Ayen stood at the rail of his balcony. The air in Greeley was cleaner than he was used to and it was often quiet here at night. There were rarely drunks arguing in the street or people fighting and Ayen never heard the sound of shattering glass. Despite having spent years breaking into and stealing from these sorts of homes, Greeley felt like such a safe place to live. He hadn't been especially welcomed as an elf in a human dominated world, but he'd taken his place here for better or for worse.

"Enjoying the cozy life, Cyren Valgella?" a cold voice asked from the shadows in the corner of the balcony. Ayen felt his heart skip a beat. His body went cold. Nothing good would ever come at the sound of that name. He reached for the knife that lived at his waist.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The sharp edge of a blade bit into the back of his neck. A familiar blade and a familiar voice.

"I had heard you escaped. Seemed impossible, but I suppose that's what I deserve for underestimating you." The joy he felt at hearing that voice was eclipsed by the fear of his past and he struggled not to let it show. He gripped the rail to keep his hands from shaking.

"You deserve more than that, but that's the funny thing isn't it? I don't hate you for turning me in. I'd have done the same. We're birds of a feather or so I thought."

"Two handsome and skilled criminals. That we certainly are," he teased, but it didn't have its usual effect. There was still hostility in the air.

"Except that's not who you are at all is it?" Waylon pressed closer. His words were the intimate whisper of a lover without any of the affection. "Cyren Valgella, nephew of the elf king, murderer of slaves."

"That's a lie!" Ayen spat. He turned so violently so that he managed to throw Waylon off of him, but not without taking a cut on the side of his arm. He barely felt the blood run down. Waylon's usually lovely blue eyes were cold with hatred.

He walked backward into the room and Waylon followed. The intent in his eye was clear. So much for being happy to see him.

"I never killed anyone. Not them at least. I tried to save them. Perhaps it was my fault. I should have done things differently, but..." He trailed. Despite the passing of years the guilt was still fresh. It was almost a relief to hear these accusations and to realize while his heart ached, his head knew better. He wasn't to blame. It wasn’t his fault.

Waylon's gaze was cold hatred. A disgust so deep you might think Ayen was a rat's tail he’d found in his soup. "You led them from their homes and slaughtered them in the forest. Hardly any of them survived."

"You think I could do something like that?" Ayen shook his head. What an absurd lie. An impossible one. His uncle had lied to protect himself. He had expected as much, but he'd never heard the rumors himself. He avoided anyone who said they were from Treakha. "Me, who could barely lift a blade to harm the guards of an Earl's estate because they were only doing their jobs. Me, who tried to convince you that every life has its value. You believe I could kill hundreds of people? As if I could ever be strong enough to slaughter two hundred elf-elves and half as many half-orcs all without so many killing me. I don't know a sorcerer that powerful."

Waylon hesitated. For once he seemed speechless. It might have been funny if his hands weren't shaking.

"Who told you these rumors about me?"

"They are whispered throughout this kingdom and the next, but they all think you are dead." Waylon lowered his arm, not quite at ease, but no longer prepared to strike. "You're right. That story doesn't make any sense. To be fair, it was never said how many were killed, only that there were many."

Ayen swallowed. He couldn't meet Waylon's eye. He had spent months hearing their screams in his head every time he closed his eyes. He'd fought so hard to bury those memories and he still was not ready to face them, but for Waylon to think so poorly of him upset him in a way he couldn't bear.

"It was my uncle who killed them. King Hadmir," he said. Even if no one else knew the truth he needed Waylon to.

"Why would he do something like that?"

"Why do nobles and kings do anything?"

"Aren't you one of them?"

"No. They made it very clear that I'm not one of them." Ayen went and took a seat on the divan. He gestured for Waylon to sit beside him and it soothed his heart when he did. That he would take the time to listen even after Ayen betrayed him. "I spent my childhood with the half-elves enslaved by the palace."

"Ah." Waylon nodded. "I'm beginning to understand."

Ayen smiled slightly. Of course Waylon would understand. Despite everything there had always been something between that forged a trust Ayen couldn't explain. He couldn't thank him enough for giving him the chance to tell his story yet a part of him felt he deserved a blade in the neck. "They were the only ones who were kind to me. Them and the half-orcs who did the manual labor. As it turns out, Treakha is not kind to those of half blood and is only begrudgingly respectful of those who aren't elven. As I grew older it became clearer and clearer to me that these biases were outrageous. Sure enough, each race is different, but that doesn't mean one is less than another."

Waylon looked at him with nothing but compassion. "You tried to free them."

"I did." Ayen felt his throat grow thick at the memory. His hands squeezed into fists, nails biting into his palms, but he felt obligated to continue. Someone had to know the truth and Waylon was willing to listen. Then the man placed his hand over Ayen's fist and the first tear fell from his eye.

"I loved them all dearly. So I swore to them they would be free if they followed me. I swore there was a life for us elsewhere. We had plans to build a city in Sundermond Grove. I believed that if we made it deep enough, the beasts and the fae would scare off my uncle's forces, but we didn't make it that far. We were overwhelmed."

Waylon's thumb stroked the back of his hand. He didn't say anything. He just listened.

"Some of us were able to hide in the trees. We held out for a few days, but it was no use. With only twelve of three hundred left, they surrendered, but I couldn't. I should have gone with them."

"They would have executed you."

Ayen swallowed. He couldn’t look at Waylon’s face for fear of finding compassion there and unravelling. "For all I know, that's what happened to those who surrendered. Best case scenario, they were sent to the diamond mines. Either way they're all probably dead by now."

"You did the best you could."

"You cannot possibly mean that," Ayen said, but there was nothing but sincerity in his eyes when he finally brought himself to turn his head. A long moment passed that they simply looked at each other. Then Waylon's hand left his and he turned to him. He leaned in and their lips met in a kiss that was uncharacteristically chaste for Ayen's usual trysts. Yet he loved it. He couldn't recall a kiss ever being so genuine or touch that was so kind.

And then Waylon pulled away, moving back from him all at once. By the way he wrapped his arms around himself, it was no fault of Ayen's. There was something terrible and bothersome in his mind, some truth that needed spoken as much as Ayen had needed to tell his.

Waylon wouldn't meet his eye. Ayen felt afraid to ask and ruin the trust they were so close to sharing, but when Waylon went to the balcony, he couldn't just let him leave. He caught the man's arm and was pushed back into the wall. Then again, Waylon's lips were on his, but this was a kiss Ayen was familiar with. It was the kiss of burying your pain in another's skin.

"How did you escape, Waylon?" Ayen whispered after a moment.

Finally, he smiled. How afraid Ayen had been to never see that smile again. "Wouldn't you like to know," he said.

"I very much would." Ayen smiled back.

Waylon turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the bed against the opposite wall. "Tell you in the morning?"

"Even better," Ayen agreed.