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It was by flickering candlelight that Coen worked the sigils into his arm, already red and runescarred from previous attempts–though the sun had not yet set. At first, he’d thought that he was being charitable, squinting and straining to see his knife-hand in lieu of pulling open the heavy curtains that blocked all natural light from entering the room. However, his companion’s incessant complaining had disavowed him of that notion pretty early in the process, and now he continued on out of pure spite.
“Must you do this at the table? Really?”
Coen did not look up, fighting a wince as he dug another red line into his flesh. Blood streaked down from the wound before pooling on the cloth he’d set below his arm to catch it.
He pretended not to notice how his companion’s gaze followed its path, a little too interested. “You are the one who invited me here, Ambrus.”
Across the table, the boyar scoffed, laying down the quill he’d been attempting to write with. Emphasis on attempting, as Coen knew for a fact the other hadn’t written a word for the last 15 minutes. “Pardon me, then. I should have predicted that the first thing you would do upon your arrival would be attempting to flay yourself in my antechamber.”
“You’re pardoned,” Coen said, simply to see Ambrus sputter about. Even through the stinging pain of carving the sigils, he found his own lips curving upward.
As the other vrakhir launched into a long-winded diatribe over Coen’s lack of social graces, he could not help but wonder at how this came to be. Scant weeks ago, Coen had been hellbent on deposing all of Brencis’ boyars, including Ambrus. Then he’d found letters, one after the other. He read them in between routing blood transports and disrupting Ambrus’ operations around Maragir, learning of the tragic fate of Rozalia. It had introduced a sliver of doubt, a nagging voice in the back of Coen’s mind that spoke of the youngest boyar’s lingering humanity.
Later, when they’d dueled, that same small voice had suppressed his bloodlust enough for Coen to stay his blade. He’d allowed the boyar to limp back to his stronghold, an act that went against his better judgement–but by that time, Coen was so tired of killing.
Shortly after, he was slipped an invitation inked in a familiar hand. The first of many.
He was still not sure if he would call what he had with Ambrus an alliance or an uneasy understanding. They argued regularly about many things; those that mattered, and those that didn’t. At least the boyar had agreed to put a stop to the horrors of the draining dungeons readily enough.
Their conversations were getting easier, too. Coen had grown accustomed to the boyar’s lofty mannerisms, his sharp wit that manifested in sharper remarks.
“--Coen? Are you even listening?!”
Well. Perhaps a little too accustomed. “Yes, yes. As a lowly peasant, I couldn’t possibly have known the proper place to bleed.”
“That is not at all what I said.” There was the sound of a chair scraping, the faint flutter of papers being neatly stacked. “But very well, I’ll bite. What are you working on that is so very important?”
Coen briefly leaned over to the notes he’d obtained from Anca earlier that day, studying them carefully. When he straightened to resume his carving, he felt the telltale spectre of Ambrus’ presence along his side. “It’s a new spell.”
“My, my, Coen. Spare me the details.”
Coen resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the droll response, spoken in Ambrus’ signature silky, lilting tone. This part of the pattern was very delicate. He focused on detailing the clean, curving lines, reflexively biting at his bottom lip.
When he was finally satisfied with the end product, he looked up and nearly startled. Ambrus’ face was very close. Coen could practically see his entire profile reflected in those curious silvered eyes, and something about it made his heart leap strangely in his chest.
Turning away quickly before he could grow more flustered, Coen coughed as he used the cloth to wipe the excess blood from his arm. He held the sigils up to the candlelight, twisting his arm so Ambrus could see. “Anca found this sigil in a grimoire that had been stashed away in an old grotto. It is supposed to be a spell that reveals secrets and unspoken truths.”
Ambrus’ brow furrowed, seemingly studying the sigils. Coen pretended not to notice that the other vrakhir had taken a half-step back, as if the red lines could leap from Coen’s arm and strike at him. “Supposed to be? Does it even work?”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” Coen turned his arm in the low light, noticing for the first time just how much blood had crusted and dried under his nails. It would be a pain once his claws lengthened, come nightfall. He then turned to give the boyar his full attention, allowing himself a satisfied smirk. “Why, Ambrus? Do you have something to hide?”
“No,” the boyar said quickly. Too quickly.
Coen’s eyes narrowed, all traces of playfulness dissipating. After all he had experienced lately, suspicion came naturally. “Oh?”
“No, not ‘oh.’ Not even close.” Ambrus held up clawed hands in a placating gesture which Coen didn’t buy for a minute. When the boyar saw that trying for levity was not working, he let them drop with a soft sigh. “Coen, you visit me as a human. You deliberately bleed yourself in front of me; I’ve been drowning in your scent for the past hour. If I had any ill intentions, do you believe I would not have acted on them already?”
“I didn’t say you had ill intentions.” And Coen did not doubt Ambrus, not truly. He had come to trust the other vrakhir… to a degree. He did not think that Ambrus would lie to him, but he also felt certain that the boyar didn’t divulge everything. “In fact, since you’re so honest, surely you wouldn’t mind helping me out this one time?”
It was interesting to watch the other vrakhir’s expressions flicker and change. Ambrus had a great many masks, but time and careful attention had taught Coen some of his tells. He watched for a twitch, a slight widening of the eyes–apprehension.
“Coen, I–”
“What?” Slowly, Coen stood, taking a step toward Ambrus as the boyar took a wary step back. He couldn’t help but take some amusement in the way that the tables had turned–the human, advancing on a retreating vrakhir. Coen allowed a smile to stretch across his lips, lifting his chin to look Ambrus in the eyes. “If you’re too afraid, I suppose I should take my leave and find someone else.”
That stopped Ambrus up short. Long eyelashes fluttered as the other vrakhir frowned, and Coen could practically see the racing of his thoughts. “You mean to goad me.”
Mirth turned Coen’s smile a little kinder, a little more genuine. “Is it working?”
Something like relief flickered across Ambrus’ face, gone as soon as it appeared. Then, he tilted his head back, letting out such a terrible groan that an outsider might believe Coen had asked him to walk barefoot over hot coals. “Very well, cast your fucking spell. I would not have Coen of Laslea think me a coward.”
“I could never,” Coen said. Then, he brought the arm he’d freshly carved to bear, focusing on the sigils. He could already begin to feel the familiar drain that came with witchcraft. “Now, hold very still.”
He saw Ambrus’ jaw clench, but the boyar didn’t move as Coen used the knife he’d carved the sigils with to neatly slice his palm. Light filled his vision on the cast, and there was the pull of Anachora, taking something he’d never get back–not that it mattered. Coen had corruption to spare.
At the very least, the reaction signified a successful cast. Admittedly, Coen was unsure how the spell would manifest… When he’d read the grimoire with Anca, he had imagined it might compel its target to speak truthfully, or perhaps allow Coen a window into their thoughts. He did not expect Ambrus to hiss as if he were in pain, both hands coming up to scrabble at his eyes.
Coen was at his side in a flash. He hadn’t thought it through; he’d just moved, his chest seizing as he heard Ambrus let out a faint whimper through gritted teeth. Reaching up, Coen closed his fingers around the boyar’s wrists, trying to tug them away to check for damage. “Ambrus? Are you alright?!”
For a moment, he was unable to move Ambrus so much as a centimeter, his human strength no match for a vrakhir’s. Then, he felt Ambrus deliberately soften against him, and the boyar’s arms fell away to reveal eyelids creased from how hard they were squeezed shut. His eyelashes were wet, clumped together from where tears had reflexively gathered.
When Ambrus spoke, it was in a tone unlike any Coen had heard from the proud boyar. “It hurts.”
“I know, I know.” Coen released the vrakhir’s wrists, instead bringing both hands up to cradle his face between them. He ran his thumbs over the boyar’s cheeks in what he hoped was a soothing motion. “It’s probably the spell taking effect, but it should pass. Breathe.”
They were so close, he could feel Ambrus’ shiver as the other inhaled shakily. It reminded Coen of Lunka, and the hiccuping breaths she’d take after his sweet pea had woken from a nightmare. A sharp pang of guilt soured his stomach, gentled his touches as he continued to stroke over the boyar’s skin, scars and all.
“I’m sorry, Ambrus. God, this was so stupid. I’m sorry.”
“‘S alright,” the boyar slurred, possibly from the pain. Possibly from Coen’s grip on his face. “Better that it’s me.”
Coen frowned, disliking the tone that Ambrus had used nearly as much as the words. He was sort of glad the other vrakhir couldn’t see it. Blinking, Coen stored the reaction for a later time, instead focusing on the task at hand. “Can you open your eyes?”
“I… I think so.” Coen watched as Ambrus breathed in once more through his nose before letting out a long, deliberate exhale. It was a warm puff that the dawnwalker felt against his own face. “It’s starting to fade, now.”
“That’s good,” Coen said, unable to keep the relief from his voice. “Can you do it? For me, please?” He peered more closely at the boyar’s face, searching for any more visible signs of pain. Ambrus’ eyes were no longer so tightly squeezed shut, although a faint redness had appeared over his cheekbones.
Curious. Coen wondered–could the spell be the cause of such a reaction?
He didn’t have much time to ponder further, for after just a few more shaky breaths, Ambrus managed to open his eyes. What Coen saw drew his mind to a screeching halt, and a sharp gasp left him before he could suppress it.
Immediately, Ambrus’ expression shifted. He seemed stricken, his gaze darting all over. “What, Coen? What is it–oomf!”
The boyar’s voice was abruptly cut off as Coen clamped a palm over his mouth, still trying to parse what he was seeing. It… it shouldn’t have been possible. Unless this spell could somehow override a vrakhir’s nature, but that…
Instead of the silvered, reflective pupils that Coen had come to expect, Ambrus’ eyes looked much more human. Dark pupils, white around the irises. However, there was a key difference–the boyar’s eyes were now a bright, acrid yellow.
Ambrus was not to be silenced for long. Clawed fingers clamped over Coen’s wrist, pulling his hand away from the boyar’s mouth in a flash. Ambrus leaned forward, a snarl on his lips, and when he did so his irises transformed, turning from yellow to a bold red. “For fuck’s sake! You had better have a good explanation, you little–”
“They’re different now,” Coen said, mystified. “Why did they change?”
Ambrus pulled back, blinking. Red became orange. “They?”
Shaking his head, Coen tried to ground himself. His mind was whirling, full of possibilities. “It’s your eyes. Your eyes are changing color, Ambrus.”
“They’re what?!” Coen winced as Ambrus’ voice went up an octave. Orange flashed to yellow, then to a vivid, royal purple. Ambrus’ tone turned considering. “Wait, you seem surprised. This was not the intended effect of your spell, then.”
“Like I said, I wasn’t entirely sure how it would work.” Intrigued, Coen leaned even closer, using the hand he still had cupped around Ambrus’ face to turn him further into the candlelight. He thought of the colors he’d seen so far–yellow, red, orange…purple? Was there a pattern?
Stiffening, Ambrus’ gaze darted downward, somewhere around Coen’s chin, and then back up. Purple shifted into a light, pinkish hue. “What color are they now?”
“Pink,” Coen answered automatically. “Like a flush across skin, or–” He stopped. Backtracked, thinking about the timing of each color change. “Oh, that is rich.”
Orange, then that bold red. The color of blood freshly spilled. “You seem to have lost your ability to speak sense, Coen. Full streams of consciousness, if you so please.”
“It’s a spell to reveal secrets and unspoken truths. The key is in the ‘unspoken’ component.” The corner of Coen’s mouth ticked upward, unable to help himself–just as he couldn’t help the giddy pride that bloomed in his chest. He was pretty sure he’d figured it out. He hadn’t even needed to consult Anca. “Ambrus… the colors are changing based on your mood. This hex shows how you feel to all around you.”
Coen’s fingers slipped from Ambrus’ face as the boyar flinched away, eyes flickering yellow before settling once again within the light pink. Suddenly, he couldn’t seem to meet Coen’s gaze. “Oh, that’s just lovely.”
“It seems like different combinations of the same basic colors can express more complex emotions,” Coen continued, his excitement palpable. He did so love to learn. “Just now, your eyes were yellow, and then light pink. Yellow is probably fear, or perhaps anxiety. And I think pink might be embarrassment? So you’re a little afraid of your emotions being read, and embarrassed that you can no longer hide them.”
Ambrus’ next intake of breath was sharp. His cheekbones were a dusted pink to match his eyes. “You know, I never considered how perfectly horrid an experience it would be, to have all of this described aloud. Are you sure we can’t go back to melting my eyes within my skull? I miss that.”
“Ambrus.”
“I’m not kidding. How long is this supposed to last? I thought it would reveal one or two truths, like the subject of my last wet dream or the latest sin I’ve committed.”
Coen’s grin widened. He was starting to realize how instructive this could be. Though he had put a lot of effort into learning the boyar’s every microexpression, especially early on when he was more unsure of their relationship, he could never be certain what the other vrakhir was thinking. Now, it was as if some of the enigmatic fog had cleared. “And who was the subject of your last wet dream?”
Instantaneously, the light pink of Ambrus’ eyes darkened to become nearly black as the boyar’s brow furrowed. It was like looking into two pools on a moonless night. “Tread carefully, Coen.”
“Fine, a safer question then.” Coen tore his eyes away from the boyar and chewed on his bottom lip, thinking. What did he want to know about Ambrus? What did he need to know? Feelings were such fickle things…
Ah. He knew what he wanted to ask.
“How do you feel about me?”
Fascinated, he watched Ambrus’ eyes erupt into a kaleidoscope of color. First came the telltale flicker of yellow, followed by a bright, poisonous green. Then the light pink. This quickly devolved into a deep blue, as dark and serene as the bottom of a lake. That blue stayed for a moment longer than the other colors, so long that Coen almost expected that to be the end of it, but then–
…Then, another color took the stage. Probably Ambrus’ predominant emotion toward him, although when he saw it, Coen felt his heart sink.
Ambrus’ eyes had turned a stygian red.
It reminded Coen of old, dried blood–perhaps, if it was the bold red he’d come to associate with Ambrus’ anger, it would have been better. More bearable. But this red…
It was the color of scorn, so dark and so hardened that it could never be erased.
Something sharp and stinging dug into his chest, like Brencis had plunged a fang into his heart all over again. All this time, Coen had been unable to bring himself to fully trust the boyar, but he’d also genuinely hoped that they had forged something between them. He felt like a fish who was stuck on land much of the time, his body changed forever in so many ways, and it had been a consummate relief to be able to go to another like himself. After a time, he had found himself enjoying Ambrus’ clever wit, his perspectives… Even his smile, and the way it verged on a sneer until Coen said something to make him laugh.
Against his best efforts to hide it, Coen could tell that something of his emotions must have shown on his face. Ambrus blinked up at him, and that red gaze was searching, as if the boyar were trying to figure out his own feelings from Coen’s reaction. There was a tension to him, too; like the vrakhir could bolt at any moment but was forcing himself to the spot.
All of Coen’s intrigue, his curiosity dried up in an instant. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to leave, to walk out into the sun where he could no longer be followed or seen. “Ah… I have to apologize again, Ambrus. I’ve overstepped.” Coen took a slow step back, already half-turned toward the door.
Before he could cross the short stretch to the exit, a clawed hand clamped hard around Coen’s wrist. A faint tremor, originating from Coen knew not where, caused them both to shake.
“Wait.” Ambrus’ words were rushed, nearly breathless. But Coen couldn’t turn back, couldn’t bring himself to look at the other vrakhir. He didn’t want to see red, red, red.
“It’s alright. I should not have pried.”
There was the sound of another sharp inhale, then an exhale almost like a sob. “Wait, Coen, please. I can explain, I–”
“You don’t need to, Ambrus.” Coen kept his voice firm. If he didn’t, it might–he didn’t even know. His throat felt as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of broken glass. “It’s okay if you… You don’t have to like me. Hate me if you wish, but you have no need for worry, because I… I don’t hate you. I actually admire you greatly. You’re a good man, at heart, despite how Brencis tried to twist you into something else. I could hardly bring myself to harm you, now.”
“Hate you?” Behind him, the boyar’s voice drifted–a stilted, small thing. Then, he heard Ambrus let out a dry chuckle. “I have many feelings about you, Coen of Laslea, but hatred is not among them.”
At this, something in Coen burned, hopeful, and he could not help but twist back toward the other vrakhir. He supposed he was like a dog, eager to be kicked, for he let his gaze meet Ambrus’. The other’s eyes were still that same, deep red.
When Coen spoke, he kept his own voice quiet, a mere whisper. It did not matter that there was no one around to hear. “What is it, then? What do you feel for me?”
He watched in wonder as Ambrus’ eyelashes fluttered. Stilled, as the boyar seemed to steel himself to meet Coen’s challenge. “I’ve grown fond of you, I’m afraid. It’s like standing in the eye of a storm sometimes, watching as everything rages around you, so that it might tear you apart and not caring if it does. I–”
Here, Ambrus broke off as his breath hitched. He looked down, adjusting his grip around Coen’s wrist so that their hands were palm-to-palm. It was… warm. When Ambrus’ voice came again, it was soft. “I do not know what this heart is capable of anymore, Coen. It no longer beats.” There was a tightening, a single, strained stretch as time seemed to halt. Their fingers intertwined. “Would you even still want it?”
Coen’s breath left him, and he surged forward. He might have said something, might have uttered the boyar’s name; he couldn’t be sure. Within him something that had long been iced over, silent and sleeping since his mother’s condition took hold, since Alin, cracked apart.
Their lips met and no angelic choir burst forth, no radiant light shined down from above. Not for creatures such as them. But the way Ambrus let out a choked noise, bringing up his other hand to grip the dawnwalker firmly at the nape and haul Coen into him–
Well, it was just the same. Better.
They stayed pressed flush together, devouring each other’s breath like ravenous beasts for what felt like an eternity before Coen had to forcibly break himself away, gulping for air. Instead, his gaze roved over the boyar’s face, immensely relieved to see that the spell had waned. Ambrus’ eyes were treasured silver once more, glinting in the candlelight. The boyar was looking back at Coen like there was no one else, nothing else on earth to take his attention.
A beat, then two. Coen felt something in his face stretch, almost painful with how hard he was smiling. There was an emotion brimming in Ambrus’ eyes, one Coen didn’t need witchcraft to read. He reached up to trace a scarred jawline, a high cheekbone, and was gratified to feel the boyar’s answering shiver.
Coen had already resolved to defeat Brencis. To save his family. But perhaps, he’d just developed a more selfish reason to push forward.
A new beginning.