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Chapter Text

Anor Londo welcomed the delegation from Izalith with wide open arms.

The palace was almost intimidating in its grandiosity, big and bright, as if carved out of a mountain by the gods themselves. It was so heavily and lavishly decorated with gold and marble, that Alastor found it hard to look away, even if his eyes were starting to hurt a little from the light - it was more grandiose and impressive than he had ever seen in his not-so-long life.

And yet, he didn't show it. He stepped dutifully behind his sisters; their heavy dark robes flowed in the light wind, fluttering almost in tune with the crowd's chatter, and Alastor found it almost amusing to realize that like this, wrapped in black fabric from head to toe, they looked almost identical - Quelana, stepping one of the first as Quel's oldest disciple, Quelaag, holding herself proudly and strongly, and even their little Queleen, like a moonlight ray caugth in night’s embrace, trying to keep up with them, mortified at all the attention....

Only like this, in the black cloth robes covering every inch of their skin, could he not stick out like a speck in the eye.

Officially, he was referred to as their «younger sworn brother». Or even just «one of Quel's apprentices,» which tried oh so hard to take away from the fact that Alastor was her only pyromancer apprentice that wasn't in any, even the tiny tiniest of bits related to her. On the surface, of course, it wasn't particularly apparent. He was with hair the color of oak bark, a little disheveled and had his hair in a low bun like the rest of her children, but his eyes stood out - they were golden, “inhuman” as the grandmothers in his village liked to grumble - though in fact they were just light brown.

And yet Alastor himself was among those who did not fully understand the Witch of Izalith  great intent. It was unthinkable, really, to take a wretch like him as an apprentice; a commoner, not even related by blood to any lord or lady...

It was a good thing that the Witch was too respected in Izalith and really feared in Anor Londo for anyone to utter a word against her decision. As she said herself once - who art thou to decree unto God what course to pursue?

Yet the weight of being the only apprentice who wasn't her daughter was taking its toll on Alastor. His hands were in constant burns from training, for even when his little named sister, merciful Queleen was looking at him so sad, and holding his arms in her own, white and pale as a snow, whispering - “take care of yourself, Al, take your time” - Alastor could not. He'd been on pins and needles from the moment they'd crossed the threshold of Izalith, and traveled by wagon, horse, and finely decorated family carriages to the capital - and even today, when they'd finally set foot on the land of Anor Londo, Alastor had felt as if he shouldn't be here.

But it wasn't his choice, was it?

They entered the throne room with dignity, and Lord Gwyn immediately greeted his old friend with a loud cheer that actually made Alastor's ears ache a little - but soon enough he couldn't think about anything, really. Not about how sore his legs were from the wagon, or how oddly sunny it was in Anor Londo.

His gaze traveled to the royal throne, and the two smaller thrones beneath it - the ones that belonged to crown prince, the mighty knight Lord Gwynray, and the beautiful, sun-faced Lady Gwynever. They sat proud and statuesque, as the older children are supposed to, yet his interest was not particularly piqued by them. No, it was everything he came to expect...

Until Alastor’s gaze came to the tiny throne just beside Lady Gwynevere’s one. This throne had moon and stars instead of the usual solar motifs, was of fine silver work instead of gold, and yet it was almost in the darkest and quietest part of the throne room, as if everyone hoped that Gwyn's daughter would outshine the last child with her beauty, as the sun outshines the night with the first rays...

However, Alastor noticed.

The stranger's figure was thin and almost transparent, the dress falling wide from narrow hips and knees to the floor of the throne, and only the canopy of the dress itself rustled and moved, though Alastor did not noticed much wind in the throne room. The stranger's figure was almost ghostly - so light, so pale, so immovable. The only thing that added a touch of color to Lord Gwyn's third child was the sun's crown, a sunburst of sharp rays that hid the upper half of the stranger's face and the necklace of gold chains around his shoulders...

No, not stranger.

Gwyndolin, Alastor remembered from Queleen's adoring tales, that she shared with him after practice, while she was treating her sworn brother's hands with burn ointment. Dark Sun Gwyndolin was Lord Gwyn's youngest son, born under the sign of the moon, and therefore raised like a daughter.

And he did indeed look like the moon come to life - pale, mysterious, and insanely handsome.

The herald finished his announcement just as Alastor finally remembered where he was - and soon, he shamefully bowed with his sisters, echoing with them what an honor it was to be in the presence of the entire royal family.

He did not like to think what kind of scolding he would have received at home if he had contrived to disgrace his master and sworn sisters before the face of Lord Gwyn himself! But it seemed to be all right; he didn't feel Quelaag's burning gaze at his side, and Quel didn't glare at him over his shoulder - ah, so perhaps it wasn't all bad!

Though, deeply buried in his thoughts, Alastor managed to miss that young man who stole his breath away, the one with with the crown of the sun on his face and the most handsome smile Alastor had ever seen... was watching their delegation with a steady gaze. Until then, Gwyndolin had simply kept his face slightly lowered, trying not to attract attention, to be quiet and still, like the moon hiding behind the clouds on a quiet night.

But now, having felt a fiery stare on himself - unlike the kind he was used to - he looked back at that weird man, and felt a bit strange.

"Gwynevere," he spoke to his sister with a voice barely louder than a whisper, and at her interested look he swallowed slightly, seeing the man off with a glance, "dost thou know the name of that man?.."

Gwynever smiled like a cat that's had cream and whispered to her brother, glancing back and forth at the delegation as they left to make themselves comfortable in the palace.

Maybe, it was best for Alastor to not knowing that he wasn't the only one who had noticed the young lord tonight - but the opposite was also true.

Chapter Text

The vast festivities in honor of the arrival of delegation from Izalith felt a little strange to Alastor. There was merriment all around, drinks and food of every taste and color that he could even think of, and couples dancing in the center of the hall to the tunes of Anor Londo's finest musicians. Everything seemed good - perfect even, no matter how you looked at it - and yet Alastor couldn't shake off that strange, gooey, tightly knotted feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Anxiety that pressed on his shoulders a lot more than usual - and even more, it did not concern the common people or even the young aristocrats who were twirling in dances or eating their fill - oh no, they were sincere in their happiness.

It wasn't a hunch like the one he'd had before the attempted noble rebellion in Izalith - which had flared up like dry straw faster than people could finish their demands, because you couldn't demand anything from a god, much less a witch.

What made Alastor wary was the way he watched the conversation between his frowning master and Lord Gwyn with an edge of his vision, and the latter looked... worried. Was there really anything in the world which could make the Sun Lord himself concerned? Impossible, and if anyone knew that Alastor had dared to think such a thought, they would’ve cut out his tongue first, and then flogged him until his back was a bloody mess - and only then would cast him out in disgrace, straight to the lands where men had begun to rise like the undead...

Although, wait a minute. Maybe, that was the issue? Maybe Lord Gwyn's Silver Knights didn't handle the undead as well as everyone thought?

He didn't know. But however strange and outlandish they were, his fears were dispelled by his dear, lovely Queleen in a dress that contrasted so much with their black robes, but suited her so well, light as snow, and thin as a spider's silk. She stepped closer to him, smiling softly like the pale little sunshine that she was - and hugged her sworn brother's arm with her thin hands wrapped in white silk, laughing:

"My, why are you so gloomy, dear brother? The festivities are in full swing, and yet somehow you look like you've seen a ghost," is that so? Alastor felt fine. Only...

He still wondered what in the world could be troubling Lord Gwyn himself. The one who couldn't care less even about the great dragons? The one who was their sovereign lord, the mightiest god in the whole wide world, who had forged for them an age of peace?..

Ugh, no. Maybe he is just overthinking it. Or was it that word that Quelaag sometimes used on him with a smirk? «Brooding» or something? He never could properly remember.

In the end - who knows, who knows. Maybe they are doomed, maybe he is just nervous. He smiled at his dear sister, taking the glass from the servant's hands and sipping carefully, not intending to get that drunk tonight. Just a little tipsy, maybe. For courage. And as he sets the glass back on the tray, turning around to face the hall...

His turn is fate-directed, no less, because he notices the edge of Gwyndolin's snow-white dress disappearing on the approaches to the balcony - and... oh. Was it so shameful to admit, even if only to himself, that this was what Alastor wanted “extra courage” for? That he longed to be closer to him, even for a little while; to know what was on his mind, or just to stand beside him in silence. Was it strange? Insanely strange with the fact that they'd never even spoken a word to each other, yet Alastor felt practically bewitched by another's beauty?

Will Gwyndolin think he's just nuts? Would he even snort at the address to himself - a lowly apprentice of the great witch to the son of the Sun Lord himself?

The more he thought about it, the more painful that feeling felt in his chest, and the more he was drawn closer to Lord Gwyn's youngest son - and tradition be damned.

Queleen, still standing at his shoulder like a butterfly flitting near a flower, smiled thinly at him, placing her palm over her sworn brother's hand - she might not be related to him by blood, but there was a sincerity and warmth in her eyes, bright as mountain lakes, that Alastor had not known even from his own kin.

"Ah, now I see. It’s okay, go to him, Al," she whispered softly, leaning her head against his shoulder, glancing only for a moment in the direction Gwyndolin had gone, "if Mother asks, I'll think of something."

He nodded, not intent on wasting his sister's little, yet so precious gift - and soon hurried to the balcony where Lord Gwyn's youngest son had gone.

Perhaps, he shouldn't have been in such a hurry. Perhaps he shouldn't have tried to contact the young prince at all, but...

There was something infinitely alluring, beautiful about his appearance. In the young lord's demeanor, which he noticed at the main dinner - shy, and at the same time really ceremonial, too. He was calm, and he was mysterious; he seemed so far away, and yet Alastor felt foolishly that if he reached out, if he warmed Gwyndolin's palms in his own, then... oh. Why did his ears feel so hot? Why did breathing feel so easy it made him dizzy? So strange.

And so when he saw his silhouette at the railing, he smiled weakly, closing the balcony doors behind him, separating them from the noise of the festivities.

Gwyndolin, practically translucent and so beautiful in the moonlight, turned slightly towards him and nodded gently, acknowledging his presence. Yet - what to say, what to do? How even to explain the fact that he had rushed after Gwyndolin in such a hurry, and not given the prince some time alone he obviously wished when he came here? Alastor did not know. He simply walked over, resting his palms on the railing, and quietly remarked:

“You don't like noise either, Lord Gwyndolin?”

“Quiet... it’s speaks more closely to mine heart,” the latter hummed, and only the rustle of the dress canopy, which moved just by itself, disturbed their peace. In some subtle and elusive way, Gwyndolin reminded him of Queleen -perhaps it was the thin wrists, the blond hair, and the gentle voice.

Perhaps, it was something else.

But in the end, they were very different. Gwyndolin could seem cold and indifferent at first sight, he guessed, while Queleen was not shy and wore her heart up her sleeve - and yet Alastor, to whom at the beginning all aristocrats in general seemed to be of the same face, saw the differences. He saw that Gwyndolin wasn't brash or self-important (like his older brother, for example, whose laughter still made Alastor's ears ring) - he was just... quiet.

“I see,” Alastor nodded thoughtfully, looking off into the distance, smiling faintly at the sight of the night covering Anor Londo, "few people truly appreciate the quiet until they've experienced its beauty. After that, listening to the constant rustling becomes unbearable, like the clanking of armor, or the shouts of merchants..."

“I knew not that Izalith was a place of much clamor.”

Alastor could almost hear the question in the young Lord's words, but only awkwardly nodded his shoulder. Huh, and just how do aristocrats put up with such small talk? He'd never been good at them.

But, he was willing to give it a try:

“It's true, Izalith is a quiet enough place, save for the constant mutterings, chanting and howling winds,” he remarked, for some reason involuntarily avoiding any chance to look at Gwyndolin, “but I'm... not exactly from there.”

“I thought thou were Quel's son?”

“In a way, yes,” Alastor nodded, waving his palm, "but only in the way that all pyromancers are her children. Otherwise my name would start with «Quel» too, wouldn't it? Like my sworn sisters. Uh, but I actually come from a small village north of Isalith. We had a mill by the river, helping to grind flour for three whole villages. One of my future sisters heard about me, with me fire and stuff, and decided it would be a great idea to bring me to Izalith and teach me there. I... not to say I had much of a choice."

And practically feeling the weight of Gwyndolin's gaze on him, he shrugged:

"I... you see, back when I was still young and foolish, I burned down several buildings in the village when I tried to practice with my fire. Including the headman's house. Oh fire, I had some sort of skill for it from birth. But without a gauntlet of seals, it's unstable to say the least. Queleen essentially saved me from the gallows by paying my ransom and taking me to her mother. I will always be indebted to her, our little Fair Lady. She always saw potential in even the most hopeless of us, you know?"

Gwyndolin nodded thoughtfully, and Alastor felt so damned awkward and strange from all this storytelling. He'd just taken to spilling the whole story in front of the young lord like his parents had been with grain at the mill so many years ago. He swallowed awkwardly, and when he heard a waltz playing from the ballroom, he decided - ah, here’s my chance to make it less awkwardl! - and then took a step back, all while helding out his palm to the young lord:

“Perhaps, you would allow me to ask you to dance, my lord?”

For a moment, he noticed Gwyndolin's lips tighten. It was... strange, perhaps.

He'd seen a few aristocrats try to ask Gwyndolin to dance - but he didn't seem interested. Which seemed like, well, fine, every thing in the world has its devotees and those who detest the thing, but... he'd been watching the young lord until he'd gone to the balcony. Watched, and Gwyndolin swayed a little to every tune; definitely wanted to dance, and allowed himself a little - but just enough so that no one would notice or pay attention to him...

He didn't want other people's eyes on him, perhaps - but they were the only two people here. Why, then, was Gwyndolin refusing?

The guess came to him suddenly, like a piece of shingle falling on the top of his head from the roof, and he smiled softly under his breath:

"I can do both parties if it bothers you. You know, the bonus of being raised next to a lot of sisters..."

Queleen was teaching him to lead in a waltz, whose melody now flooded the balcony with a quiet echo. Quelaag, on the other hand, was leading him herself, twirling him around in a dance like a young lady - and that was the norm in Izalith. Everyone knew that if you wanted to control the flames, you had to be as flexible, as pliable as the flames yourself.

Gwyndolin hesitated a moment or two longer. And then - stepped forward to him, putting his slim hand into Alastor's palm:

“I want to lead, then,” he remarks quietly, in a murmur barely louder than the music itself. And Alastor smiles, pulling him to the center of the balcony, taking the other man's palm in his own and placing his hand on the other Gwyndolin's shoulder, letting the young lord hold onto his waist:

“I'll try not to disappoint, then.”

And the music flowed sweetly, peacefully through the corridors and balcony, allowing Gwyndolin to twirl Alastor in a dance. There was an awkwardness in Gwyndolin's steps at first, a timidity almost, and yet Alastor honestly didn't even understand where it came from. Gwyndolin led the waltz admirably! He didn't even step on his foot once, and he twirled Alastor around so deftly, raising one arm up, bringing a quiet laugh to Alastor's lips....

The mystery, however, revealed itself. Not the one Alastor had expected, with the Lord and the Witch and stuff - but perhaps that was for the best, too.

For when the song ended, and Alastor was swaying lazily with Lord Gwyndolin to the slow melody, he suddenly felt something odd sliding down his leg - and he gasped softly, pulling away from Gwyndolin and dropping his gaze downward. The sensation was strange, scandalous almost - but bizarre from the fact that he had felt both of Gwyndolin's hands on his waist before that exact moment...

And the sight was as peculiar as it was amusing.

There appeared to be a snake trying to climb up his ankle, crawling out from under Gwyndolin's skirt. The snake didn't hiss, didn't try to bite his shoe or pant leg - but it stared at him curiously, sticking out its tongue from time to time.

"A snake? Here?" - Alastor was far more confused than frightened. He had never seen snakes behave like this before - this one was not avoiding humans, not scurrying into the bushes at the first opportunity, but instead moving closer and looking up and down with beady eyes, almost like a puppy who were asking for pets.

Gwyndolin would obviously have felt the snake first, so... did he know where it came from? He raised his gaze to the young lord again, and did not regret it - for Gwyndolin had so charmingly pressed his lips into a thin line, lowering his head and pulling down his long skirt; the snake slipped back, as if it had never been there, and for the briefest, timid moment, Alastor could swear - Gwyndolin's cheekbones flushed.

“I beg thy pardon, 'tis not oft the case that it... 'tis oft they refrain from...”

Apparently Alastor wasn't the only one for whom this was a first. As such, he just grinned, shrugging his shoulders:

"So they're your familiars, then?" - he remarked with a grin, using the plural, for it was unlikely that such a movement of the skirt could have been caused by just one. And so, squatting down, he remarked even more cheekily,“ ”I didn't get a good look at them. May I?"

"Art thou not... afraid of them?"

Alastor smiled softly, and he didn't mean in any way to be rude to Lord Gwyn's youngest son... but how, indeed, could he say otherwise that oh, great Flames - he had seen bigger snakes in his garden as a child? But the answer seems to be simple. It seems this was not the kind of reaction his precious young lord was used to.

"No, I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid of anything at all,“ he remarked proudly, wheeling his chest out, and when the snake appeared again from under another man's skirt, this time with a couple of its ‘sisters’, he only added to his words with action - and gently brushed them down their necks without making any sudden movements - ”okay, except for clams, maybe. And hermit crabs. Those thin legs of theirs coming out of the shell - gross! But I hope you don't have them in there, huh?"

Gwyndolin only put his palm to his mouth and snorted quietly, turning away and shaking his head lightly. Alastor, on the other hand, could not suppress the strange, tickling sensation behind his ribs at the realization:

Gwyndolin, Lord Gwyn's youngest son, always walking with a detached and pensive expression on his face - was chuckling.

It was not the outright laughter that Lord Gwyn's eldest son, or himself, was known for - but a soft, quiet one, like the tinkling of tiny bells on a summer wind.

A soft laugh, a beautiful laugh.

Oh. Oh fuck, Alastor thought, with his heart so shamefully skipping a beat.

And the snakes nuzzling into his palms, begging for affection, seemed to agree.

Chapter Text

The few weeks since their arrival in Anor Londo had indeed flown by really, really fast. Alastor guessed that it was because of something his dear Queleen used to say at home - something about «oh, time always flying by faster when you're having fun!».

And oh, did Alastor had fun.

Somehow, wherever Alastor went, he inevitably ran into Lord Gwyndolin - so much so that he practically wanted to ask his precious little sister if she had made a small offering to the goddess of luck on his behalf or something, and poor thing was working overtime just for his benefit. For, of course, he did not complain at all — but it was practically way too convenient!

For example, once he was going go to the palace gardens, hoping to relax under the branches of the trees planted there, and would you know - he found Gwyndolin talking peacefully to his elder sister there! Who then would not let Alastor to quietly disappear, retracing his own steps. Oh no, Gwynevere was kind and generous beyond measure — and always treated him warmly, even thought he did not know what is that he had done to deserve that. Part of Alastor suspected that the royal family would treat him coldly—at least, that's what Quelana had prepared him for at home, saying, “The snakes from the capital hast sharp fangs — do grant not 'em a chance to hurt thou...”

But, ironically, the man whose familiars were literally snakes was more sympathetic to him than many of the servants in Izalith itself...

Anyway, as soon as Gwynevere saw him, she smiled warmly and beckoned to him so perkily with her beautiful, tanned hand adorned with gold jewelry, saying with a smile that was as if kissed by sun itself:

“O, what fortuity, our cherished guest from Izalith, we were but now conversing of thou!”

Alastor couldn't imagine that he deserved to be talked about - but dutifully approached and bowed deeply, glancing briefly at Gwyndolin:

“I just wanted to sit in the gardens for a bit. I didn’t know it was already occupied, I guess I’ll go—”

“Nonsense,” Gwynevere laughed, covering her mouth with her hand for a moment and glancing at the quiet young man beside her, who clutched his mug of tea way too tightly, “we both crave thy noble company, are we not, mine dearest little brother?”

Gwyndolin responded with a gentle nod and smiled at him, and... oh. For a moment, Alastor thought Gwyndolin looked uncomfortable — but upon closer inspection, he realized it was practically the same awkwardness that Queleen displayed sometimes, usually when her routine was interrupted in any way, shape or form. He relaxed more and more with each passing moment, and then he even poured him some tea into the cup he had offered, and, come to think of it, if there were only two of them here, why were there three mugs...

Oh, well. He didn’t get to ask his questions - at least because then Alastor was almost forse-fed some delicious cookies, and talking with your mouth full is a terrible breach of etiquette, even he knew that. So he chewed, eyeing Gwyndolin, as he hoped, not too obviously—and noting that he was not dressed in his usual ceremonial attire. His dress was much simpler and looser, with with snow-white embroidery on white fabric, and the decorations around his neck were also not as heavy. The crown, covering the upper part of his face was also slightly less ornate — but still conveyed a sense of royalty and charm that Alastor couldn't take his eyes off...

So, he watched. He watched at and chewed on the cookies, which, as it turned out, the royal siblings sometimes baked in their spare time together with the cooks, who were practically as old as the walls of Anor Londo. Only after this remark did Alastor notice that some of the cookies were shaped like the sun and had solar motifs, while others were shaped like the moon and stars.

And Gwyndolin blushed oh so charmingly at the tips of his cute ears, barely visible from under the veil, when Alastor ate the moon cookies much more eagerly — but what could he do! The lavender flavor went so well with the speckles of white chocolate...

So, in the end, Alastor just smiled to the affectionate chatter of the two siblings, even though Gwynevere was the one who questioned him the most when he finally could speak - about his life, his interests, and whether «someone lovely and pretty» was waiting for him at home.

As expected, the last question nearly caused him to choke on his tea, and poor Gwyndolin had to pat him on the back so he could clear his throat.

"Uh-h, no, of course not. I am not a lord, my lady,“ he explained almost awkwardly, looking into the tiny mug of tea that was proposed to him, as if the poor thing could save him from all this embarrassment, ”I am only Lady Queel's apprentice. I am not worthy to be a consort to anybody, let alone to a nouble lady..."

He should have suspected that Lady Gwynevere's squint meant she was planning some kind of mischief. But her gentle smile never left her lips , and she hummed thoughtfully as she refilled her brother's tea:

"Well, whom knows, mine dear guest. Mine own cherished brother's betrothed, for example, surely known for thous boisterous nature, his heedlessness, and his most lamentable indulgence in strong drink. Yet, our Lord Father hath judged him worthy... what shall we utter, what may we say. Our Sun Lord Father doth knoweth best, dost he not?"

A betrothed?... Oh.

Oh no.

He hadn't even known Gwyndolin had been promised to anyone - but as far as he could tell from the way the younger lord's face soured, he wasn't exactly thrilled about this engagement either.

“The nuptial ceremony is set for the close of the year,” he spoke quietly, softly, without raising his head, “I am most gratified that mine esteemed sire hath selected a fitting consort for my humble self.”

His voice sounded anything but pleased. But Alastor knew when to bite his tongue-and just kept on spending time with them. And honestly... it was even kind of nice, all things considered. They talked about the weather, the difference between Izalith and Anor Londo, and quite a lot about his sisters. They talked about everything and nothing, until it was time to part ways for their evening activities.

But then, he met Gwyndolin again in the halls. And then in the library, and again in the gardens, and on walks — seriously, as if they were drawn to each other, even though it was impossible (and, frankly, wrong).

Gwyndolin was promised to another (and to a god, no less).

Gwyndolin had a betrothed, and he... shouldn't have fallen for him.

Alastor should not have sought out meetings and brief conversations with him; he should not have smiled slightly every time he noticed him...

But, as it turned out, such close socializing was quite normal among the nobility. Or, at least it was to his sisters, for Quelaag only snorted at his worries, shrugging her slim shoulders:

"I am sure thou is just curious to see our little duckling of a different feather. Don’t regard too much of it. Anor Londo may be big, but it’s not that big to avoid each other at all times."

There was no jab at her words, not really, more of a... A soft chuckle of an older sister, who watched as her younger brother awkwardly got his first bumps and bruises.

In the end, perhaps she was right. Perhaps Alastor had been thinking about it too much — like now, when he noticed that Quel was coming to their guest bedrooms later and later in the night - and most of the time, only by first hours of morning. And he knew she was discussing something with Lord Gwyn, something that even Queelana knew nothing about — which was extremely rare for her precious firstborn and first apprentice...

No. Worrying wasn't going to lead to anything good, and he definitely needed something to occupy himself with.

Training, for example. It has always relaxed him; “when your muscles work, your mind goes to rests,” as his father used to say. But what he truly did not expect when he came to the training halls of Anor Londo at a time when the guards were not there...

“Alastor?”

...was to discover his precious young lord there with a bow.

Now, he was dressed differently, too. From a distance, it could be mistaken for his usual dress, white and clearly uncomfortable for training, but up close, one could make out a long-sleeved shirt and wide pants made of white, thin yet strong fabric. The style and silhouette were so similar that Alastor only noticed the difference when he got closer—and immediately thought that this outfit could easily fool someone looking at the training halls from afar.

For example, from a high window.

“I just wanted to practice a little, relieve some stress, you know,” he remarked thoughtfully, glancing at the bow in Gwydolin’s slender hands. It was beautiful, elegant — and radiated a magic that Alastor didn't possess, but knew enough about to admire the craftsmanship and strenght. “I didn't know my lord was skilled with a bow.”

“Each of us possess a treasure rare. Gwynray doth wield his spear, Gwynevere doth grace the realm with her beauty and art of healing, whilst I possess... mine own bow.”

He clearly wanted to say something else — or at least say something more. But Alastor didn't press the issue — in fact, he simply let the tiny flame slip through his fingers, small and nimble, like a snake twisting between his fingers — a trick Queelana taught him to demonstrate his power over the Flame — before suggesting:

“Then can we maybe practice together? I must admit, my pyromancy is quite good at close and medium range, but I've had no practice against archers. Would you like us to try?”

Gwyndolin seemed... puzzled. But, pursing his lips, he replied faster than Alastor could apologize for such a terribly presumptuous suggestion:

“Dost thou truly desire such a thing?” And, receiving his nod, Gwyndolin suddenly seemed to perk up and nodded in response, "Very well. Yet I shall not restrain mine efforts."

“I never even dreamed of it, my lord. But let's try not to hurt each other too badly, shall we?” Alastor chuckled softly, muttering under his while adjusting his glove. “I swear, if I have to explain away someone's burnt eyebrows again...”

It's true that his sisters were far more powerful when it came to fighting side by side with each other, but Alastor's strength was at its peak when he was alone. When he could unleash the flames raging in his chest, he could become a blaze himself, rushing at the enemy like a forest fire...

Oh. But Alastor clearly overestimated himself and his speed. Because in an instant, it didn't matter that he was only ten steps away from Gwyndolin, at all. He just blinked, and the candles in the candlesticks flickered before going out as the whole goddamn hall seemed to stretch into an endless corridor. There was no beginning and no end - and Gwyndolin stood at the end of it, raising his bow in tune with the quiet rustling of snakes that covered the floor at his feet.

Alastor rushed toward him, but it was all for naught. He ran and ran, dodging or burning the white arrows that were practically catching him in midair — but it was like chasing a sparrow in an open field. For every ten steps he took, Gwyndolin was carried back eleven; Gwyndolin moved back and forth, shooting at him with the ease of shooting a stationary target, while Alastor could only defend himself, without even dreaming of catching up with him.

Even the fireballs thrown at him were incredibly easy for Gwyndolin to dodge; he hovered, as if he wasn't fighting at all, but showing off — and for a moment, Alastor thought he saw him smile. This smile was not the smile of a sadist, nor was it cruel — if Alastor had had time to think, he would have called it slightly smug, nothing more. But Alastor had no time to think. Nor did he have time to stare at it, his heart skipping a beat.

And yet, he stared—and that was enough for one of Gwyndolin's arrows to finally hit its mark.

Suddenly, magic struck him in the face, causing him to stumble — an arrow that should have pierced his head with a crunch, like a ripe apple, crumbled to fine dust and left not even a scratch. He touched the scar on his face with his fingers — an old one, left even before he came to Izalit — but no, there was no wound. Nothing.

These arrows were not real, but illusory.

If they had been real, Gwyndolin could have easily killed me, he thought. That should have been nerve-wracking for him, probably. Maybe even frightening, or upsetting.

Instead, he had to pray to all the gods who would listen that the tips of his ears would not be as red as he felt them to be.

Then he blinked again and sat down on the floor, stumbling more from shock and confusion than from pain — and found himself right at Gwyndolin's feet. And the training hall around them became normal again, no longer endless.

Illusions, he realized with great delay. They all were ones - the arrows, the corridor... oh. Oh, what a strenght this little lord was hiding!

And, exhaling with a smile and accepting Gwyndolin’s outstretched hand to help him up, Alastor could only laugh quietly:

“My lord, tonight I will definitely say a prayer or two before bed for me to never become your enemy,” and he shook his head slightly, in sincere admiration. “Such a damn interesting trick. I would have died either from the arrows or from exhaustion — without even touching you! That’s a talent right there, if I ever saw one...”

And he really meant it — smiling again when he saw the snakes up close againg. It seemed like they always showed up when he was doing magic — or maybe it was connected to something else, since he saw them then on a balcony, a few weeks ago? Alastor wasn't sure. Regardless, he reached out to one of the snakes that had crawled up to him and scratched its neck in a familiar manner, without even thinking twice about it.

He didn't even notice how confused Gwyndolin looked at him, pressing his bow to his chest, as if trying to hide behind it.

“Dost thou truly deem it thus?” Gwyndolin blurted out very strangely, but looking at him with a slight smile, Alastor could only shrug his shoulders:

“Of course. I would have been a pin cushion before I even realized what was happening! I mean, I have seen archers in Lord Gwyn's army, and I have seen archers in Izalith — but, between you and me, I am certain that they are not even half as good as you.”

In response to these words, Gwyndolin lowered his bow — no longer hiding behind it, but... a sudden melancholy settled over his entire posture. A melancholy that Alastor had noticed a couple of times before - for example, when drinking tea with Gwyndolin and his older sister, when they discussed various things — be it embroidery, cooking, or simple walks. Gwydolin let the snakes disappear and walked a few steps to the bow stand, placing his bow there — and as soon as he removed his fingers, the bow, a masterful creation, seemingly woven from moonbeams and starlight, quickly turned into a simple, soldierly bow, without the slightest touch of appropriate craftsmanship. Something that ordinary soldiers clearly trained with, and that it would not be a pity to accidentally break.

Turning back to him at last, Gwyndolin smiled—but there was no warmth in that smile. Only longing, only sadness, as if he were mourning something, but was obliged to bear it alone on his shoulders in silence:
“Verily, 'tis of little import how proficient I am in the art of archery, if I may be candid. I shall most likely cease mine pursuits forthwith.”

What? It didn't make any sense. Gwyndolin was such an excellent archer, and so successful — did he really not want to do it anymore?

Was that little smile, that little grin an illusion, too?

“Why?” he asked more quickly than he probably should have. “Didn't you liked it? I thought you enjoyed it.”

“It mattereth not what delighteth my heart, Alastor. In but a few moons hence, I shall be wed. And my betrothed...”

For a moment, his voice faltered. He pursed his lips, lowering his head, as if carefully choosing his next words, but they slipped away from him like sand through his fingers. And Alastor — oh, how he wanted to go over and hug him. To lift that crown and ruffle his hair, the way it helped Queleen to calm down; to hold his hands in his own. To comfort him, but...

But he couldn't. And so he just watched until Gwyndolin found his voice again:

“Mine betrothed dost hold that art of archery be not a fitting pursuit for a fair lady. Culinary arts, baking, and fine embroidery are deemed worthy. Thus, I shall no longer pursue it henceforth,” Gwyndolin confessed, and oh. Right. The wedding, the betrothed — everything that was causing even his own mood to deteriorate so quickly.

And damn it, he wasn't even the one who got married. If he had been, he would have been happy, really. How can you see such a ray of moonlight and try to change it, to bend it to your will? It's idiotic.

But he didn't say it out loud. If Quelaag taught him anything, it was that no matter how angry you were at the gods, don't be stupid enough to get caught insulting them out loud.

Instead, ne snorted:

“Maybe he should visit Izalith at least once. The only occupation that is ‘not a fitting pursuit for a fair lady’ there is the one that a lady herself doesn't want to do. And besides...”

You're not a lady, he wanted to say. After all, that was true — Gwyndolin had round, noticeable bust and long hair, and he wore really pretty dresses and veils, but his voice was that of a male, and he referred to himself as a man, too. What difference did it make to him what was «proper for a lady» and what wasn't? He was not a lady! So it did not matter!

Yet, the smile on Gwyndolin's lips was infinitely sad — as if he had guessed what Alastor was thinking. And maybe that was the case, or maybe not. Perhaps both of them had to play roles that they were not entirely suited to for one reason or another.

In any case, he moved a bit closer, gently took the other man's hand in his own, and then - knelt down, kissing Gwyndolin’s knuckles, like a knight he will never be:

“This honorable, venerable lady,” he remarked with a jest, looking up at Gwyndolin with warmth in his golden eyes, “has just given this one a very impressive, highly esteemed kick in the rear. And I think that it was very, very lady-like of him. I'm sure my sworn sisters would agree with me, too.”

And honestly, the soft, no longer sad smile on Gwyndolin's lips that he hid behind his slim palm was definitely worth it...

So worth it that Alastor didn't even notice one of the servant girl stealing glances at them from behind the doors, and then rushing away into the depths of the palace, carrying what she had seen in her mind, like a little treasure that needed to be taken to her master as soon as possible.

Chapter Text

Gwyndolin spent most of his life in the shadows.

That pretty much summed up his life, one way or another — serving their venerable sun father from the dark, even thought he never spared him a second glance... or serving as a shadow to his sister, who was the only member of the royal family who wanted to spend more time with him than was absolutely necessary. At a certain point, Gwyndolin simply resigned himself to his fate — he knew that no miracle would happen. Gwyndolin is where he was for a reason, and he will live and die as the disappointing son of Lord Gwyn and the useless spouse of the god whom Gwyn promised enough of trinkets and powers that he agreed to take on the burden of being his not-a-daughter-yet-not-a-son’s husband.

No. Miracles exist, but not for him — or so he thought.

Because then, came this really, really strange man from afar.

At first, Gwyndolin thought that perhaps he was simply interested in his visible beauty. His sister had warned him once, he remembered. She whispered, holding him close and tight - “some doth favour the serene, brother mine. Take care, for 'tis but to soil those skirts immaculate they aspire!” - and Gwyndolin tried to be on his guard, he did, but it was so, oh so difficult.

It was difficult when Alastor reached out his rough, calloused hand and said, “I can do both parties if it bothers you.”

It was difficult when he didn't treat Gwyndolin like some weird little thing that had to be endured or, conversely, protected from the evil eye. He treated him as an equal, and perhaps Gwyndolin should have been offended by this, still. He may have been the lowest of the gods in Anor Londo, but he was still a god, still to be revered, or feared, or...

But what if it wasn't so bad?

What if it wasn't so bad to let a simple man whirl him around in a dance, to listen to his stories about faraway lands, and drink tea with him in peace and quiet? What if it wasn't so bad that their joint training sessions stirred his heart and made Gwyndolin feel almost thrilled that for the first time he wasn't being let off the hook, that for the first time in his long, long life, someone was really trying to fight him on equal terms, lost, and didn't call him a freak, as Gwynray had blurted out in a fit of rage.

“This is an foul fight,” he growled then, “In a battle of honor, thou wouldst not endure a moment!”

Alastor didn't care about a “fair” fight, it seemed. He saw it, as Gwyndolin saw it himself — the world is not so fair and beautiful, in the world it often happens that you are either the winner or the loser, either alive or dead — and Gwyndolin lost so often to the hand of Fate that he was not going to lose his life as well...

And yet, it was difficult. Gwyndolin knew, knew perfectly well, that he was destined to be the spouse of this god, whose name he found repugnant even to whisper in his thoughts. He knew that he would have to lie with him in bed and give him heirs, but.

But when Gwyndolin went to sleep and lay down on his soft sheets, he did not think about his betrothed.

He probably shouldn't have been thinking about anyone. But Gwyndolin’s mind kept returning to those warm, calloused hands that so easily brought those petals of flame down; he thought about the smile on that tanned face, which wasn't spoiled in the least by the scar on the bridge of his nose, and about those eyes — more honey-colored than golden, come to think of it.

It was his eyes that Gwyndolin thought about when he dared to shamelessly lift the hem of his nightgown, sliding his hand between his thighs. About Alastor, who would look at him without disgust, without coldness; Alastor, who would embrace him with those strong, muscular arms, who would caress him shamelessly, and Gwyndolin bites his lip so hard, almost making it bleed, all while sliding the fingers of his free hand to his flat chest.

In bed, Gwyndolin didn't need to put on any illusions; he didn't need to pretend to be someone he wasn't. He could caress his pink nipples, imagining that it was Alastor stroking them and rolling them between his fingertips, teasing the areola. That it was Alastor's hand, not his own, caressing the moist folds of Gwyndolin's womanhood with his fingertips...

“Alastor,” Gwyndolin whispered as a shiver of pleasure ran through him, as the sensation of the sheets, blankets, and even his own nightgown sent a prickle of electricity throughout his body. Everything felt so good, so good...

Not enough.

Alastor cannot touch him, the realization dawned on him as he adjusted his clothes and looked at his wet fingers.

Alastor will not hold him, comfort him. His husband will; the husband he does not wish to see, who will see in him only a pretty face and a beautiful female body — for Gwyndolin has no doubt that he will have to maintain the illusion every night. and...

And Gwyndolin tried to keep himself quiet as pleasure turned to longing, and tears stung the corners of his blue eyes.

He will... he will do what needs to be done. He will.

But oh flames, how he hated to.

And it was evening, right in the middle of their next covert training session with Alastor, when the worst possible news reached them, right before they hid their weapon, as if they were kids, hiding alcohol from their parents...

The news struck him like lightning, and Gwindolin nearly lost the thread of illusion that concealed Alastor's panting, that concealed the bow from his own fingers.

His future husband had decided to arrive in Anor Londo ahead of schedule.

The maid bowed low after saying this, almost to the floor, slipping away into the corridors without even glancing at Alastor. As if he weren’t there.

And he won’t be, in time. The Witch of Izalith’s affairs will clearly soon be over, and he will leave, and Gwyndolin will remember their meetings as people remember summer in the depths of cold winter. He will remember how he held Gwyndolin’s hands in his; how they trained, and how Alastor almost caught Gwyndolin several times — and oh, how Gwyndolin wanted to let him...

It seemed, thought, that Gwyndolin's expression matched his feelings. For Alastor after a few minutes of uneasy silence approached him, smiling sadly and almost guiltily, touching his wrist, stroking it along pale veins, then intertwining their fingers:

“Hey, maybe the rumors are wrong,” he said with much more hope than Gwyndolin allowed himself in the moment, “maybe he's not so bad?”

The rumors turned out to be wrong, that's for sure, thought Gwyndolin a few hours later, when his precious betrothed, the god of the south wind, raised another cup of alcohol and made a short toast in honor of his brother, while Gwynray happily clinked cups with him, spilling some of the drink on the floor. It was loud and restless; they laughed about things only they understood, boasting about their misadventures and their conquests of land...

His betrothed was so, so much worse.

He was a loud drunk indeed, and a cruel one at that. Gwyndolin had lost count of how many maids he had slapped on the butt or commented on their breasts, saying disgraceful things that Gwyndolin refused to repeat even in his thoughts. His betrothed and Gwynray had bonded over battles, over fighting and glory, but that was about it.

Perhaps, Gwyndolin thought with a twinge behind his ribs, Gwynray was just happy that he would finally have a brother, even if it was through marriage. The thought made him feel nauseous, and he guiltily asked to leave early, to which his husband replied, so smug:

“Verily, rest thee well, mine lady,” and laughed so lustily that Gwyndolin wanted to scrub himself clean, “thou shalt require all thy strenght when I lay mine hands upon thee.”

Gwyndolin left without looking back, not wanting to see the expressions on his father's or sister's faces, but also fearing that... he would see nothing there. That this was his new reality, and curling up in a ball on his bed, slamming the door to his chambers, Gwyndolin felt disgusting. In the end, it was true that this was what was expected of him — to be a good and obedient wife, to be quiet, to justify his life and presence as the moon daughter of a sun father.

Gwyndolin was deceiving himself when he thought that after the wedding he would be able to continue working with the Blades of the Sun, mentoring and teaching some of them. In the end, it wasn't a woman's job; it.

It wasn't a job for a lady.

He didn't know how long he lay in the twilight of sunset, thinking about his fate. Thinking about how he would never again clash with Alastor in a mock battle, never again instruct his... no, his father's Blades. They had never been subordinate to him, in truth; they had never been his people, even if his father turned a blind eye to how he led them in punishing sinners. Most likely, he would pass the reins on to someone else after his wedding...

A knock suddenly came from his window. Then another. And another. At first, Gwyndolin thought it was just birds deciding he hadn't suffered enough; they needed to knock on his window. They'll fly away, the young lord decided to himself, hiding his head under the pillow, but the silence did not come. It was as if they had really decided to drive him mad, but...

But as soon as he looked up at the window in frustration, the blood drained from his face and his heart skipped a beat.

Because through the transparent stained-glass window, he could see a familiar — and beloved — silhouette.

And, after quickly getting up and throwing windows open, he almost collapsed to the floor at the sight of Alastor — disheveled and dressed in light-colored clothes to blend in with the walls of Anor Londo, no doubt. He smiled that damn smile, that was making his legs weak, and there was so much warmth in his eyes. And yet:

“Why dost thou here?” Gwyndolin asked, barely above a scandalized whisper, pulling him inside and then sneakily looking out the window, trying to see if the patrolling knights had seen him. Whether it was luck or Alastor's preparations, it turned out that the knights were currently changing shifts, and so his sneaking into Gwyndolin's room went unnoticed. Still, there was no exuse:

“They could hast seen thou and shot thou down. Or thou could hast fallen, broking all the limbs or dying! Knowest thou the height of my window? What wast thou then contemplating?!”

Only now did Gwyndolin realize that he had pulled him by the lapels of his cloak, and they were... oh, they were close. Very close. It seemed that Alastor had noticed this too, for his cheeks flushed with heat, and he lowered his gaze, scratching the back of his head with an awkward laugh.

“I” Alastor's sigh was awkward, was all over the place, but then.

Then he simply pulled Gwyndolin toward him even closer. Hugging him tightly, warmly, burying his rough fingers in Gwyndolin’s light-colored locks and exhaling, holding as if he were afraid that Gwyndolin will dissapear or crumble down.

“Queleen saw you running from this «big and fancy dinner» of yours. She guessed that everything had gone to the Abyss and found me, told me... ugh, don’t hold it against her, but she basically told me that you were looking like you were about to faint or something.”

Oh, wonderful. Alastor's sister had seen his tantrum — Gwyndolin, extremely embarrassed and only more upset, tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but Alastor wouldn't let him. He held Gwyndolin tightly but gently — and when Gwyndolin finally looked at him, then...

Oh, how guilty Alastor looked.

“I know I can't change anything, but... But let me at least be with you? I promise — no, I swear — I won't do anything that would dishonor you, or hurt you. And if you really want me to go, just say so, and I'll go, no questions asked. Just- ugh. It's hard. Thought you shouldn't be alone right now. Oh Flame — I definitely wouldn't want to be alone with all that, but... that's me. What about you? ”

Gwyndolin knew they shouldn't do this. He knew, he really did.

There was a saying among people: “you cannot make up for the lost time.” It was wise, true, but now — now Gwindolin wanted to be greedy, not wise. They had so little time left together, and damn it. Damn it.

He should have sent him away, he knew. Yet instead, he clung closer to Alastor, burying his nose in Alastor’s shoulder and exhaling softly, allowing Alastor to keep him close, allowing Alastor to caress him skin between his thin shoulder blades — and not even thinking about how many times this human had seen him without his mask, seen him without illusions, and haven’t said a word about it.

No vulgar jokes, no quips. It was as if Gwyndolin could simply be, and that was enough.

What a sweet thought.

Sweet as a lie.

“Say to me something about Izalith,” he whispered quietly. A gentle question that always meant more “tell me something, anything, just don't leave me in silence” than anything else.

And Alastor, smiling into his hair stroking his back, pulled Gwyndolin toward the sofa, where they sat down side by side. He didn't even flinch when snakes appeared from under the relaxed Gwyndolin's dress and wrapped themselves around Alastor's legs. On the contrary, Alastor began to stroke them too, cooing at some of them from time to time as if they were small children.

“I always - ah, yes, little one, don't be naughty, your papa wants to hear a story - so-o, what was I saying? Right - I always thought I'd seen some really big mosquitoes by my father’s farm in the summer’s nights — but oh the Flame, the mosquitoes in the swamps of western Izalith are something else...”

And he continued - all while holding him, all while stroking Gwyndolin's hair and his snakes, until the tired young lord finally fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

The wedding preparations were in full swing, and Gwyndolin knew without a doubt that it was only thanks to Alastor's support that he hadn't gone mad yet.

It was madness, he knew - just as he knew that, frankly speaking, he was risking Alastor's life by allowing him to sneak into his room at sundowns. If his betrothed found out, he would be furious; he was a man of loose morals and allowed himself way too many things, but he also believed that “what belonged to him should belong only to him.”

His words, not Gwyndolin's.

And he even whispered his worries in the dark when Alastor let himself lie down next to Gwyndolin — fully clothed, having only taken off his shoes. He said them when Alastor stroked his snakes with great love and care, scratching under their little chins, and ran his rough fingers through his silver hair, humming a tune under his breath, which was the only reason Gwyndolin, troubled as he was, could fall asleep at all.

Should he discover it, thy life shall be forfeit, Gwyndolin whispered into his broad chest, allowing herself to be embraced and held. Should he discover it...

“He won't,” Alastor replied with a smile, tucking a silver strand of hair behind his ear, “I promised, didn't I?”

Alastor was the only one he didn't have to pretend everything was wonderful and perfect in front of. Of course, it was a high, impossibly high risk, but...

But Gwyndolin was tired — so much so that all he could do was fall asleep in the arms of this handsome pyromancer, who shamelessly crept up to his window every evening, using some small little trinket of unknown origin, that allowed him to blend in with the shadows even if there was almost none. Gwyndolin didn't ask any questions, honestly; trying on dresses and getting ready was driving him crazy...

Perhaps the only thing worse was trying to avoid the hands of his betrothed, who kept trying to get under his long skirts any and every time he could. And even if he could not, he tried anyway - corner him in the corridors, chasing the maids away, or catch him in the garden, or sit next to him at dinner, to make Gwyndolin touch him in shameful places all while his family was near.

“Verily, we art nigh wedded already,” the man purred insolently, even when Gwyndolin tried to be as harsh as he could, tried to uphold his purity at least as long as the excuse «I'm waiting for the wedding night» would allow him to. Yet, he was relentless, “what mattereth it, if thou approach the altar with my babe in the belly?~”

In all honesty, luck was on his side. Either Gwynevere suddenly wanted to spend the evening with him alone, saying stuff about «sisters secrets!», or Alastor's younger sister, white as a snow and wise as a sage twice her age, wanted to talk to him about moon magic, looking all doe-eyed and interested — his purity was saved for now, but...

But that's just delaying the inevitable, isn't it?

So much so that he almost missed the catastrophe that occurred right in their palace, as he took the longest nap after a long and exhausting fitting of twenty-three dresses, none of which met his standards or those of his sister. The fight, as he heard later, was so loud that the windows rattled — yet no one dared to repeat the details to him, and Gwyndolin didn’t try to pry poor servants further, who already looked as if they had seen ghosts, or those damned Undead appeared right on the threshold of Anor Londo, and only they saw it...

And also, he was still really confused and somewhat sleepy, for Alastor was not there with him the last night - something about «family matters in which he is not allowed to participate, but also cannot slip away unnoticed»...

Whatever it may be, the truth was clear: Lord Gwyn and his firstborn had a really loud and almost violent falling out, and the servants looked away guiltily, saying only «our young highness dissapeared in the night, and didn’t say anything to anyone»...

That meant there was only one thing left to do.

Or more like, only one person to ask.

“Gwynevere?” he asked wearily, finding his sister not in the garden where she usually sat, but in her private chambers, where she was knitting with her golden needles. This only added to his concern — Gwynevere rarely took up her craft, and so, gathering his skirts and sitting down next to her on the wide sofa, he exhaled:

“What's going on?”

Gwyndolin never liked discord in the family, that was true. And even less so he wanted to upset his sister further — but he could not stand having no idea on what was going on. If you don't know what's happening, you can't prepare, you can't know what to expect, you can't do so many things...

Gwynevere, putting the needles aside, sighed, rubbing her temples wearily. He rarely saw her like this — usually, his sister tried to look lofty and untouchable, like the true goddess she was, but now he saw slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and how they were slightly puffy, as if from crying.

This clearly did not bode well.

“Our sire and Gwynray, they did engage in a fierce quarrel, a most grievous one indeed”, she began, as if choosing each subsequent word with great care. He saw her like that even less often — perhaps only in his youth, when Gwynevere chose her words carefully to explain to him why Gwyn would never treat him the way she treated her or Gwynray...

“Mine ears did not receive the entirety thereof, so I may not recount unto thee each and every detail,” she continued, looking sadly out the window, where the sky was turning pink and dark in the sundown.

“Our sire and that Witch of Izalith intended to enact a ritual of grave import, a matter of vast and dire consequence. That much, I knoweth for a surety. The particulars escaped mine ears, wherefore, I know not why Gwynray departed in wrath, verily enraged...”

And she talked and talked about how she stumbled on their brother in the corridors, and he was looking pale and angry, as if he was about to get sick. He didn’t great her, didn’t say anything at all - and almost knocked her down when he ran out of the meeting room, leaving their father and the Witch there — unheard-of insolence, and yet...

“I am nigh curious as to what boon our sire proffered, which did enrage and scared him so,” he decided to remark more gently than he wanted to, holding his sister palm in his, gently squeezing it, “A proposal of marriage 'twas not, methinks, in all sooth.”

That seemed to be the right thing to say. Gwynevere chuckled softly, wiping the corners of her eyes, and shook her head:

“Verily, that is so. I deem there exists no goddess living who could brook his ire as we do...”

Oh, it was true. They both loved Gwynray immensely, but he seemed to have inherited all the worst traits from their father — boastfulness, strength, and abilities, but... not much else. In addition, ever since the war with the dragons, he had been somewhat secretive; he could disappear for weeks or months at a time without telling anyone where he was, and returning all tired, exhausted, and smelling of thunderstorms...

Their father forgave him for everything; he turned a blind eye to everything because “Thou shalt ne'er find love so deep as that for thine firstborn child”, he used to say.

And now, no matter what responsibility Gwyn wanted to place on his shoulders, he ran away now. How ironic.

“And now, whatsoev'r penance doth await him, 'twill descend upon our very shoulders,” he sighed, shaking his head. And then, something came over him - maybe bitterness, maybe sadness, but he smiled:

“Methinks mine own self shouldst be accustomed to such matters by now. First this wedlock, and now this...”

For a long moment, his sister remained silent. In recent days, he had confessed to her more and more often that this wedding was like death to him — after all, what did he have to lose by complaining a little to his sister? Even if it came to his husband, it would hardly change anything. He was marrying status and the possible riches that Gwyn had promised him — Gwyndolin... he was just there to warm the bed and bear heirs.

And yet, something had changed in his sister's eyes. Turning the palm that Gwyndolin had been clasping, she took his own in hers — and covered it with her other hand, smiling gently at him.

“Our liege sire, though his words may bite, yet his heart holds love for us all.”

“Doth it?” Gwyndolin exhaled more sharply than he intended. Sharper than he ever had a right to be.

Verily, even for me?

He almost blurted that out, but remained silent. And Gwynevere — she lifted Gwyndolin's hand to her face, kissing his knuckles gently, carefully and softly, almost as she had once kissed his scraped knees as a child, or his forehead, saying that everything would be all right.

And indeed, after that, Gwynevere kissed him on the forehead, almost like she used to. Gwyndolin almost melted in the touch, almost allowed himself to simply... believe her.

“He doth hold thee in affection, fair moonling,” and then, more quietly, “as do I, in sooth.’”

And then, he allowed her to rest, leaving to his own chambers, taking a long, long walk in the end. Honestly, Gwyndolin simply hoped that it would all be over soon. Of course, he would have to lie in bed and squint, trying not to think about his damned soon-to-be-husband, trying not to think about the quarrel between his brother and father, but that was all.

He'll manage, Gwyndolin thought, looking at the snow-white heights of the walls of Anor Londo Palace.

After all, he didn't really have a choice.

He wandered all night, hidden by illusions, and the truth - he had almost found peace with all this situation. In the end, he had adapted well; he had adapted before, so what would change now? Perhaps he would slip sleeping tea into his husband's wine; perhaps he would pleasure him with his hands and mouth, refusing to let him between his legs — a protest that his husband would clearly be too drunk to notice.

He returned at dawn, thinking about something distant — and...

And froze, realizing that someone else was in the chambers. At first, he feared it was his betrothed; that he had taken advantage of the noise and commotion and decided to catch Gwyndolin in a place where no one could protect him.

But no. Before he even had time to prepare for battle, he managed to weave a bow from illusions in his hands, he was soon greeted by a guilty smile, tousled curly hair, and the gaze of his beloved honey-colored eyes.

“It's me, it's me, I'm sorry,” the man exhaled awkwardly, raising his hands, “didn't mean to scare you.”

Now? Out of all the times, right now was the worst one.

Gwyndolin almost convinced himself that he could handle it on his own. He almost convinced himself that he could tell Alastor during the day that he no longer needed his visits, that he had figured it out, that he had done everything, and that Alastor could stop, could find himself a beautiful wife in Izalith and had kids with her, could forget about him. Forget about everything.

Who knew that temptation is incredibly difficult to resist when it is so, so close - yet so far.

“Why dost thou here? 'Tis late, nay, to early - no matter, why are thou here?” he whispered almost distraught himself, slamming the door behind him. But Alastor — oh, he looked upset, too. And come to think of it, he was not wearing his usual clothes — just a shirt and pants with high boots, with that very trinket hanging from his belt.

He approached without saying a word, and then took the bewildered Gwyndolin by the hands, pulling him closer — and hugging him as tightly as he could.

“I... I don't know,” he whispers brokenly, shaking his head. “Mother said we're leaving soon. That our business here is done, even if it’s not finished yet - don’t know what she ment, don’t know if I am supposed to know, but- you right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here.”

He shouldn't have buried his nose in Gwyndolin's hair, whose crown of illusions dissolved as soon as his lips touched the top of Gwyndolin’s head. He shouldn't have held him like such a precious treasure, as if Alastor's heart would simply break if he let him go. Certainly not with Gwyndolin's wedding to that drunkard so close...

Gwyndolin would like to imagine, that there's some hope for him. That maybe not here, maybe not in this life, but he would have a husband who would love... Him. Not a maiden, who his father wanted as a moon daughter, not the little flower in his big sister's shadow.

Him.

"Can i do something for you?"

Like what, Gwyndolin wanted to snap back. Steal me away, like those maidens in stories? Go and punch that damn god in the face, making him promise to take care of Gwyndolin and love him, even if he never listens to Alastor, a mere human?

The truth is, it's not Alastor's fault. He really wants to help, Gwyndolin sees and understands that; he holds his hands so gently, so carefully — and looks so guilt-ridden.

Alastor's hands are rough, hot as coals, nothing like his sister's palms. Gwyndolin wants those hands to hold him longer. He wants Alastor to hug him, to hold him...

Ah, Gwyndolin was greedy, and wanted so much. That was his curse, bundled up together nice and cozy with his womanhood, with his cursed moon birth, with the disgrace with which he lived every singe day. He wanted his father's approval, wanted to be loved by their people, wanted to be something more than just a shameful freak, «the third child that no one talks about», and.

Looking at Alastor, who was standing near him and watching him with such care, such love, he trembled.

Him, Gwyndolin thought, weeping quietly. I want him.

He doesn't even try to wipe the tears from his cheeks, and he doesn't let Alastor do it either.

He pulls Alastor toward him by the collar of his shirt, it feels like it might be the last thing he will ever do — and, knowing his future husband, it probably will be. But nothing matters to him now; nothing matters except Alastor's lips, which are dry and cracked, but the tenderest in the world to him; nothing matters except Alastor's arms, which cling to his waist, which hold him tight, so tight.

And do not push him away.

“We shouldn't,” Alastor whispers as Gwyndolin tries to catch his breath, but then kisses him himself. They are awkward, so damn awkward, and they knock their teeth together more times than it would be proper to admit — but Gwyndolin doesn't care at all. He pulls off the cloth that held Alastor's hair tied back and lets the dark curls fall over his shoulders; Gwyndolin buries his fingers in them and moans — he wanted to touch them, wanted to touch them so badly.

“We shouldst not,” Gwyndolin agrees, grinding his crotch against Alastor's hard cock, that was already straining against his pants. They mustn't, it's terrible, it's shameful, yet.

“Flee with me at break of dawn, Alastor.”

It's impossible, he knows. It's bloody impossible, and he's destroying what little trust his father had left in him, but.

Gwyndolin can't think about duty, or about his father, when Alastor looks at him with such care, such love in molten gold of his eyes — as if Gwyndolin were the only god who mattered to him:

“I'll challenge him to a duel,” Alastor whispers hoarsely, butting his forehead against Gwyndolin's, “I'll be with you, or I'll die trying.”

“Dare not thou succumb to death's cold embrace,” Gwyndolin practically growls, without even realizing it. He clings to Alastor as if he might disappear at any moment; clings and frowns, shaking his head, “thy God doth forbid thee to die.”

And Alastor's smile suddenly softens even more, even though Gwyndolin didn't know that was possible.

“My god, huh,” he whispers suddenly, so sweetly, so lovingly — and the knot that forms in the pit of his stomach is not painful at all. It was... different, so similar to what he had felt on those shameful nights, where he imagined that Alastor was holding him, that Alastor was caressing him... but much, much better — and so Gwyndolin decided that the most decisive thing to do would be to kiss that expression away from his lips.

And honestly, after that kiss... Gwyndolin didn't know how he would kiss anyone else. And it wasn't because Alastor was being so gallant and affectionate; it wasn't because Alastor didn't even try to slip his hands under his clothes, but only held Gwyndolin gently and carefully, as if he were the most precious thing in the world, even if Gwyndolin barely had the thoughts to stop, to not go too far himself.

Hah. Perhaps no, perhaps that's exactly why. Because Gwyndolin clung to his hands and received only warmth, only care, only desire for him — no matter how imperfect he might be — and now Gwyndolin didn't know how to live on, having tasted this forbidden fruit.

And even after Gwyndolin curled up beside Alastor and they laid in each other's arms — still clothed, still chaste, though disheveled and hungry for more — Gwyndolin didn't expect a great lot...

Certainly not a servant knocking loudly on the door in this early hours of the morning. The sun had not yet risen properly, and Gwyndolin barely had time to cast an illusion over the bewildered Alastor and himself, hiding his swollen lips and disheveled hair, before opening the door and hearing the tearful words of the distraught woman, whom he immediately recognized as one of his sister's maids:

“My lord, it's terrible... a terrible tragedy has happened!”

«What, again?», Gwyndolin wanted to ask wearily, not after Gwynray's outburst that evening, but...

But as soon as his sister's maid told him everything and then ran away, Gwyndolin realized that he was only standing straight because he was still holding onto the door with his hand. His legs wouldn't obey him, his heart was pounding in his ears, and even Alastor's voice, which rose and helped him close the door, did not help at all.

He could not cry, he could not laugh. He could only look at Alastor, and from the shock and concern on his face, realize that he hadn't misheard.

Either the goddess of luck had finally listened to him in the most ridiculous way possible, or... oh, Flames know what, he sure didn't know.

But, the fact remained, even when Gwyndolin went to Alastor and buried his face in the pyromancer's chest, half laughing, half bawling. 

His betrothed was dead.

Chapter Text

The funeral preparations were quiet, much quieter than the wedding preparations around them, for which he no longer had a betrothed. Perhaps Gwyndolin should have been concerned about that, as well as his father's seemingly illogical behavior; perhaps he should have asked more questions — why his father had suddenly chosen four officials to rule “in his temporary absence,” and why he was in such a hurry to marry him off - and not only him, Gwyndolin also heard some murmurs about his sister’s engagement...

Yet, in truth, Gwyndolin felt as if he had been struck on the back of the head, and not once, not twice. He should have been happy, of course; he should have been beside himself with joy, but looking at the body of his betrothed lying on the stone pedestal, Gwyndolin felt absolutely nothing.

There was emptiness in his chest, and even his father's speech about how they all need to stick together did not particularly touch his soul.

He's dead, echoed in his head in the maid's voice. He's dead. He's dead.

He really is dead.

Even though at first he and Alastor were terrified at the thought that someone might have found out about their nightly meetings and that Alastor would be blamed for the murder, everything turned out to be much simpler, and at the same time a lot more complicated. No one was blamed for his death, it is true, only because the physicians quickly determined that he had simply managed to drink too much of the Golden Mead — the drink of the gods, golden as their own blood, and the only one that could make them properly drunk. Most deities allowed themselves a cup, maybe two —after all, drinking more would affect the health of even the most powerful god, and with his betrothed found next to an empty barrel...

No one could be blamed but himself — the fool who got so drunk all by himself that he lost consciousness, fell, and then, lying on his back, choked on his own vomit. A foolish death for a fool, he thought.

And yet...

“The marriage preparations shall not be in vain.”

They sat down for a family council, unusual from all previous ones in that Gwynray's throne was empty, and his father's voice trembled with a weariness that Gwyndolin had never noticed before. He looks almost... irritated by what is happening — but not in the usual sense in which his father was usually disappointed in him. It was the “I already have too much on my goddamn plate, and now you're offering me a dessert” kind of disappointment, almost to the point of exhaustion — and Gwyndolin was almost ready to beg, truly. To ask his father to find and marry Gwynray off, or even arrange a wedding between Gwynevere and her beloved god. Anyone but not him, not again, he didn't even had time to taste freedom before the all-consuming taste of ash filled his mouth — but...

But his sister spoke first.

"If mine sire doth desire a union for our fair Gwyndolin... perchance, if I might speak, I can propose a bond that shall please my sire,“ her voice was sweeter than honey, sweeter than anything in the world, as she approaches their father and gently takes his hand in her own, with such love and care, as only she could, ”Of a truth, I hold not my sire's wisdom, and my heart is tender... yet I cannot but ponder - doth not the grand Witch of Izalith have a son of fitting years? Perchance..."

The Witch of Izalith’s son. The only one who came with her on this visit; the only one who held Gwyndolin, who cherished him. Oh. Oh, the Flames. She couldn't do that, could she? It was unimaginable hubris; Alastor was dear to his heart, but he was an adopted son, a foster child even, not Quel's flesh and blood...

But if anyone could convince his father of this, it would be Gwynevere — the apple of his eye and the only daughter he ever loved with all his heart.

His heart almost stopped. He tried to keep his face calm, tried to be collected and cold, detached even, so as not to betray his anxiety, not to betray how much he wanted this, even if just in a worry that his father would never allow it if he knew...

But suddenly, his father sighed. Gwyndolin had noticed this before, but after his eldest son's disappearance, Gwyn seemed to have lost his spark — his shoulders were slumped, his gaze was heavy and full of fatigue. He seemed to have lost hope in something, lost his faith — but Gwyndolin was wiser than to ask his father what he was thinking.

After a moment of silence that followed Gwynevere's gentle suggestion, he rubbed between his bushy eyebrows, frowning, and then waved his hand dismissively.

“‘Very well,’” Father sounded almost weary. Father sounded almost exhausted at that moment, as if not really agreeing per se, but unwilling to argue any longer — and that was so unlike him that Gwyndolin felt a sense of unease settle in her heart that was difficult to shake off.

"That doth suffice. Should Quel concur..."

“Aye, Sire, of that I am most assured,“ Gwynevere smiled so contentedly and happily, turning and winking at her brother for a brief moment, ”but then, should we not commence our preparations, pray tell?"

Their father nodded, waving them both away, and Gwyndolin truly felt as if he had been dunked underwater.

He will marry Alastor.

By the Flames, he will marry Alastor.

Oh, he should be happy, but his body is filled with anxiety even more than before. And his sister must sense this — for she does not lead him straight to Quel, no. She takes Gwyndolin into the garden to “pause with a dish of tea, to better perceive the tidings at hand” — and Gwyndolin drinks the contents of his mug in one gulp, almost like alcohol.

Why did Gwynevere propose Alastor as his spouse, when there were clearly a dozen lesser gods ahead of him in the metaphorical queue? Why him, of all people? Could she known... no, no, it’s not possible. No one had ever seen them together; Gwyndolin was sure of that, because anyone who’d seen them would’ve immediately run and reported everything to his father, and oh, his father was not one to hold back words of disappointment...

He is scared. He is happy. His chest is so full of emotions that he doesn't know which one to grab hold of — and yet.

The thought suddenly struck him. Yes, the Golden Mead was to be served at his wedding, that was true — but his wedding was still a month and a half away, and they wouldn't take the barrels out of the cellar until a week before the date, to give it time to breathe. And oh, no one was allowed to know the way to Anor Londo's meadery, just as no one was allowed to know the way to the cellar. Only the highest officials and gods of Anor Londo had access, which Gwyndolin did not have, but his older siblings did.

He looked at his sister suddenly, seeing her in a completely different light. Officials would clearly not get involved in this; his father was too busy, and his brother had left the capital. There was not even a chance that his betrothed would make it to the Mead on his own, and with the fact that the physicians kept their mouths shut about this fact when they conducted the funeral procession...

“Gwynevere?” he whispered, realizing something — but his sister just chuckled softly, placing her fingertips on his lips:

“Hush now, mine treasure,” she whispered, so that only Gwyndolin could hear, and gently stroked his cheek, looking like innocence itself, the very face of purity and tenderness.

“You see, one of my most dutiful handmaidens did come unto me with haste, some weeks hence,” Gwynevere continued as if nothing had happened, stirring honey into her tea, "and she didst impart unto me that she had beheld mine dear little brother in training, nay, not merely training, but with Quel's own son, mark thee. And that my brother appear in such joyous state... It didst bring to mind the first dance thou shared with him. How thou inquire if I held knowledge of his name..."

Did she see them dancing? Had she figured it all out so long ago? Oh, what an fool Gwyndolin was. He couldn't hide anything from her, who had ears and eyes in every maid, every servant girl who flitted around the palace like shadows.

Something dark in Gwyndolin's stomach knotted, and he clenched his fists on his knees so tightly. She wasn't going to blackmail him, Gwindolyn realized that; she clearly wasn't going to do anything bad, but... why had she done that? Why, when she had talked so often about weddings, dreamed so much about her own?

His sister's hand covered his own again, in answer. Just as gently, just as tenderly.

“Didst thou believe I would let thee to wed that foul beast, pray tell?”

A lump formed in Gwyndolin's throat. For a second, he thought he didn't recognize this sister of his, sitting in front of him — she would never hurt a fly, she would never...

“Naught holds import to me save but the bliss of my kin, Gwyndolin,” her voice is still soft and gentle, but there is also steel in it, there is confidence. Something that sharply reminded him that even his precious sister, the goddess of dawn, healing, and love, was their father's daughter, too, "This god was given fortune to discover bliss with thee, yet alas, he squandered it. And I did that which was needful, no more, no less. Now... 'tis thou, mine own dear, who shall perform that which must be."

And, with a soft laugh in her eyes, she stood up and kissed him gently on the forehead, taking his hand and helping him up:

"Thou shalt wed this brazen knave, and render him the most joyous soul in all the realm. A task of no small measure, methinks? 'Tis best to commence with haste..."

Following his sister, Gwyndolin didn't say another word — and yet, for the first time, his heart felt so light.

He would get married, the realization enveloping him like a warm, fluffy blanket. He would marry the man he loved — the “only luxury available to humans, but not to gods” — and Gwyndolin was going to have it, but also...

He loved Alastor.

Oh, how he loved Alastor. He loved him and would be with him, all thanks to his sister, who pulled off such an impossible trick under the table, deceiving even their father...

Doing all this — for him.

“I bid thee gratitude,” he whispered softly, audible only to his sister, and smiled to himself when he heard her warm laughter.

"Wherefore, prithee, sweetling? We have yet to decree upon a gown. Haste, then, and apprise thy betrothed of our intent, that we may sally forth to try on new raiments! I have collected gowns which shall serve to display thy form most admirably..."

Gwyndolin, in turn, sighed with all the sorrow he could muster and obediently followed her.

Chapter Text

Alastor honestly didn't know what to do with himself after all these news.

Even the atmosphere in Anor Londo now felt different, almost strange in some sence. For exapmle, it was a bit mournful, but not a whole lot - very few people, as he could see in his short walks, truly grieved over the death of this foolish god. Which kind of made sense — how could you sing about the bravery and greatness of a god who managed to drink himself to death, just a few months before his wedding? Alastor was pretty sure that the only more shameful death would be if he managed to breathe his last while sitting in the restroom... then again, who knows.

He left behind a heavy legacy, no doubt about it. And yet, Alastor couldn't stop thinking about what this meant for his precious... friend? Beloved? Alastor didn't know what to call them now, or ever. His heart sang and hurt when Gwyndolin allowed himself to bury his nose in Alastor’s chest, and when the young Lord of Anor Londo allowed himself to fall asleep in Alastor's arms — trusting that he would never do anything bad, anything to harm him. And it was such a strange trust; after all, Alastor was only mere human, what could he do to a god?

But... But Alastor's heart, his silly human heart — it hurt and was so, so full of warmth as he allowed himself to brush Gwyndolin's slightly ruffled hair, admiring his sleeping, serene face.

Even his foster mother's tense face no longer frightened him, nor did the fact that he would soon have to leave. He lived in the moment then, absorbing every inch of Gwyndolin's face, vowing never to forget it. Even when the sun went out, even when his bones turned into dry, withered branches, like those of a dead tree, Gwyndolin would be carved into them. Into his very essence - from now on and forever, there will be a place in his heart for one divine being who trusted him, opened up to him, and wanted him by his side.

The little god who had been his guiding star, who had charmed him and captivated him — Alastor no longer wanted to look back.

Him, Alastor thought, tucking strands of silver hair behind Gwyndolin’s ear with his fingertips. All while Gwyndolin sniffed charmingly in his arms, like a kitten, curling up closer and rubbing his cheek against Alastor's broad chest — trusting him like no one else ever had.

I want him.

And of course, it was just a silly little wish, but how could Alastor ignore it? How could he, when even in his dark, mourning clothes, Gwyndolin looked like the moon to a traveler lost in the darkness... Perhaps, it was him. Perhaps he was lost in the darkness — and even though he knew that asking to stay in Anor Londo would be terribly presumptuous, and unruly, and probably would result in more troubles, he wanted to. Even just as a court assistant pyromancer; he wasn't going to ask for much, and yet.

And yet, as he was sitting next to Queleen and read a book stolen from the local royal library, she smiled gently at him with a playful look in their eyes. Alastor... knew his sister better than to think it was just her good mood and the result of some nice conversation with Gwyndolin’s older sister that had cheered her up so much. But he tried to keep his face calm — after all, Queleen couldn't possibly know about his feelings, could she?

Even if it was she who covered for him in front of their matron when Alastor slipped away from the reception to dance with Gwyndolin.

Even if it was she who encouraged him to take more frequent walks, during which Alastor more often than not ran into the Sun Siblings over their afternoon tea...

... but no, she couldn't have known what was happening between them, she couldn't. At least, she clearly had no idea that Alastor had been in Lord Gwyn's young son's chambers that day — at least, he hoped so. Like yeah, Queleen was the one who gave him this trinket, woven as if from the rays of dawn themself; she said playfully then, handing it to him that “this is for walks when you might crave to remain unnoticed, I know full well your hate of public gaze, Al” and Alastor... well. He did, so it was not such strange of a gift, was it?

Even if he actually used them to secretly sneak off to meet with Gwyndolin — from training sessions to visits to his chambers...

“You seemest most pensive, Al,” Queleen was always perceptive, he had to give her that. And yet now, she did not look like one of the witches of Izalit; she adjusted her dress and hugged her knees, resting her head on his shoulder and looking at him with a squint that held no malice, “and why do I feel that this has nothing to do with this book or the ritual that Mother told us about?”

Ah, the ritual. Quel had told them all about it in a rather superficial way; she had said that a catastrophe was coming, an unimaginable one — and even though it was far off, tens or hundreds of years away, they needed to prepare countermeasures. A ritual that would require the strength of all her children...

“Something like that. In the end, I won't be of any use to it. Even though I'm your brother by name and craft, that doesn't change the fact that I'm not her son — which means I won't be that important for the ritual...”

Queleen frowned slightly, but then exhaled, hugging his arm and pressing it against herself:

“Maybe. But in any case, there's no need to worry, Mother will take care of everything... and yet. What are you thinking so hard about then, hm?”

Oh, Flame. Perhaps he should have kept quiet. Perhaps he should have taken these thoughts to his grave — but looking into the large, purple eyes of the girl who was closest to a family for him in the whole wide world, Alastor spilled, like some sand from a torn bag:

"I... I just think I'm a little lost, Queleen," he decides to be honest — after all, he's only here because she took pity on him once. That she smiled at the disheveled, covered in soot and frightened miller's son and held out her thin, pale hand to him — she deserved at least that much, “I knew I couldn't stay in my home village, even if I wanted to. However, with Izalith... I'll never be a part of that place either. I tried, and I was happy there, even if it were rough sometimes, but now, I'm... I am not sure.”

Terrible insolence, he knew. He had been so insolent lately — but Queleen wasn't angry, no. She somehow got really pleased, giggled quietly, burying her nose in his shoulder — and shook her head, as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing:

“Of course you're at a loss, Al,” she finally lifted her eyes, violet and sparkling in the daylight, and narrowed them slightly, “chicks have to leave the nest eventually. Especially when they've found a mate!”

A... a mate.

Oh, Flames.

Oh, Alastor's ears felt hot, as if they had been dipped in boiling water. He gasped in indignation, trying to come up with something, anything to steer the conversation away... but Queleen just smiled contentedly, clapped her hands, and jumped up, just as someone knocked on the door of their palace wing:

“Hush, hush, don't argue with your elders,” and, smiling at the servants who just had arrived, she seemed somehow... all too aware of what was going on, “you'd better go and put on something more presentable, Al. Go, don’t waste time, I'll give some tea to our precious guests!”

And Alastor obeyed, even though he felt so, so incredibly strange and lost. Even more so when he returned and found his sister sitting and chatting with servants there, with a knowing smile on her face, like a cat that had her cream.

“It seems you won't have to leave Anor Londo, in the end,” she remarked cheerfully, and Alastor...

He hadn't expected this conversation — nor that it would drag on for hours. It turned out that the servants had brought news: Lady Quel and Lord Gwyn had discussed “very important matters,” and the wedding would go ahead after all...

With Alastor as the groom.

It ended with him asking to go for a walk, and his sister letting him go without any fuss, saying that “they and Quel would take care of the remaining business anyway,” and Alastor simply... didn't know what to think. He would be able to stay in Anor Londo. And not just stay, but.

But become Gwyndolin's consort.

Is he asleep? He must be asleep. How else could all this be true?

His legs carried him on their own. The accessory allowed him to blend into the shadows again, and within half an hour, he was watching Gwyndolin combing his hair in front of the mirror in the quiet of his chambers, dressed in light, simple robes. Alastor did not know what expression he had on his own face, for his eyes were not interested in looking at his reflection, but at Gwyndolin's face — calm, if only slightly melancholic.

Beautiful, deep blue eyes of his soon-to-be husband watched him through the mirror in a few moments, and that was the bit when Alastor realised that the trinket was not working anymore.

“Dost thou know?” Gwyndolin whispered softly.

The snakes at his feet writhed slowly, reacting immediately to his approach — their little tongues tasted the air, their heads moved chaotically at first, but the closer he got, the more they were drawn to Alastor. But not in aggression, no; Gwyndolin's familiars never tried to bite him or hurt him. Even now, they just rubbed against his hands, like kittens, hungry for affection. Even when he sat down on the floor next to the young lord, they continued to butting their heads against his thighs and palms, begging for caress, for love and care.

And Alastor gave it to them, sitting near Gwyndolin's feet; he smiled, scratching their necks and exhaling quietly:

“I do. They came like, an hour ago, and said that I am to become your consort, but, uh... I just... wanted to know from you - do you really wanted this?”

“Wherefore should I not?”

Because there is a difference between simple interest, simple infatuation, even sharing a goddamn bad - and the desire for marriage, Alastor almost said. Almost, but he held back, biting the tip of his tongue — Gwyndolin knows this, knows without a doubt. Even more than Alastor could have imagined, plainly — in the end, they almost gave Gwyndolin away to a bastard who wasn't even worthy of his little finger.

And so, exhaling, he moved closer and rested his temple on Gwyndolin's thigh, covering his eyes. He didn't even flinch when Gwyndolin's fingers rested on his head and gently stroked him, as if he were a tired, loyal dog, not a human at all.

So messy, all of this.

“Isn’t there really... someone better?”

Because I am only a mortal man, and I do not know if I am worthy of you.

Because you are as beautiful as the moon itself, and you deserve someone who would make you happy...

But faster than Alastor could open his mouth again, Gwyndolin leaned over and kissed him softly on the top of his head:

"Thou fearest that I know not all. That there be one of greater worth, and mayhap, 'tis so. For myself, for thee, and yet... Thou must possess some knowledge ere making thy choice. Thou seest, thou art ignorant of all concerning mine... mine condition."

His condition? Alastor looked at him thoughtfully, and Gwyndolin exhaled quietly, turning his face toward the mirror that adorned the top of his dressing table:

"Whenas whispers didst stir around the Royal Court, that I wert neither man nor woman, 'twas not merely wind. Part of the glamour... doth render me one thing. But truth... be a thing of far greater ugliness."

Alastor frowned slightly — greater ugliness? How could there be “greater ugliness” when there was no one more beautiful in the whole world? However... the truth was that he had not once seen Gwyndolin in the nude — and the opposite was also true. After all, what if Gwindolin likes men without burn scars all over their bodies? Or someone who isn't so... so...

Even though he was aware of the shamelessness that had sprung to the tip of his tongue, he let the suggestion slip easily, as if he hadn't suggested anything terribly impudent:

"Then maybe we should finally visit the bathing houses together? We never went there after training, as it was not proper for two men to do so, let alone for a human and a god, but... if we are to be married, who can say a thing?"

Gwyndolin's cheeks flushed pink, along with the tips of his ears — such a beautiful sight that Alastor couldn't help but glance at, smiling softly. And even though Gwyndolin's entire body got all tense, he nodded briefly, as if tearing off a bandage stuck to a wound, and exhaled:

“It shall be fair,” was all he said.

And so, they went. The entire palace was too busy with preparations for the new wedding to notice their progress; besides, Alastor was almost certain that Gwyndolin had covered them with an illusion, allowing them to slip unnoticed to the baths.

The baths, accessible only to the gods — oh, Alastor really shouldn't have been there. And yet, stripping off his clothes and stepping into the hot springs, he exhaled loudly at the pleasant water, feeling the fatigue evaporate from his bones with each step.

And when he heard a rustle behind him — after all, Gwyndolin needed more time to take off his regalia — he looked back without a second thought...

And froze.

Alastor expected beauty, that’s for sure, but he had no idea it will be like this. Gwyndolin was no mear beauty - his chest, round and perky, with such charming, pale pink nipples, swayed slightly with each step. His skin glowed like marble in the dim light of the bathhouse and looked almost otherworldly, especially on the curves of his hips, no longer hidden by clothing. And that sweet spot between his thighs, so alluring... oh.

But something was wrong. In the way Gwyndolin smiled — almost wistfully — and slid into the water, sitting not on the floor, but on Alastor's hips, straddling his waist with his knees. He was bold, he was beautiful in the way he leaned back slightly and let the light play on his now slightly damp skin — but the melancholy in his shining eyes was obvious:

“Dost thou find favour in what thine eyes behold?” he purred, grabbing Alastor's hand and placing it on his chest, so soft and maddening — and Alastor stroked it, licking his lips. Gwyndolin was irresistible, and yet...

«Part of the glamour... doth render me one thing. But truth... be a thing of far greater ugliness»

Alastor leaned closer, kissing his neck. Kissing him softly and gently, squeezing his chest and teasing tense nipple with his fingertip, whispering quietly:

“You are gorgeous, Gwyndolin. But, you're still hiding behind an illusion, aren't you?”

Gwyndolin tensed slightly again, as if about to jump away, but Alastor covered his waist with his other hand, gently pulling Gwyndolin closer. He liked what he saw, no doubt about that — but also just...

“Can you confide in me, just for a moment?” he whispered softly, almost pleading, his lips tracing the other’s pulse, “a body of a man, or that of a woman — it’s the same for me, as long as it is you, really. Yet forgive me, for I am greedy. Just this once, I want to know you, my sun. The real you. Will you allow me?”

And for a moment, nothing changed. For a long moment, he simply held Gwyndolin on his lap, gently stroking his back, his waist — just caressing him, almost like his little snakes before. Letting him feel the warmth of his body, feeling the closeness that Gwyndolin was slowly, carefully began to cling to. And even though Alastor was almost ready to pull away, to say, “it’s okay, I won't rush you into this if you are not ready yet...”

Gwyndolin pulled away himself — only a bit, without trying to get up. And for a moment, it seemed that nothing had changed, except...

Only there was no trace left of the femininity, that was there before. Gwyndolin didn't dare look at him, pressing his thin lips together — thinner than Alastor remembered from just a moment ago. And, come to think of it, every feature seemed to remain the same, yet at the same time it did not; his jaw had become slightly more sharp, his Adam's apple was now visible on his slender neck. And the lower Alastor looked, the more differences he noticed — how his chest was flat and obviously masculine, with nipples that were still charmingly puffy from the cold and caresses, but slightly inverted, as if shy; how his rounded hips had become thinner and slimmer.

And only between Gwyndolin's legs almost nothing had changed — except that the clitoris and its hood stood out more prominently.

“No further illusions,” he heard Gwyndolin's voice as if through thick water, “'twas for a reason I did conceal myself, dost thou see?”

For a moment, Alastor just sat there and admired him dumbly, as if he had been hit on the head. Perhaps it was a lousy comparison, but Alastor had no others at the moment - how could he, after all? In his hands was the very moonlight, molded into a beautiful body with light, shiny scales on the outside of his thighs — and Alastor stroked Gwyndolin enchantedly, suddenly thinking that snakes made much more sense now. And not only them.

“No illusions,” Alastor whispered as if spellbound himself — and leaned forward, trailing his lips along Gwyndolin’s keen, beautiful collarbones. “Thank you for trusting me.”

This was definitely not what the young Lord had expected — if only because he arched his back so beautifully, clinging to Alastor's shoulders so helplessly, even scratching him slightly with his fingernails. Exhaling sharply, as if truly shocked to the point of madness:

“Thou... thou dost not...?”

Alastor decided that this dialogue would be much better conducted without words. Words can lie, words can deceive — but the touch between them was honest. And oh, sweet Flames, Gwyndolin was so thin in his arms — though perhaps it was just that Alastor was a bit larger, more muscular, even though the illusions that had faded revealed Gwyndolin's trained archer's hands. And oh, how beautiful those hands were, clinging to Alastor so desperately; how beautifully his Adam's apple rose and fell when Gwyndolin swallowed sharply from Alastor's kisses on his chest — flat, obviosly that one of a man, and yet he covered it with kisses so desperately, wanting to decorate its milky-pale skin with marks — and succeeding in doing so very well indeed.

And even his nipples, a bit inverted and hidden so charmingly, were not deprived of caresses — Alastor teased the folds with the tip of his tongue, diving into them, sucking lightly on the areolas — and they showed themselves so easily, so wet and beautifu, just like their owner.

Because oh, was Gwyndolin wet — he rubbed his folds so shamelessly against Alastor's thigh, so rhythmically and eagerly, and Alastor would be damned if he thought the moisture on his leg was just warm spring water. His pale skin contrasted so sharply with Alastor's tanned one — and Alastor touched him, stroking him greedily and carefully, burying his nose in his neck — and breathing in the scent of lilies of the valley that followed him everywhere...

“Just look at yourself, Gwyndolin,” Alastor almost growled as his fingers finally slid between his thighs. Gwyndolin shuddered all over, biting his lips; his flesh there was so hot, and his clitoris was so beautifully swollen, rubbing so hotly against the base of his palm as he teased the wet entrance with his fingertips:

“So beautiful, my sun, so, ah-”

He let out a moan himself when Gwindolyn's palm timidly, carefully stroked him from the base to his leaking tip. He knew it wasn't worth going all the way now; they would have plenty of time, and yet...

Gwyndolin was so pliant in his arms, as if he was made of clay. His skin so soft and flushed and pretty, his whole body trembled with every touch, with every kiss - how could Alastor hold back? How could he not kiss every little inch of his skin, nipping at it with his teeth from time to time, only to calm it with his tongue later, how could he leave him like that?

He knew that neither he nor Gwyndolin would be satisfied with simple caresses of the hands today. Therefore...

“Shh, I have an idea,” and looking into the face of such a flushed, horny and confused Gwyndolin, he kissed him on the corner of his lips and whispered with a smile, “We'll save dessert for our wedding night, my moonshine, but for now... Can you squeeze your thighs for me?”

The blush spread across his cheeks even brighter, and Gwyndolin nodded. They had to change their position slightly, but Gwyndolin didn't seem to mind sitting with his back to him now — leaning back against his chest, allowing Alastor's palms to torment his lovely nipples some more, and then to caress his waist...

And just like that, with just the right ammount of manhandling, Alastor's cock slipped between his pale thighs, stroking him oh so shamelessly along the folds of his lovely, wet pussy.

“Alast-ah!~” Gwyndolin shuddered, his eyes wide with confusion. But it wasn't panic, and it wasn't pain; he seemed unaware of what to do with himself when every little, slight movement of his pelvis allowed him to rub so shamelessly against Alastor's cock, so hard and warm, and cloze to the place he wanted it most. And when the head of Alastor’s penis rubbed against his perky clit with every thrust...

He bit his lips so sweetly, and quiet sighs escaped his mouth — especially when Alastor moved his hands from his waist to his chest and so shamelessly stroked and massaged his tense nipples, already so red and beautiful from the caress. Who knew that they were so, so sensitive?

“Ah, mh, mn~, A-alastor, Alastor~,” Gwyndolin gasped so damn sweetly, and Alastor couldn't stop. He couldn't, even when one of Gwyndolin's hands slipped between his thighs, stroking his clitoris and the head of Alastor's penis every time he thrust, and Alastor just chuckled softly in his ear, biting his earlobe:

"Yes, just like that, my sun, my moon, my everything. Make yourself feel good, show me how you make yourself feel good," he broke down himself, unable to think of anything but how tight it was between his thighs, how wet, and he didn't care about the splashing water, didn't care that anyone could catch them here...

All that mattered was trembling, beautiful Gwyndolin in his arms. Destroyed with every thrust of his hips, with every drop of slick they shared between them, between those milky-white tights — and with the warmth of Alastor's breath on his neck, his hands bullying his chest so hot and lovely, as if hoping that it would spill...

His poor sun, he couldn't stop moaning. Only in a moment of lucidity Gwyndolin ended up grabbing Alastor’s free hand with his own, pulling it away from his ravaged chest — only to intertwine their fingers.

“Ah, mn, kiss me,” Gwyndolin breathed, almost ordered on the verge of sobbing, and Alastor — how could he not? — obeyed him. He kissed his beloved god, feeling how the orgasm made the poor lad tremble in his arms so sweetly — and followed suit, breaking the kiss only for a lewd moan into his lips when his seed shamefully flooded the space between Gwindolin's thighs and stained the lower part of his stomach.

And afterwards, they lay in each other's arms for a long time, trying to catch their breath. The spring water was dirty, and Alastor didn't want to think about how they would have to clean it all up, but... Gwyndolin didn't seem to be thinking about that at all. God in his hands was practically a pampered kitten, sprawled across his chest and content.

But after a moment or two, he looked down at the mess on his stomach and, touching it with his fingertips... shamelessly raised his hand to his face, licking the semen off his fingers.

“Hmm,” he said wisely, “not so grievous as I had deemed.”

Groaning in embarrassment, Alastor buried his face in Gwyndolin’s shoulder, hugging him tightly as soft laughter rang out.

“You will be my undoing,” was all he could manage.