There were six kinds of magic in this world, each in opposition to its natural twin. This Osmund remembered well from his lessons, by virtue of sheer repetition:
To wound, there was fire magic – the domain of the demons – and frost magic, the domain of the giants.
To gain advantage, there was light magic – the language of constructs – and dark magic, the language of illusions.
And finally, to oppose the natural order, there was necromancy – that which gives the illusion of life – and that which was rarest of all, life magic itself. Healing.
It was the only magical discipline Osmund had ever truly wanted for himself. For all the speeches he’d grown up with on the importance of the magic in their bloodline, the other varieties seemed so irrelevant. Or likely to lead to his own early demise, knowing the luck he had. Except, of course, for healing. No matter how incompetent a healer was, no matter how bumbling, they could only do good with their powers. What an immense gift for a person to be born with.
He gaped at Cemil openly for a moment. Cemil averted his eyes again, as if Osmund’s stare somehow disquieted him. Which was a ridiculous notion!
“It runs in my mother’s line,” Cemil said. Then he cleared his throat. “How do you feel?”
“Wonderful,” Osmund breathed, and it wasn’t a lie. Cemil’s magic had felt so good on his skin. It was his first real encounter with healing magic, besides the time he’d broken his leg in a riding accident, and he’d been a little boy who’d cried through the whole thing. He was sure the experience hadn’t been as, well, oddly pleasurable as with Cemil. He really is the whole package, Osmund thought dreamily, though it was laced again with something else. Something he might call envy, though he didn’t like to name it.
Cemil ran a hand through his own loose dark hair. It fell in still-sweaty cascades over his face. Then he pulled the hand back and said, looking very distraught,
“I want you to know… you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Osmund said at once.
“…I don’t understand why you aren’t.”
“B-but… I thought you said you didn’t want me to be?”
“I don’t,” Cemil confirmed. They were going in circles. He added, “But… what I did to you. No matter what was going on in my mind… there can be no excuse for it.”
“I excused you for it already!”
Cemil turned on him. He was fervent. “People should not hurt you. People should not threaten you. People should not yell at you.”
Osmund didn’t understand what Cemil wanted. Osmund had already forgiven him, so why were they still talking about it? It was his turn to angle his head away. “Okay.”
“Why did you forgive me for it so quickly?”
Why did it feel like he was being interrogated? Like he’d done something wrong? This time, he truly hadn’t! “Because you’re a good man,” Osmund said meekly.
“How would you know that?”
“I-I can tell! You’ve been so kind to me.”
“I could have slit your throat just then, Osmund!”
This encounter was starting to feel very not pleasant again. Osmund wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t just get up and leave – or could he? Without wanting to examine it too closely, he realized Cemil questioning him like this was possibly unsettling him more than the event itself. After all, when he’d been threatening him, Cemil had quite reasonably been sick and fearful for his own life!
What did he care if his stablehand respected himself or not?!
“At least you apologized,” Osmund muttered dismally. “No one else ever did.” Father hadn’t. Nor had Evanor, anytime she pinched him hard enough to make him bleed. Certainly none of his erstwhile lovers had, transparently hating him for the combination of his status and his weakness, and making that bitterness known upon him any way they could.
Cemil heaved a deep breath. The seconds ticked by until he spoke again.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last. It seemed a bit like he was forcing the words. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”
This was the best thing he’d said in a while. Osmund’s shoulders sagged with relief and gratitude, and he smiled, only a little bit wearily. He leaned in, trying to catch the Meskato prince’s eye. “Are you still feeling better?” he asked, eagerly seeking a change in topic.
Cemil nodded earnestly. “Much, much better,” he confirmed, his face changing like he was realizing the extent for the first time. “The nightroot is powerful. I can’t believe this property was not known to us.”
“You have to be very careful of the petals,” Osmund supplied. He was so grateful that they could talk about his triumph now. How he’d been useful to him. “I-I’ll show the others how to do it. Or, I can do it. I’ll do it whenever you need.”
“You have hidden talents,” Cemil said, smiling, but it wasn’t his usual smile. He shifted on the floor, lifting himself up to ease back onto the low mattress.
Osmund wondered if he should leave. Then Cemil continued,
“My condition has gotten worse. And my brothers… they know it. They know I might be vulnerable.” Here in this close, warm darkness, this admission felt startlingly private. Osmund squirmed.
“I’ve never seen headaches as bad as yours,” he noted hesitantly, trying to stay in the moment. Seeing Cemil contorted in pain had been horrible; he wished he could forget the sight. “Have you… been examined by a doctor? I-I know healers can’t heal themselves, but–”
“No doctors.” Cemil’s tone was clipped. “It isn’t an ordinary sickness. Rather a… side effect. And treating the cause is not an option. Many important things depend on it.”
This veil of secrecy frustrated Osmund. “Nuray hated to see you in pain,” he said suddenly, the words flying out of his mouth. Distantly, he felt horror at their almost accusatory nature, but he didn’t stop blabbing. “So did the other servants. They hate not knowing how to help you. What if the nightroot stops working? What if you build up a resistance? No one should suffer like you do! …I don’t want you to.”
Cemil made a sound under his breath. It was too quiet to decipher its intent, or the emotion behind it. “I can bear it,” the Meskato prince finally said. He repeated, “I can bear it. But I can’t bear hurting those around me.” His voice wavered then. “If I ever cause you harm like that again, you must leave this house and never come back.”
“But–” Osmund protested. Cemil interrupted him. “Promise me,” he insisted. His voice was resolute. “Never stay beside someone who hurts you. No matter how well-spoken their apology is. Promise.”
There was no room to refuse, Osmund realized. He nodded, although several words were bitten-back on his tongue. “I promise,” he uttered, praying he’d never have to make good on his vow. He didn’t want to go and find a whole new home for a second time. He would really rather get the occasional blade shoved up against his throat – honest. But this was clearly important.
Cemil nodded, appeased, and slumped back into his mattress. “Thank you,” he said. His breathing evened out after that. Osmund at first thought he’d drifted to sleep, but when he leaned over, he saw the prince’s eyes were still open, blinking slowly up into the darkness. As if there were stars there to see if he only looked for them.
That blanket of silence settled over them again. Osmund felt something shifting in the atmosphere, something that made his heart pound in spite of the stillness. With a jolt, he flashed back to something he’d heard Cemil say:
‘I should have known better than to trust a pretty face who turns up at my door!’
Pretty face? And he’d meant me!
Osmund’s tongue felt very heavy. He was keenly aware now of the significance of this moment. Cemil – beautiful, flawless, admittedly-kind-of-dangerous Cemil – was attracted to him. It hadn’t merely been charity after all. He supposed there was a chance he’d misheard or misunderstood, but then, why wasn’t the Meskato prince ordering him to leave? Why was he lying there sprawled out in front of him like a royal feast, letting the silence drag on, as if waiting for him to act?
Finally he dared to ask. “Should I… go?”
“You don’t have to stay,” Cemil said. Then, softly, “But you don’t have to go.” The words were loaded with meaning.
Osmund froze in place. He willed his limbs to move, but they wouldn’t. Am I too afraid? he wondered, but that wasn’t it at all. Osmund wasn’t afraid, and he wanted him. He had from the very beginning, and if anything, his longing was more powerful than ever. His mind swam with erotic images, all of the ways this could go if he only clambered onto the mattress beside him. If he only let himself kiss Cemil’s flawless face and lick into his mouth and all sorts of things he’d done in his life with men far crueler and less beautiful. Every other past temptation in his life seemed comical now, as if he’d been a child who couldn’t resist sneaking a sweet. This was like asking a man crawling in the desert to forsake a full jug of water: Osmund was absolutely dying of thirst!
But he still wasn’t moving.
For the first time in his life, Osmund was at an impasse about his desire. Cemil would regret sleeping with him; people always did. And after people regretted sleeping with him, they wanted nothing more to do with him after that.
Osmund couldn’t stand the thought of it.
He wanted Cemil to keep looking at him. The way he had been, like someone who was waiting to hear what he had to say. Like someone who cared whether he was hurt, and made sure that he was comfortable.
Oh no.
This was a very, very dangerous feeling to have.
“I had better sleep,” Osmund said, his mouth forming the words while the rest of him silently protested. “If you’re ever in pain again… send for me. I-I’ll make some of that potion for you. There are still some nightroot flowers left, but we should get hold of more. I’m sorry if I,” he clenched his teeth, embarrassed as he finished saying, “left footprints in your garden.”
Would Cemil try and say something to stop him from leaving? …Osmund wasn’t sure he had it in him to resist if it came to that. “Goodnight, Osmund,” Cemil said only, turning over in bed. His voice was absolutely normal, and also like it was coming to him from across a great distance. “Thank you for your help. Rest well.”
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