible.
He took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes never leaving Malachi's. "All I want is you. Safe, here with me," he confessed, his voice filled with raw emotion.
Malachi fixed his gaze on the Crown Prince, anguish clouding his eyes.
"If the darkspawns obtain Barzelem, there will be no sanctuary left," he warned, his voice laced with urgency. "They could forge an unstoppable army. The Kingdom of Baraz'Kavod, Thitia, and all of Chayotia would succumb to the grasp of the dark ess. We cannot allow that, Bartholomew. We mustn't."
Bartholomew clenched his jaw, his mind in turmoil. He understood the dire consequences of the darkspawns obtaining Barzelem. The thought of the darkspawns, the army of Dark Legion, gaining control filled him with a deep sense of dread. But at the same time, he couldn't bear the thought of Malachi being in danger.
"I know," he exclaimed, his voice filled with frustration. "I know the stakes, Malachi. But that doesn't change how I feel about you going there. It's too dangerous. I can't lose you."
"You won't," Malachi sighed wearily, his head dropping back in fatigue.
Bartholomew's heart twisted at Malachi's weariness, feeling the weight of their impending separation. He reached out, gripping Malachi's wrist firmly.
"How can you be so certain?" he demanded, his voice tinged with a frustration. "You'll confront darkspawns, demons, and who knows what else. How can you assure me you'll return unharmed?"
"I won't be on the front line, you do know this, right? I am, after all, just a smith. A battle smith, Bartholomew. My place is at the heart of the storm, mending weapons under fire, keeping the edge sharp and the spirit sharper. The Dwarven army will be a wall against the darkness, but even the sturdiest wall needs a skilled hand to maintain its integrity. I'll be there, hammer in hand, nothing more." His voice softened slightly ."Perhaps a trip to the Me'krot HaEven, the legendary Dwarven mine, is inevitable. But I won't be venturing alone. Unscathed? Well, that's a gamble for the capricious fates. Alive? That, I can promise you."
Bartholomew's heart twisted with anguish at Malachi's words. Deep down, he knew Malachi's duty as a smith would keep him away from direct conflict, but the thought of any danger befalling his friend made him feel sick.
"Promise me," he pleaded, his voice catching in his throat. "Promise me you'll return safely. Promise me you'll come back to me, Malachi."
Malachi met Bartholomew's gaze, uncertainty flickering in his eyes as if he foresaw his own fate. Despite this, he nodded solemnly.
"I promise," he assured, a faint smile touching his lips. He placed a reassuring hand on the Crown Prince's shoulder. "I'll return, and when I do, I'll forge you a sword of Barzelem. How does that sound?"
Bartholomew's heart swelled with a tumultuous mix of relief and concern at Malachi's words. The strength and conviction in his friend's voice offered a measure of solace, yet an undercurrent of worry persisted.
"A sword of Barzelem?" he echoed, a small smile curling at his lips. "For me?"
Malachi chuckled, a hint of amusement softening his expression. "Don't get too excited. I'd forge a sword for anyone who pays the price," he teased, though his eyes gleamed with genuine warmth.
"But for you, Bartholomew, only the finest," Malachi continued earnestly. "Forged from the strongest steel, imbued with the mightiest runes. When you wield it, you'll carry a piece of me into battle. When you hold the hilt, you will be reminded of me, as if you're holding me close. Together, we'll lead our people to victory under your banner."
Bartholomew's heart fluttered with a mixture of longing and uncertainty at Malachi's words. The prospect of wielding a sword crafted by Malachi, one that would symbolize their bond, stirred deep emotions within him.
"You're such a sentimental fool," he teased, his voice tinged with both irritation and fondness. "I don't need some fancy sword to be reminded of you. You're constantly on my mind, with or without a weapon."
Malachi's smirk widened, his earlier frustration replaced by playful amusement. "Oh?" he teased, his gaze sparkling mischievously. "Is that so? Why, if I didn't know any better, I might think you've fallen for me. Weren't you the one who said you'd sooner jump off a cliff than court me?"
Bartholomew's face turned red, a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. He knew Malachi was teasing him, but he couldn't help but feel flustered at his words. And the worst part was, he couldn't even deny it.
"You're a menace, you know that?" he grumbled, trying to maintain his composure. "And for the record, you're the one who's fallen for me, not the other way around."
"Strike me in the heart, I'd rather embrace death than entertain thoughts of love for you. It's a tale fit for bards, fool," Malachi chuckled, his tone laced with irony. "You are like a brother to me, bound by duty and blood. Though not officially proclaimed, I stand as your heir apparent. When the time comes for you to pass, I know the king will look to me."
Bartholomew's heart ached at Malachi's words. He had always known that Malachi saw him as a friend, a brother, but the thought of his friend seeing their relationship as purely duty-bound left him feeling strangely hollow.
"Just a friend, huh?" he replied, hoping to hide the disappointment in his voice.
"You know that wasn't what I meant."
Bartholomew watched as Malachi shifted, his blonde hair framing his face almost unnaturally. A small pang of guilt tugged at his heart, as he realized he had let his emotions get the better of him.
"I know," he admitted, his voice much softer now. "But it's... It's sometimes difficult for me to hear you speak of me only as your duty and heir apparent. As much as I hate to admit it, there are times when I wish we were more than just brothers or friends."
Malachi straightens himself then, slightly frowning at Bartholomew's words. "But we are, aren't we?" he tilted his head. "We are best friends."
Malachi's response sent Bartholomew's mind into a whirlwind of confusion. He knew, deep in his heart, that they were best friends. This bond they shared was already a gift greater than he deserved, a precious treasure he feared to jeopardize by yearning for more.
"We are," he agreed, his voice laced with a hint of resignation. "But sometimes I want... more than just friendship. Sometimes I want..."
He trailed off, unable to bring himself to say the words out loud.
The air around them seemed to crackle with unspoken tension as Malachi leaned in even closer. Bartholomew could feel the weight of their impending conversation like a storm gathering on the horizon.
"Say it plainly," Malachi urged, his voice low.
Bartholomew's heart raced in his chest as Malachi's breath brushed against his skin, their faces so close that the boundary between them blurred.
"You. I want you," Bartholomew confessed, his voice a raspy whisper. "Not just as a friend, nor as a brother-in-arms, but as someone irrevocably mine."
Malachi's expression softened briefly, though his sigh carried a burden of hesitation. "Are you certain we should tread this conversation, Bartholomew?"
Bartholomew's resolve solidified, even as a tremor betrayed the fear in his voice. A war loomed on the horizon, its shadow darkening his every thought. Battles with neighboring settlements had never disturbed his sleep, but facing darkspawns—the very legions loyal to the Dark Lord centurns ago—struck fear deep into his heart. Yet, this fear fueled a newfound bravery within like never before. "Yes, Malachi. We can no longer evade what lies between us. It's time we confront our truths," he declared, his voice steadying with the weight of his conviction.
"Our paths are divergent," Malachi countered gently, his tone fraught with apprehension. "You are bound to the throne, betrothed to Lady Leilana. What you feel for me, it may not be rooted in reality. Any notion of... love towards me is likely a mere figment of your imagination."
Bartholomew's heart sank under the weight of Malachi's words, yet he could not deny the fervor of his emotions. "True, our roles are ordained by duty and expectation. But these feelings, they are undeniable. They defy reason and station."
Malachi met his gaze, a flicker of anguish passing over his features. "And what of your reign? Your future heir? The very war that looms over us?"
Bartholomew felt a stab of guilt as he met Malachi's eyes, seeing the anguish and inner turmoil mirrored there. He understood well the complexity their feelings bore, entangled as they were amidst the weight of their duties and the looming specter of war.
"The duties that bind me as prince and future king are my priority," he said. "But, Malachi, know this: my heart's yearning for you is not a fleeting fancy. It has grown steadfast and true over time."
"Duties as prince and future king," Malachi scoffed bitterly, his tone sharp as a sword's edge. "Those are immutable facts. You cannot abandon them to live a life far removed, even in the quaint shelter of a smith. Spare us the embellished words. Whatever emotions stir within you, they cannot alter our reality. Let us end this conversation now."
Bartholomew felt a building nausea at Malachi's bitter tone. He knew the other was attempting to quell any hope or possibility of a relationship between them, but he couldn't help but feel a slight of defiance.
"You think I don't know that, Malachi? You think I haven't contemplated the reality and consequences of my position?" He exclaimed. "Just because I'm the rightful heir to the throne doesn't mean I don't have feelings, damnit! I don't want to let go! Why can't you understand that?"
Malachi sighed heavily, his breath laden with resignation. "Would it ease your burden if I simply said I do not return your love?"
Bartholomew felt a sharp pang in his chest at Malachi’s words, his heart clenching painfully at the thought of rejection. Yet, he refused to entertain the notion, shaking his head with determined defiance.
"No," he replied, his voice steady yet tinged with sorrow. "It wouldn't ease anything. It would only be a falsehood. I seek no comfort in lies, Malachi. Whether or not you return my feelings is your truth to bear. But do not deceive me."
Malachi clenched his jaw, his expression hardening as he rose to his feet, his resolve palpable. "I do not love you. I never have. Ours is a bond forged in respect and camaraderie, nothing more."
His words rang out like a decree, the finality cutting through the air like a blade. Bartholomew stood before him, grappling with the sting of rejection and the bitter truth that their relationship, built on honor and brotherhood, might never transcend into the realm of love he so desperately sought.
"You cannot mean that," he protested, his voice thick with desperation. "There is something between us, Malachi. I can feel it, I know it's there."
"Nothing," Malachi declared sharply, his words cutting through the air like a blade. "I feel nothing for you. If my actions have led you to believe otherwise, then I apologize, my prince. Perhaps it is best that I maintain a distance from you to prevent further misunderstandings."
His tone softened, the edges of his resolve beginning to fray. "I will depart for Maouara at dawn. It will afford us the necessary space. This arrangement seems... prudent."
Bartholomew felt a surge of panic gripping his chest at Malachi’s words, the mere thought of his departure for Maouara tearing at his heart like claws of despair. The prospect of separation from Malachi, especially amidst the precarious state of their relationship, felt unbearable. He clutched Malachi's hand tightly as if to anchor him in place.
"No. Please, I beg of you," he pleaded, his voice trembling with desperation. "Do not leave. I can't stand being apart from you, not now. Our bond feels fragile, uncertain... but I cannot bear the thought of you gone."
Malachi's gaze flickered down to their intertwined hands, pain shadowing his features before he gently withdrew from Bartholomew's grasp.
"I must take my leave," he murmured softly.
Bartholomew felt his heart shatter into a thousand shards as Malachi slipped from his grasp, the anguish etched on the other's face intensifying the ache in his chest. Every fiber of his being screamed to hold on tighter, to defy the impending departure, but he knew it was a futile struggle.
"Please, Malachi," he implored, his voice quivering with raw emotion. "Stay. Do not leave me. I cannot bear it. I need you here, by my side."
Malachi remained silent, his eyes avoiding Bartholomew's pleading gaze as he turned and began to walk away, his steps echoing heavily in the chamber.
⟡
On the distant horizon, a castle materialized like a vision. A gleaming silver fortress, perched atop a jagged rocky mountain, its spires reaching towards the sky and its walls glistening under the sun's golden rays. From its lofty heights, it commanded a panoramic view of the sprawling land below, where busy city nestled among its busy road.
The townsfolk erupted into jubilant cheers. They showered him with flowers, the colorful petals swirling in the gentle breeze. Overhead, a red banner emblazoned with a winged lion fluttered proudly, as if the lion had roared, following the shouts and praises of its people.
His gaze transfixed on the castle, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching him in return, its silver walls shimmering like an understanding eye. As he made his way through the crowds of adoring people on top of his noble steed, their shouts gradually faded into a haunting silence.
Static. Buzzes.
He knows this dream.
Bartholomew turned his head. There he was. Twisted crown adorning his head, blood dripping from his temples. Pitch-dark armor covered his body, bloodshot eyes staring right through his soul.
He knows what comes next.
Was it worth it?
"Was it worth it?" A voice, hoarse and dripping with weariness, pierced the stillness. He still couldn't tell who spoke those words, yet, deep inside, he seemed to know them all too well.
"You've achieved it," the figure declared, a smile twisting its lips into a mocking sneer. "But was the price you paid truly worth it?"
Bartholomew wrestled his churning thoughts, trapped in a mire of recurring dreams. The same haunting script, the same chilling lines. He recognized the flow of the nightmare down to the single intake of breath. This is a place he'd retreated from countless times before. Yet, tonight, a strange bravery blossomed inside his chest, a defiance against the shackles of sleep. Just as his lips parted, a discordant symphony shattered the fragile hold of pre-dream reality.
With a jolt, Bartholomew flung his head towards the source of the intrusion. Bathed in the muted hue of the sun, a figure materialized before him. Malachi.
Pale.
Bruised.
Battered.
Sick.
This was a grotesque parody of his friend. His once vibrant blonde hair hung limp and pale, his skin a pallid marble etched with fatigue. A crimson stain, macabre and fresh, marred his cheek and spread like a spiderweb across his robes. A chilling smile, devoid of its usual warmth, stretched across his lips.
"Even if... I don't survive, my life is but a small sacrifice," Malachi murmured, his voice tinged with resignation. "Whether I live or die, it may not alter the course of fate."
Bartholomew's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum solo against the haunting melody of his friend's words. This was no longer a dream, but a grotesque premonition, a sliver of a future he desperately wanted to deny.
From the inky maw of the alleyway, a hulking silhouette lumbered forth. An orc. Pallid green like the color of rotten leaves, rancid breath reeked of carcasses and coppery blood. A monstrous axe hung heavy in its meaty claw. Bartholomew froze, the blood in his veins turning to ice. A primal scream clawed its way up his throat, but no words came out. No words came out. No words had come out as Dunya stopped on its axis and the universe came to a halt.
That was a clean cut.
Bartholomew was certain that the world had ended there. Spray of crimson, droplets of red. There was a face staring at him on the cobblestone as it rolled, rolled, and rolled before it came to a stop. The once-lively street fell silent. Only the wretch's ragged breathing and the wet plop of a severed head remained to punctuate the stillness in the air.
"The lion's roar shall pierce the night,
Bringing forth the land's new light.
The silver castle crumbles down,
Darkness falls without a crown.
Bound once, then broken, lovers renew,
The belts and bells will ring so true.
None can defeat, things are unknown,
Except themselves, and all they own."
He screamed.
⟡
Gasps!
A jolt ripped Bartholomew from his slumber, a banshee's shriek echoing in his skull. He erupted from the bed, ripped from a nightmare so vivid it clung to him like a shroud. Sweat, cold and clammy, soaked through his bed. His heart hammered a frantic tattoo against his ribs, a drumbeat echoing the fear coursing through him.
Scrabbling across the sheets, his hand reached out, desperately seeking the warmth of something, someone. But the bed was empty. There's a desolate landscape in a place where Malachi should've been. Panic swelled inside his chest as he peered at the sliver of sun lacing through the window—high noon!—and the horrifying truth slammed into him. He hadn't just slept in, he'd drowned himself in oblivion.
Bartholomew, still clad in his nightshirt, bolted from the room, a torrent of curses escaping his lips. Each "Fuck!" and "Shit!" and "Damnit!" fueled his growing frustration. He burst into the hallway, a whirlwind of fury in rumpled clothes. The king, in the midst of a court meeting, was startled from his throne. Every head swiveled in Bartholomew's direction, a hush falling over the courtroom.
Ignoring the stunned silence, Bartholomew bellowed at the court. "Where in the Seven fucking Hells is Malachi?" he roared, his voice raw and hoarse, still thick with sleep but no less desperate and filled with growing stress.
Commander Owen, his brow furrowed in concern, addressed Bartholomew's disheveled figure. "Easy there, lad," he said, his voice calm amidst the chaos."What's gotten you in such a state? Malachi... he left with the army, seven sunshifts past."