The knight on horseback looked like something romantic from the fae tapestries that depicted myths and legends in woven silk and wool.

For the briefest of moments, as the afternoon sun glanced across his armor, it appeared as if the knight were not in all black, but bright white. When he smiled down at Esra, he was so dizzyingly handsome that Esra’s cheeks heated. He felt much like one of those tapestry maidens himself, the ones that swooned before heroes in silver-steel armor.

It hurt to look at him, seizing fierce at his heart: the twin knowledge of Umbra’s magnificent beauty, and the violence he had meted out on Esra’s life.

Umbra considered him from his dark steed. “Have you ever ridden before?”

Esra shook his head, anxious.

Umbra did not seem too surprised. “You’ll be riding pillion,” he said. “So just hold tight to me, and you will be fine.”

Esra did not have time to think long on it. With a sharp order and an imperious tilt of his head, Umbra had one of the soldiers come over to help Esra up into the saddle behind him. The man grimaced as he approached, and knelt in the dirt for him, his fingers laced together for Esra’s foot. He kept his eyes downcast, even as Esra’s boot stepped dirt into his hands.

Yesterday, this man would have leered at him, threatened to skewer him with his knife to watch him shiver. Now he obediently lifted Esra up behind the saddle, dusted off his dirty palms, eyes squinting against the brilliant sunlight as he peered at the knight for some sign of acknowledgment. He didn’t dare glance at Esra.

Umbra waved him away without even looking at him.

Esra settled hesitantly behind the broad back of the knight, and Vaughn stamped impatiently, powerful muscles shifting beneath them, flicking his tail. Umbra swung the beast around to address the captain of Balor’s Fist.

“I’ll want a full report when you’re back at the capital,” he ordered crisply. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“Your will be done, Sir Knight,” replied the captain, with a respectful bow of his head. His sly eyes looked between the two of them, at the contrast they made, the inhumanly tall knight of the Order in his darkly gleaming armor, and the slender youth that clutched at him with huge fearful eyes.

* * *

There was a lurch in his stomach as Vaughn started off at a trot, and Esra curled into himself instinctively, hands twisted into the soft folds of Umbra’s heavy cloak. If he looked sideways out of the corner of his eye, he could see familiar sights sweep by his bowed head: the wooden gable roofs, the skyline of trees and mountains, the way the river curved down to the sea.

He knew well the pathways of his home, the type of moss that grew on rock, the colours of the wildflowers. He had never been away from this view long, not his entire life. Now he was leaving behind everything he’d ever known, and he couldn’t even look back at it in farewell. He was terrified of seeing… a corpse staked up behind him, worse, the corpse of someone he knew well and cared for. It would knock the breath out of him, crush him for good.

He only dared to turn back at the ruins of his village once they were far enough that recognisable shapes had turned to blocks of color. When a body was no longer a body, but a smudge on the distance, indistinguishable from its surroundings.

The huts were painfully small against the wide expanse of the ocean, the towering heights of the cliffs and evergreen forest. They shrunk ever smaller as he watched. He felt a devastating pang in his chest, like his heart was being wrenched from him, as the village, the only home he’d ever known, finally disappeared from view, swallowed up by the looming pines.

But there was nothing left, anymore. He could never go home again.

He squeezed his eyes shut and wished for Kian’s safety. If anyone could outwit the soldiers and find passage to the Continent, Kian could.

And then there was father…

Marten had been the centre around whom they had all spun, with a calm, unwavering strength that old men respected and young men aspired to. Esra had none of these qualities. He's more like his mother, they'd said about him. Sihannah had died giving birth to Esra, and his father had never remarried, though he'd been of an age that it would have been expected of him. Like Esra, she’d been gentle-hearted, frail. Perhaps that faint resemblance was why his father had been so tolerant of his failings.

He was 14 summers when Marten began teaching him his responsibilities as the village leader’s son. Many will look to you, he had said, and you must be willing to partake of their burden.

As a test, he’d tasked Esra with giving the customary speech to the refugees before their sea voyage. Esra had heard it many times before. But when the torch was handed to him, the words dried up in Esra’s throat. Looking out at all those hopeful faces, their eyes upon him, he opened his mouth, but couldn’t even form a whisper. His father’s face flickered from pride, to faint hope, to a grievous disappointment. He took the torch back from his shaking son, and spoke in his stead.

When Esra was still a child, he had room to imagine that whatever his current shortcomings, he would eventually grow into the man his father was. That small hope was slowly, inexorably crushed with each passing year. He remembered the dismay in his father’s eyes as his list of failures grew, and then, eventually, resignation, accepting the son he had ended up with.

There had always been an unsurpassable gulf between Esra and his father, but Esra had loved him. This was his last chance.

Esra wet his lips, and looked up at the back of the knight’s head. “Umbra,” he started, and when the knight didn’t silence him, continued with: “My father… is he..?”

“Why ask me this?” Umbra tilted his head at him, mouth down-turned. “You know the answer.”

He was right. Esra had known. But how could he not ask? His hands shook where they clutched white knuckled at Umbra’s cloak. What sort of son would he be, if he didn’t even…

“Is he staked, or buried?” the youth asked, his voice cracking a little.

Umbra paused before answering. Behind the mask, his eyes burned over Esra’s trembling figure. “Buried,” he said simply, looking off ahead again. “He answered all my questions. I saw no reason to humiliate him in death.”

Esra rested his forehead on the broad back, the world around him blurring as tears filled his eyes in a hot rush. As all he saw became water, he let himself be swept away by its numbing tide. He could feel nothing anymore, or perhaps it was that he could feel everything, and in its ruin, his mind could not sort one emotion from the other. But the numbness itself gripped at him, just in one place, where his hands clenched into the knight’s heavy black cloak.

They rode on in silence.

* * *

As afternoon turned to evening, it began to rain. Slowly at first, just a few irritating dots of it on his head. Then the clouds rolled in, and there was a low rumble in the sky.

“Storm clouds,” Umbra scowled, and pulled up his hood. “Planned on riding through the night, but don’t much fancy it in this rain. This damnable changing weather...” He urged Vaughn into a quick trot.

Jostled, Esra wrapped his scarf over his head as securely as possible and clung miserably to Umbra as the rain grew heavy, until finally, they were riding through a downpour. Vaughn stamped steadily on, seemingly the only one not discomforted.

“Can feel you shaking, Esra,” said Umbra, just audible over the rain.

“... m’sorry.”

Esra had stayed close to Umbra’s broad back so his front wouldn’t get wet, his eyes scrunched up, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. The sound of raindrops hitting the ground drowned out everything. Cold wetness seeped into his wool clothing, trickled over his skin.

Umbra petted Esra’s knee, an attempt at comfort.

“There's a Reaper’s Rest around here somewhere,” he called back. “I've stayed in it before. Stay close, Esra, and don’t get too wet.”

He urged Vaughn faster, and a terrified Esra tightened his grip around Umbra’s waist as they launched into a gallop down the road.

* * *

By the time they reached their destination, Esra was soaked through, and exhausted.

The youth was the first to dismount, slipping bonelessly off the horse like a wet blanket, nearly falling over as his feet hit the muddy ground. His legs felt watery, and he struggled to stand steady. Rain trickled down the back of his neck where the scarf had shifted. His breeches were stuck to him, a second skin.

He stared miserably at the puddled ground beneath his feet, and tried not to tremble so noticeably. Through the rain, he heard Umbra heavily dismount, and then a large hand soothed over his shoulder, drew him close to an armored chest.

“We're here,” grunted Umbra, his voice hot in Esra’s ear. He pointed off the road.

It was so dark that he found it hard to recognise anything but mud and trees, but if he squinted, he could see that down a trail into the woods was a stone windowless hut. It looked ancient. Moss and plants had grown into the rocks and walls, part of the structure itself. There was a scythe in the shape of Umbra’s tattoo chiselled over the door.

Umbra rubbed his shoulder. “You get inside and make the place ready. I need to look after Vaughn.”

* * *

It was as cold inside as it was outside, but once Esra started the fire, the enclosed nature of the room meant it grew warm quickly enough. He pulled off his cloak and scarf, and hung them on the wall hooks to dry. In the flickering orange light, he took in his surroundings.

Whatever this place was, and however old it looked from the outside, inside it was comfortable and well tended to. The room was clean, and smelled of herbs. There was plenty of firewood in the wood store, as well as pots to cook in, and a fine table to eat at. There was an enormous canopy bed, with a wonderfully soft mattress filled with, Esra pressed it curiously, wool? Compared to the straw-stuffed beds he’d slept on his whole life, this mattress felt like a cloud.

First, he made the bed, piling on every blanket and fur he could find. He scooped hot coals from the fire into a metal warming pan and slid it under the sheets to heat them. He carefully placed lit candles around the room to illuminate the space. Then he searched for food, for he was hungry, and surely Umbra had worked up an appetite. Alas, the only thing he found was wine, which he abandoned, for he had no desire for another awful headache in the morning, no matter how pleasant the warm numbing effect.

He was tending to the flames when the door swung open and Umbra stalked in, pulling off his damp cloak and holding it out expectantly. Esra leapt to his feet to hang it up for him as Umbra dropped his belongings onto the side table, leant his scythe on the wall. He was obviously pleased to be out of the rain, although unlike Esra, he didn’t shiver from the cold. Then he removed his intimidating mask.

To see that unreal beauty again, it took Esra’s breath away. The knight sighed to himself, pushing his wet hair off his forehead. His skin looked bone-white against the black of his armor, and the dark of his slicked back hair, the graceful lines of his pale profile in sharp contrast against the dim room.

His deep eyes were sweeping over his surroundings. “Very good,” he said simply, noticing Esra’s efforts at making the dark room more pleasant.

Esra’s face heated, unused to praise, and he smiled, unable to help himself.

“Help me out of this armor, would you?” Umbra turned to him, an elegant brow raised, “before I rust into place.”

“Yes, Sir Knight.”

* * *

Umbra slumped in front of the fireplace with a low groan. “What luck,” he muttered. “Come sit by the fire, Esra,” he ordered, crooking his finger at where the youth was hovering by the wall. “I don't want you falling ill.”

Esra obeyed, and knelt on the floor beside the knight, heart hammering in his chest, hands clammy.

Umbra was strikingly handsome by firelight, the sleek planes of his face illuminated by the golden glow. Clad in just his undershirt and breeches, his pale skin damp, his rain-rumpled hair falling over his forehead, the knight looked like some sort of dashing rogue. His deep grey eyes met Esra’s. His lips quirked. Esra swallowed hard.

“Here,” said Umbra, and before Esra could do anything, he curled an arm around the youth’s slim shoulders and pulled him against the warm muscle of his chest.

“Umbra,” Esra intoned in a breathless whisper, tensing up, but he could hardly push the knight away. “I… you don’t…”

Umbra smoothed a hand over Esra’s upper arm, petting him through his panic. “I don’t want you catching a cold. Anyway,” he softly chuckled, voice velvet, “I like holding you.”

What could Esra say to that? He tried, despite his distress, to relax in the arms of his father’s murderer.

All he wanted to do was be allowed to cry, to curl up and mourn his losses. He felt like great pieces of himself were missing. It wasn’t just his village that had been destroyed, it was also the place he’d had in this world, however small it had been. Who was he, now that he was no longer the village leader’s son, a maker and mender?

He was just a thing now, he realised. A kept thing, with no greater purpose than to please its master.

And how long would Umbra find him pleasing? A year? A week?

Tears pricked at his aching eyes from the fear of it. His whole life, so far, had been a long string of miniature failings, and now any failings would brook deadly consequences. He cowered at the thought of sparking that dark fury in Umbra again, that beast that had taken him so cruelly for his first time. He barely remembered it, he’d been so wine-drunk - only a pained haze of being held down and possessed. What had he done to provoke that? Had he made some minute error?

The knight’s undershirt was dry and hot from his body heat. Esra could feel Umbra’s heartbeat against his back, and his chest rise and fall in a smooth, slow rhythm. He was so, human like this. This was the man who ripped out Kian’s smile, who had committed unknown tortures to Esra’s father and buried him in his desecrated home.

It was impossible to overlay the two. The creature who had ravaged him, and the man who had, so gently, tucked his hair behind his ear to better admire the color of his eyes.

Overhead, the rain beat against the roof of the hut, a gentle roar of nature. The fire crackled and sparked, flames dancing in shapes and whirls. Esra felt himself mesmerised by it.

When he chanced a look at Umbra, the knight wasn’t looking at the flames. He was looking right back at the youth in his arms, a golden glow in his smoky eyes. Those eyes softened as Esra looked uneasily up at him.

“Still afraid of me,” he observed. Like he’d somehow been expecting otherwise. He brushed his thumb over Esra’s brow, down the delicate line of his cheekbone.

Esra, vulnerable, turned his gaze back to the flames as the knight absently traced the contours of his face. He didn't dare move away.