"Anything at all?"

He could hear the want in the judge's voice. The need for vindication. Deep down, he knew there was something off. A Lycan would not have hurt His King if it was not the only choice. If it didn't mean the whole Kingdom was in terrible danger, it would never ocurr. Theus remains quiet.

"Very well." The judge stands, "Theus, First Lycan of Eipril, you are hereby sentenced to death." The judge closes his eyes momentarily as an enemy that admits defeat would. Hopes brought low, a mighty hero of the Kingdom fallen to avarice. He opens his eyes and looks at Theus straight in the eye, the last hope of at least gazing with the true innocence that he wanted, a reminder that good can still prevail. Theus does not look at the judge. He does not avert his gaze from the vacant Throne, in another timeline his' to claim, a deep sorrow consuming all essence of him into a rot of his own doing. He does not flinch as his fellow Lycans grab him by the arms and pull him from the court as those gathered cheer.

He does not flinch when his fellow guardsmen talk about him as they carry him. As he hears the insults thrown at him. Murderer, killer, blind, traitor, dishonorable. These are the very same people who elected him to the charge and used the exact opposites of those words to justify his ascension into First Lycan. He remembers how he taught each and every one of them to master their swords, the various techniques of Sword Dancing, and the courtesies to be used. Theus essentially raised them, and now the very same people were dragging him to a cell where he would await his demise.

The back halls of the Keep were dim. Golden traces slithered between the cracks, a reminder and forever testament of the Will unleashed. Apprentices and Mages alike huddled around puddles where such power concentrated into pools of glowing amber light, and the Masters alone tried to contain them in flasks enchanted with spells bound in secret as a result of their potency. Yet they were no match for the Will, cosuming the flask and anything else that touched it. As Theus was dragged away, he could hear screaming; someone had the misfortune of touching the pool, and the Will would now consume them in their entirety. Doors opened and doors closed, and the screams became muffled until they could be heard no more.

The next hall was brilliant: after all, it was early afternoon and there was a hole the size of a carriage where the roof used to be. When Eipril unleashed the powers of the rings, his will was no match for the power they held, and he lost most of his constraint. The ensuing explosion sent chunks of bricks the size of large carriages spiraling away from the Tower of the King, with no regard for friend or foe. Below the boulder closest to him, one arm draped in fine silk poked out. The blood around it was slowly receding into the crushed body, being gathered by a grew mist. An aspect of the Made, forever bound to reconstruct that which is broken. In this current state, it would keep flowing into the body, but until the boulder was moved, it would be stuck in a forever cycle of gathering and spilling. A lowly Lycan stood at the foot of it, entranced by the gracious efforts of the Made to heal that which has been forever destroyed. The door they were heading to had a stench unlike the others; rot. Sparkling white energy ran along the frames of the door, and static buzzed in Theus' body as they crossed into a room covered in dark mists.

The last hall before the holding cells was the morgue. His Lycans had taken the longer route as was expected. The debris that rained down on the castle got rid of the better part of the secret hallways connecting the massive fortress. And the morgue held the darkest of essences, being visited only by the Necromantic Cult in hopes to study death and the body; to understand all its functions and find the cure to mortality. Alas, it was a chore they took upon themselves to find. On more occasions than the courts wanted to register, one of the Cult had given themselves as object to study. And now, the so called researchers were gathered in unison looking as black mist seeped into their former cultists and lifted them into the air. From the cracks in the ground emanated aspects of Death, prodding tendrils hungry for a host to posess and manipulate. But as all chores, it takes mastery. Brutal movements ocurred from time to time, and a limb would be torn to the collective cheers of the Cult. The Lycans drew their swords, white lightinig fizzing around the blade, and held their distance from the figures clad in black robes. They did not even turn to look at the procession; the were enchated by the very Death they wished to extinguish. The doors were opened by cultists themselves; they wanted no trouble with Lycans.

The holding cells were the reinforced area of the castle. Several layers of brick managed to resist most of the flying debris that rained when the collective powers of the rings were released. Theus tossed in front the Gallow-keepers by one of the Lycans, as he muffled to himself and took off. The other one helped him stand, and he looked right into the golden eyes of a woman: Meredith. The only woman to ever be made Lycan looked at her master with sore eyes, and immediately turned before her tightened throat gave way to tears. "A tear dropped for a criminal is a blemish unto your honor" he recalled telling her. Meredith, ever cryptic, still had to master the art of Thought Projection.

"'Tis true then, I reckon?" One Gallow-keeper asked. "Ufter all, ye are here."

"Of coorse it is, numbsack! 'Tisn't the area of the innocent now, issit?" The other Gallow-keeper responded. "Tell us, o First Lycan, are ye charges untrue?"

Theus doesn't answer. The Gallow-keepers were criminals themselves, living a life of exile from society between the dead and the condemned in the deepest halls of the castles. Not even allowed outside, as the fear that they would poison the very fauna around the castle was too big. Theus didn't believe they could achieve such a thing, but then again he never believed he would be in this room.

"We goot a silent one, Bray." One said.

"Indeed we doo. That armor though, seems wrong for the place where he's gun end up. Shall we remove it?" The other comments, a grin filled with mishapen golden rocks appearing. "Bet the blacksmith would pay much for Lycan armor."

Theus' rage began to build up. This armor was crafted by Eipril himself, imbued with spells only known to him. The blacksmith's hammer would shatter into a thousand pieces before it even landed on the breastplate. But a traitor's armor was not to be reused, as by Royal Law. It was to be treated as garbage, unworthy of use by anyone of repute. A convicted crime on a Lycan would birth rot in their armor, and that rot would consume it until came a time when they were proven innocent. Theus' rot began where the heart would be if it was on the breastplate, and it was just a matter of time until the whole armor was turned to dust. But his attachment to the armor was weak to dwindle. When one of the Gallow-keepers reached for him, the armor itself buzzed with white electricity, sending him flying into a wall and knocking him out. The other, stunned by his partner's immediate demise and wanting to avoid it, took a great-axe from the rack and readied it.

"S-stoop right there!" His voice trembling with fear. "I will oose it!"

Theus simply looked up, and overtaken by fear, the Gallow-keeper began to spin to build force on his great-axe. When he changed direction to hit Theus, the axe exploded into a thousand pieces, a good amount of which went straight into the attacker. He dropped to his knees, and face-planted against the floor. And as a the moth is driven to the flame, Death seeped from under the door to inhabit the Gallow-keepers. 

Theus stood up and walked to the darkest cell he could find. He stepped into it, and closed it. He walked to the stone bench, and sat. Dropped his shoulders, and in the darkest area of the castle, as Death roamed the halls, he fell to emotion. He screamed like he had never before, and cried unlike any other time he could recall. He dropped to the floor covered in hay and curled up, his heart aching worse than any injury he had received in the campaigns he led under Eipril's banner. He cried until he felt his eyes would fall off, and tried to tear part of his cloak to drench in tears. He pulled as hard as he could, and all he got was the failure driven by a spell of resilience.

"Care to share your burdens, friend?" A voice called from the wall next to him. "What was it, 'a tear dropped for a criminal is a stench on your honor' or something like that?"

Theus stops sobbing immediately. He didn't think there was anyone else in the holding cells. "That wasn't yours to read."

"Neither yours. It's not my fault Meredith is terrible at Thinking." The prisoner answers. "With enough effort though, any mind is an open book." Theus realises he is Thinking the latter sentence. "Don't be afraid, o First Lycan of Eipril. I can read your mind and prove all your charges false. But I won't. After all, it is not a weak resolve that allows for the murder of Gallow-keepers and then locks himself up." The prisoner speaks. "It's being thought everywhere. But I'll be damned if I take the word of the populace over that of the convicted himself. So tell me, Theus, First Lycan. What lead to the death of our King by your hand?"

"Duty." Theus answers. He says it without thinking, and he recognizes the value in telling a story. "Brutus" he calls to the prisoner. "Are you still a historian deep inside?"

"Of course I am, Theus. That is all I ever wanted to be. A story-teller, in the most vivid way possible." Brutus answers. "My means may be questioned, but results are tough to challenge."

"Then tell my story. Look into my mind with your magic, and transcribe it into history. Someone, someplace, will enjoy this." Theus answers, removing his helm and all the spells adjacent.

"It'll be my pleasure." Theus stops hearing Brutus, and starts Thinking his words. "May you rest in a deep and dreamless slumber. And in that sleep, what dreams may come..." Brutus' words vanish into the air, and Theus opens his eyes in a chamber lit by logs burning. He feels his hand rest gently on Eiprils chest, caressing the soft surface of the King's skin. Both are covered by the same bear-skin covers, and the bare skin touching brings a tear to his eye. A hand rests on his head, caressing his hair. But Theus feels it distant, wondering, taken by another thought.

"Valoreth marches on the capital. He will arrive tomorrow. Scouts report an army of about sixty-thousand, with beasts from every corner of his conquered world marching at his side." Eipril reads Theus' mind with ease, and Thinks into it. He doesn't care, Eipril has more than earned his trust. "Dragons from the West, Trolls from the East. Exiled Warlocks from Sum'anth, disgraced Princes from Valag's bloodline. Riders from the South, and Legions from the North. We are outnumbered ten-to-one."

Theu's index finger draws patterns on Eipril's chest. "You are awfully quiet tonight." He says.

Theus stops drawing. "Your voice."

"What about it?" The King asks.

"You don't use it enough with me."

Eipril laughs. "This is your main concern?"

"Yes." Silence dominates the chamber.

The King lies closer to Theus, and kisses him. "This is why I chose you. Anyone else would play into my anxiety. Into my brain thinking how to hold off the invasion. The devastation that Valoreth leads." He grabs Theus' hand. "But you, you will tell me my shortcomings to my face in the face of an upcoming massacre."

"You weren't at the meetings. You didn't see the plans that were thought. You didn't hear the traitors speaking about defecting and joining the ranks of the enemy." Theus says.

Eipril looks at Theus straight in the eyes, and Thinks. "But I did. I heard every word. I know the plans that were made, and I know who will betray me if they get the chance."

"I trust you. I know you have your reasons for your actions. I won't question them, because I know that faults bear heaviest on the bearer." Theus speaks. They look into each other's eyes, and a feeling overtakes all of Theus' emotions, and leans into Eipril, kissing him as if time itself would stop then and there. As if another chance to meet his lips would never present itself again, another chance to feel his energy rush through his body. And Eipril feels it too. He refuses to back down, and takes the breath away from Theus, the passion between them blooming into an amber tree made of a combination of both their forces. The emotions grow heavier, and as the tree blooms golden leaves, both feel the transmutation of their energies flow against each other. When they back off, both of them gasping for air as their cheeks return to their normal colors, the realisation of the presence of the tree washes over them both.

"Luminosity." Eipril gasps. "I never thought..."

"Eipril..." Theus starts, unsure if this is the correct time.

"Theus?" The King answers.

"I Love you." Theus Thinks into his King's mind. And the only answer he gets is the warmest, coziest, easing emotion he has ever felt. Every muscle relaxes, every thought disappears. And in his mind there is only the Idea of Eipril, forever taking residence in his mind. Yet something else festers, a distant Thought of Eipril that is not fought back against. A darkness lingers deep within his mind.

Eipril does not wait. "Theus." He speaks, "We face certain defeat. The slaughter of thousands, and of hundreds of thousands if we don't stop The Omen." Theus knows this, and is aware that he is sending his men to certain doom. Eipril drops his gaze and clutches Theus' hand. A warmth spreads through Theus' body. "This may be my last night as your King." He stares blankly at nothing in particular. "As anyone's King." He looks at Theus and Thinks. "As yours."

Theus remains silent, he now knows why he didn't attend the strategic meeting. He has a plan of his own. One he didn't want anyone to know. 

Eipril lets go of his hand and stands up, and guided only by the flame in the fireplace finds a box on a table littered with books and maps. He looks longingly at it as one looks at a burden they are unsure to carry, one that will take the biggest toll he could imagine. He reaches for the box and brings it over to Theus, a lone tear running down his cheek. The ornate box is warm to the touch, and a faint golden mist runs from the inside. Theus recognizes the look in his Lover's eyes: Duty.