T A L O N
30 Glade 122 AoS
???
Consciousness returned to him.
He winced as the stinging ache of his morning inscription routine was on the path to healing. Already the markings that had been carved into his skin were scabbing over. As had become his ritual, they would need to be reapplied later in the evening. It had been how he marked the passage of time, aside from the brightening and fading of the light through the stained glass windows. His eyes rose to watch the robed figures cleaning their instruments as they gathered up the supplies that had been used to apply the pictographs to his skin. They said nothing. They never did. Not even to each other. They were silent, just like the raven winged Kathar that lined the hall. He had memorized the faces of the Kathar that had been assigned to stand watch over him. The number sometimes fluctuated. Sometimes there were as many as eighteen of them but there were never less than a dozen as far as he had been able to tell.
The hazy fog that continued to press upon his mind was becoming a painful reminder of the circumstances he was in, more so than the ache of the carvings on his body. He had fought against its influence every time it had pressed upon him. Twice now, he had even thrown it off, causing the markings upon his body to completely heal as they were burned away by the silver fire of his domain.
It was after the second time that he learned the consequences for such defiance.
He had been meditating when Aoren’s screaming had begun. He felt a jarring stab of pain lance through his entire body and realized that it was coming not from himself but from his husband. They were torturing Aoren on a whole new level. The mighty warrior had been putting up just as much of a fight as he had been. He knew because they broadcasted Aoren’s torture daily, sometimes hourly. Sometimes sporadically throughout the day.
They had forced him to listen to the brutal suffering they inflicted upon Aoren. When he had tried to reach out to his husband across the Bond, not only did he feel the clawing presence of whatever black arts his captors used, begin to interfere but he felt Aoren draw back and away. He felt Aoren form a wall, thin though it might have been, separating the two of them with as much willpower as he could muster. That more than anything had caused him to quail slightly at the torture that was unfolding. When the torture had ended for the day and the broadcast was severed, he had immediately pushed through the barriers separating them as much as he could. He had pressed up against the thin wall between himself and Aoren, urging the Kathar to let him in so that he could help. The wall remained in place. He could not tell if it was because Aoren was trying to protect him or if it was because he was afraid.
Aoren, more than anyone, would have known the transformation that had taken place within their bonded souls. Without being able to speak with the warrior however, he had no way of knowing and Aoren seemed hellbent on keeping the two of them compartmentalized.
He had not burned away the pictographs since. The Imperium had not lessened their torture of Aoren because of his seeming compliance either. They had kept it at the new elevated level. It was a silent warning, but he had understood it nevertheless. He worried about how much longer his beloved could hold out. Dimly, he thought he could feel Aoren’s resistance wavering, steadily, with each passing day. He did not want to think about what would happen if they managed to break his bondmate, but the truth of the matter was, it was all he could think about.
As the skin-carvers picked up their tools, he watched them leave in silence. As the doors to the chamber opened and they made their way out, another figure entered in their place. He closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself against the conversation that was to come. Archbishop Franz Kircher made his slow walk toward him. The rhythmic tapping of his cane upon the stones of the cathedral floor echoed throughout the silent chamber. Within moments, a chair was brought forward for the archbishop where he seated himself. It was as the man seated himself that the broadcast for that day started.
A crackling hiss followed by pained screaming that was accompanied by a sharp, blistering agony that rippled across the Bond, had him stiffening. His wings bristled. He pressed his mental presence against the wall between himself and Aoren. He could feel the echo of what they were doing to him and…he did not know how the Kathar could withstand it. From the pained gasps and shouts that popped across the broadcast, this was a worse day. With every shout and cry, he felt the muscles in his body tighten. The chains that bound him jingled slightly with his small movements. His jaw tightened. His hands clenched into fists. He tried harder to push through the wall that was separating the two of them but even as he pushed against it, he felt Aoren’s resolve to keep it in place reassert itself. When he heard a particularly sharp scream, it lanced through him.
“Enough!” His eyes opened, flashing in anger. Immediately the broadcast went silent before the sound of Aoren’s ragged breathing came across. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to break the bindings that held him in place in order to find his husband and take him into his arms. The archbishop smiled serenely, resting both hands lightly upon the knob of his cane.
“How much do you know of Aoren Jarik d’Maliet?” The question surprised him. Every day, since the first day, the archbishop had visited him and kept the conversations squarely on him. It did not matter whether he answered the questions or not. The archbishop asked them. If he did not answer, then the man would pose no further questions until the prior question was given a response. That had resulted in many days where he had simply sat quietly, with only the background noise of Aoren’s suffering to fill the silence. And it would fill the silence. Until he broke it and answered. That was when it would stop and Aoren was left to simply gasp for air from what he could tell.
So he answered, that Aoren might get some reprieve from the torture, because he could only assume it resumed as soon as the man left. For how long? He did not know. Often the broadcast would be cut off following their meeting. Sometimes it was not. There did not seem to be a pattern to it. Sometimes he could feel the echo of Aoren’s suffering dimly across the Bond. Sometimes the press of power dragging him back into the foggy haze would strip from him his ability to be aware of it.
“I know what he has chosen to share with me.” That made Franz smile.
“And what was that?” The archbishop’s gaze was steady. His thoughts were a mystery to him and he did not know what he was getting at. But he could guess. Still, he would play this game of theirs if only because it brought a measure of rest to the man he loved.
“He was a Knight of the 7th Legion, the Black Hand, tasked with carrying out the will of your emperor as all the Kathar are.” It was at this that Franz’s lips twitched into the makings of a smirk.
“Almost correct.” The archbishop tapped one long painted nail against the knob of his cane. He eyed him steadily. “What else do you know?”
“What are you waiting to hear?” He wanted badly to stretch his wings but the weight of the bindings that kept them from properly extending prevented him from doing that.
“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. I am curious as to what you believe your relationship with the Knight is.” That made him blink at the elder man. The flat and open way in which Franz had phrased his sentence struck a chord in him. It tugged at the fear and worry that laced his thoughts. Was Aoren pulling away from him because he was trying to shield him or was he pulling away because he was trying to hide? He shook that thought from his mind.
“Considering the circumstances of our capture, archbishop, you know very well the truth of our relationship.” His words were clipped. The edges of his vision brightened as the shadows became more stark in contrast to the pale plane of white that pressed upon his sight. He felt the magic of the many layers of bindings upon him flare in response to the subconscious swelling of his anger and wrath.
“I know the part that was played on a public stage for the world to see. That is hardly insight into moments stolen in the quiet of privacy, my dear prince.” He stared blankly at the archbishop.
“Stolen moments?” He echoed the man’s particular phrasing. A part of him knew that the wording was precise. He found it hard to believe that a man as twisted as Franz Kircher did not choose his words pointedly. There was a heavy silence that hung between them.
“You, your agents, your plans, you stole a moment that should have been one filled with joy. You stole from me a day that should have ushered in a period of peace and hope! You killed innocent people! You defiled a sacred rite between me and the man I love! You killed my father!” He was shouting by the end. The hissing crack of the runes upon his skin being burned away by silver-white fire made Franz arch an eyebrow.
“Careful, Talon. Lest we must end our conversation and reapply your markings prematurely.” He grit his teeth, pulling back the white hot rage that threatened to burn away his ability to think. His was furious. He was grief stricken. He was afraid. He was hurt. He had been given no time to process anything that had happened to him…but he had no choice. He heard the real threat in Franz words. Their conversation ended prematurely…Aoren’s torture resumed ahead of schedule. So he swallowed his anger and pulled the white hot rage back until it was a controlled simmer.
“I love him. I will not hide it. I cannot hide it. It is as plain to see as the moment you stole. You bring him pain. You bring him suffering. You do it not because you want to bring him back into your misguided flock. You do it because you want to hurt me. You do it because you want to break me.” Something in Franz expression shifted. He spoke softly but bluntly.
“You do not know what I want.” There was a flash of something in the archbishop’s voice. It was not quite anger. He could not rightly tell what it was. He held back his terse reply.
“That does bring up an interesting point, however.” He met the archbishop’s gaze, a question in his own. “But we shall discuss that at another time. I return to my original question. What do you know of Aoren Jarik d’Maliet?”
He sighed.
“He is a warrior of the Kathar. A knight of the 7th Legion, the Black Hand. Born to Justain d’Maliet and a mother he never knew.” That caused a twitching of Franz lip.
“Justain d’Maliet. What do you know of Aoren’s father?” He could only wonder why this question was important to the madman in front of him.
“He was a Lord-Knight of the same legion. A tyrant from what Aoren has told me of him. He does not discuss his father much. That he knows who his father is at all, was surprising to me.” The archbishop reclined in his chair, crossing one leg over the other comfortably.
“More Kathar know their parentage than you might think, but that is neither here nor there.” Franz allowed his eyes to roam over his body. It made his skin want to crawl. There was a hunger in that gaze. For what? He did not know. He did not want to find out but the path to saving both himself and Aoren rest in discovering what all of this was about.
“I found Aoren when he was wounded within the Warrens. I was just barely a man myself, stepping through the trials of my Warren March. I found him, brought him back to health. He stayed with me for a time during it. Until we were separated. We found each other again some weeks later. He wanted to repay me for my kindness. I…” He faltered. What had he been? Things with Riven had been well enough then but he had been lonely. His former friend had always been somewhat distant. He had always been different but perhaps even then he had known things would not turn out well. Franz offered nothing. He simply waited for him to finish what he was saying.
“I was lonely. He told me about his life here in the Imperium. He told me how he was raised.” The archbishop quirked his head.
“And how was he raised?” He knew instinctively what the man was getting at. He wanted to point out the ugliness of what Aoren had been through. He did not blame the man for the machinations of what his enslavers forced upon him.
“I know what the Inquisition forced him to do. I know how he hardened his heart after that…that bloodbath.” The archbishop gave a soft scoff and slight roll of his eyes.
“You surprise me, young prince. That you would have such disdain for a culling of the weak when your own people engage in such a harrowing practice of your own.” The archbishop shook his head.
“You cheapen the meaning of the Warren March.” He spat back at Franz, heckles rising as the man somehow insinuated that the tradition was somehow the same. The archbishop quirked a brow.
“Do I? You send young Avialae, young men in their prime, to plunge into the Deeps of the Warrens in search of crystals to show strength and prestige. For what? To protect the people of Kalzasi? Evidently the training regiment of your soldiers needs much improvement if you must throw generation after generation of promising youth to the slaughter. How is that any different than training the Kathar to live with the reality that only the best and brightest of them deserve life? Are they not rooted in the same concepts?” The man’s tone was conversational. There was no true challenge in his voice, he spoke as though he were merely pointing out parallels in the two paths of thinking. There was a kernel of truth in what the archbishop said. That stung but he was also aware enough to know that Franz was intentionally associating the two ways of thinking.
“It differs in the road taken after it, archbishop. Kathar have no choice in who or what they become after their trial. Synnekar embark upon such a journey to remind us of our duty to our people, no matter how grim the cost. Once finished however, who and what you become is yours to choose. We also do not force the Warren March upon anyone.” The man chuckled.
“Merely deny them the rights of adulthood if they refuse it.” He narrowed his eyes at that. He could not refute that. It was a flawed practice, truthfully. Many times there had been those who had voiced the notion of abolishing the Warren March entirely. The conversations never got very far.
“But we have gotten far afield! Tell me, what of Aoren’s life after his trial?” He did. At least, he knew portions of what Aoren had shared with him.
“Of course. He served as a patrol captain for the 7th Legion. Forced to fight against Atinorin patrols.” The archbishop canted his head, giving him a slow blink.
“Forced? No, my dear prince. Aoren volunteered for his station. All Kathar are given the collar that marks them as servants of the Imperium. Many, however, seldom require its gentle guidance. Aoren was one such soldier. He obeyed the will of the Emperor because he wanted to. He obeyed with great zeal, if I recall.” The archbishop picked at a piece of lint and flicked it, straightening the lapel of his jacket. That was something that he had not known. It was not something that Aoren had ever qualified either. Many times they had discussed the pains of his past. Sometimes he brought up the terrible things he had done in service to the Imperium. Always, he had thought that Aoren had simply been under the influence of the terrible collars that Imperial Kathar were forced to endure. His bondmate had never corrected him on that assumption.
“Shall I tell you of one of his most bloody missions? Coincidentally, it happens to be the errand in which he lost his way.” He would have remained silent. But a question always required a response. He had learned that early on.
“Tell me.” Franz smiled at that. It was not a nice smile. It was sharp and filled with the warped glint of someone who knew they were about to speak something vile and enjoyed it.
“It was years ago now but I remember the report. The legion had been dispatched to collect an errant noble who had betrayed our glorious purpose. He had been collaborating with our enemies and needed to be punished, you see. Aoren was dispatched with only a single directive from the Emperor; to make an example of the traitor.” A knot was beginning to form in his stomach. He already did not like the direction that this story was going. Still, he listened.
“Aoren performed his task with the precision expected of him. What was not expected was how brutally efficient he was in setting the example for traitors.” Franz grinned then. It was clear that he did not dislike the results. “He found the traitor’s relations you see. Every last one of them. From immediate to several distant cousins, if memory serves.”
An awful feeling welled up inside of him.
“He dragged each and every one of those men, women, children, elderly and infirm to the edges of the empire. It was a caravan of dismay. A march of shame to mark the fall of an entire bloodline. The Atinorin patrol, you see, was not simply performing border guard duties. They had been dispatched by Atinaw to stop what was coming. To rescue. To save innocent people.” The archbishop was fiddling with the knob of his cane idly, twisting it slowly in his spindly fingers. Franz grinned.
“One by one, he slaughtered them. Personally. I am told that he tore some of them apart with his bare hands. I am told that he cut others to ribbons. Burned them. Decapitated them. T’was quite a thorough butchering of people, if reports are to be believed.”
Shock reverberated through him. Aoren had told him he had been commanded to do dark things during his life among the Imperial Legion. But he had never gone into grim detail. He had never probed too deploy, wanting to spare his bondmate the hell of having to relive such things.
“He--” Franz cut him off.
“Chose to do this. Remember, young Talon, he was given only a single order. To make an example of the traitor. He could have simply hunted the man down. He could have simply dragged him back to the empire to face judgement before a Magister. He could have done many things. He chose to slaughter an entire bloodline as recompense for one man’s sins. But it did not stop there. When the Atinorin patrol intervened, it became a bloodbath. Aoren went berserk. Apparently something within him snapped and he killed indiscriminately. Soldier. Civilian. It did not matter. Everything in his path fell to his Pact blades. The very blades he has wielded so adamantly to protect you.” Silence hung between them. He was shocked. A part of him was horrified but another part of him was ready to believe all of it was a lie being twisted to make him doubt his beloved.
“You are--” Again, Franz interrupted him.
“Lying?” There was the slightest quirk of the archbishop’s brow. “To the Divine of Justice? No. Lies are easy. Lies can be pretty. But the truth? Oh, the truth reveals so many things. So many of them ugly.”
His mouth hung slightly open as he stared at Franz. Without even thinking about it, he reached desperately across the bond. He reached for Aoren. He reached for his bondmate. He reached for his husband.
Aoren flinched away.
That, more than anything, made him tremble.
Is it true, my beloved? Did you do this?
Silence.
Aoren? Please, answer me.
Silence.
Please…
When nothing came back across the bond, he lowered his gaze to the floor. He did not know what to think.
“It is hard. I know it is hard, being told the truth. It is hard when everything you believe is thrown into doubt, when the people you know are revealed to be people you know nothing about.” He could hear the smile in Franz Kircher’s voice. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying causing this doubt to ripple between him and Aoren.
“But I think that is enough for today.” Anxiety spiked inside of him. The conversation was ending. That meant…his head shot up and he looked at the archbishop with wide eyes. His heart began to beat faster in his chest. He knew what was coming.
“Perhaps tomorrow I shall share more, more truths about what dwells in the dark of your lover’s soul.” The archbishop rose from his seat. He felt tension coil across his body. Every muscle in his form was begging him to move. To do something. To fight. To scream. To protest. But he was frozen. Frozen in shock because what he feared in that moment, was not the pain they would inflict upon his body. It was that he was about to be shown that he had been terribly and intentionally lied to.
By a man whom he shared his heart and soul with.
“Until tomorrow, young godling.” Franz Kircher departed.
The broadcast returned. It was crystal clear this time.
Aoren’s screams sounded choked.
He sounded like he was sobbing.
???
Consciousness returned to him.
He winced as the stinging ache of his morning inscription routine was on the path to healing. Already the markings that had been carved into his skin were scabbing over. As had become his ritual, they would need to be reapplied later in the evening. It had been how he marked the passage of time, aside from the brightening and fading of the light through the stained glass windows. His eyes rose to watch the robed figures cleaning their instruments as they gathered up the supplies that had been used to apply the pictographs to his skin. They said nothing. They never did. Not even to each other. They were silent, just like the raven winged Kathar that lined the hall. He had memorized the faces of the Kathar that had been assigned to stand watch over him. The number sometimes fluctuated. Sometimes there were as many as eighteen of them but there were never less than a dozen as far as he had been able to tell.
The hazy fog that continued to press upon his mind was becoming a painful reminder of the circumstances he was in, more so than the ache of the carvings on his body. He had fought against its influence every time it had pressed upon him. Twice now, he had even thrown it off, causing the markings upon his body to completely heal as they were burned away by the silver fire of his domain.
It was after the second time that he learned the consequences for such defiance.
He had been meditating when Aoren’s screaming had begun. He felt a jarring stab of pain lance through his entire body and realized that it was coming not from himself but from his husband. They were torturing Aoren on a whole new level. The mighty warrior had been putting up just as much of a fight as he had been. He knew because they broadcasted Aoren’s torture daily, sometimes hourly. Sometimes sporadically throughout the day.
They had forced him to listen to the brutal suffering they inflicted upon Aoren. When he had tried to reach out to his husband across the Bond, not only did he feel the clawing presence of whatever black arts his captors used, begin to interfere but he felt Aoren draw back and away. He felt Aoren form a wall, thin though it might have been, separating the two of them with as much willpower as he could muster. That more than anything had caused him to quail slightly at the torture that was unfolding. When the torture had ended for the day and the broadcast was severed, he had immediately pushed through the barriers separating them as much as he could. He had pressed up against the thin wall between himself and Aoren, urging the Kathar to let him in so that he could help. The wall remained in place. He could not tell if it was because Aoren was trying to protect him or if it was because he was afraid.
Aoren, more than anyone, would have known the transformation that had taken place within their bonded souls. Without being able to speak with the warrior however, he had no way of knowing and Aoren seemed hellbent on keeping the two of them compartmentalized.
He had not burned away the pictographs since. The Imperium had not lessened their torture of Aoren because of his seeming compliance either. They had kept it at the new elevated level. It was a silent warning, but he had understood it nevertheless. He worried about how much longer his beloved could hold out. Dimly, he thought he could feel Aoren’s resistance wavering, steadily, with each passing day. He did not want to think about what would happen if they managed to break his bondmate, but the truth of the matter was, it was all he could think about.
As the skin-carvers picked up their tools, he watched them leave in silence. As the doors to the chamber opened and they made their way out, another figure entered in their place. He closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself against the conversation that was to come. Archbishop Franz Kircher made his slow walk toward him. The rhythmic tapping of his cane upon the stones of the cathedral floor echoed throughout the silent chamber. Within moments, a chair was brought forward for the archbishop where he seated himself. It was as the man seated himself that the broadcast for that day started.
A crackling hiss followed by pained screaming that was accompanied by a sharp, blistering agony that rippled across the Bond, had him stiffening. His wings bristled. He pressed his mental presence against the wall between himself and Aoren. He could feel the echo of what they were doing to him and…he did not know how the Kathar could withstand it. From the pained gasps and shouts that popped across the broadcast, this was a worse day. With every shout and cry, he felt the muscles in his body tighten. The chains that bound him jingled slightly with his small movements. His jaw tightened. His hands clenched into fists. He tried harder to push through the wall that was separating the two of them but even as he pushed against it, he felt Aoren’s resolve to keep it in place reassert itself. When he heard a particularly sharp scream, it lanced through him.
“Enough!” His eyes opened, flashing in anger. Immediately the broadcast went silent before the sound of Aoren’s ragged breathing came across. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to break the bindings that held him in place in order to find his husband and take him into his arms. The archbishop smiled serenely, resting both hands lightly upon the knob of his cane.
“How much do you know of Aoren Jarik d’Maliet?” The question surprised him. Every day, since the first day, the archbishop had visited him and kept the conversations squarely on him. It did not matter whether he answered the questions or not. The archbishop asked them. If he did not answer, then the man would pose no further questions until the prior question was given a response. That had resulted in many days where he had simply sat quietly, with only the background noise of Aoren’s suffering to fill the silence. And it would fill the silence. Until he broke it and answered. That was when it would stop and Aoren was left to simply gasp for air from what he could tell.
So he answered, that Aoren might get some reprieve from the torture, because he could only assume it resumed as soon as the man left. For how long? He did not know. Often the broadcast would be cut off following their meeting. Sometimes it was not. There did not seem to be a pattern to it. Sometimes he could feel the echo of Aoren’s suffering dimly across the Bond. Sometimes the press of power dragging him back into the foggy haze would strip from him his ability to be aware of it.
“I know what he has chosen to share with me.” That made Franz smile.
“And what was that?” The archbishop’s gaze was steady. His thoughts were a mystery to him and he did not know what he was getting at. But he could guess. Still, he would play this game of theirs if only because it brought a measure of rest to the man he loved.
“He was a Knight of the 7th Legion, the Black Hand, tasked with carrying out the will of your emperor as all the Kathar are.” It was at this that Franz’s lips twitched into the makings of a smirk.
“Almost correct.” The archbishop tapped one long painted nail against the knob of his cane. He eyed him steadily. “What else do you know?”
“What are you waiting to hear?” He wanted badly to stretch his wings but the weight of the bindings that kept them from properly extending prevented him from doing that.
“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. I am curious as to what you believe your relationship with the Knight is.” That made him blink at the elder man. The flat and open way in which Franz had phrased his sentence struck a chord in him. It tugged at the fear and worry that laced his thoughts. Was Aoren pulling away from him because he was trying to shield him or was he pulling away because he was trying to hide? He shook that thought from his mind.
“Considering the circumstances of our capture, archbishop, you know very well the truth of our relationship.” His words were clipped. The edges of his vision brightened as the shadows became more stark in contrast to the pale plane of white that pressed upon his sight. He felt the magic of the many layers of bindings upon him flare in response to the subconscious swelling of his anger and wrath.
“I know the part that was played on a public stage for the world to see. That is hardly insight into moments stolen in the quiet of privacy, my dear prince.” He stared blankly at the archbishop.
“Stolen moments?” He echoed the man’s particular phrasing. A part of him knew that the wording was precise. He found it hard to believe that a man as twisted as Franz Kircher did not choose his words pointedly. There was a heavy silence that hung between them.
“You, your agents, your plans, you stole a moment that should have been one filled with joy. You stole from me a day that should have ushered in a period of peace and hope! You killed innocent people! You defiled a sacred rite between me and the man I love! You killed my father!” He was shouting by the end. The hissing crack of the runes upon his skin being burned away by silver-white fire made Franz arch an eyebrow.
“Careful, Talon. Lest we must end our conversation and reapply your markings prematurely.” He grit his teeth, pulling back the white hot rage that threatened to burn away his ability to think. His was furious. He was grief stricken. He was afraid. He was hurt. He had been given no time to process anything that had happened to him…but he had no choice. He heard the real threat in Franz words. Their conversation ended prematurely…Aoren’s torture resumed ahead of schedule. So he swallowed his anger and pulled the white hot rage back until it was a controlled simmer.
“I love him. I will not hide it. I cannot hide it. It is as plain to see as the moment you stole. You bring him pain. You bring him suffering. You do it not because you want to bring him back into your misguided flock. You do it because you want to hurt me. You do it because you want to break me.” Something in Franz expression shifted. He spoke softly but bluntly.
“You do not know what I want.” There was a flash of something in the archbishop’s voice. It was not quite anger. He could not rightly tell what it was. He held back his terse reply.
“That does bring up an interesting point, however.” He met the archbishop’s gaze, a question in his own. “But we shall discuss that at another time. I return to my original question. What do you know of Aoren Jarik d’Maliet?”
He sighed.
“He is a warrior of the Kathar. A knight of the 7th Legion, the Black Hand. Born to Justain d’Maliet and a mother he never knew.” That caused a twitching of Franz lip.
“Justain d’Maliet. What do you know of Aoren’s father?” He could only wonder why this question was important to the madman in front of him.
“He was a Lord-Knight of the same legion. A tyrant from what Aoren has told me of him. He does not discuss his father much. That he knows who his father is at all, was surprising to me.” The archbishop reclined in his chair, crossing one leg over the other comfortably.
“More Kathar know their parentage than you might think, but that is neither here nor there.” Franz allowed his eyes to roam over his body. It made his skin want to crawl. There was a hunger in that gaze. For what? He did not know. He did not want to find out but the path to saving both himself and Aoren rest in discovering what all of this was about.
“I found Aoren when he was wounded within the Warrens. I was just barely a man myself, stepping through the trials of my Warren March. I found him, brought him back to health. He stayed with me for a time during it. Until we were separated. We found each other again some weeks later. He wanted to repay me for my kindness. I…” He faltered. What had he been? Things with Riven had been well enough then but he had been lonely. His former friend had always been somewhat distant. He had always been different but perhaps even then he had known things would not turn out well. Franz offered nothing. He simply waited for him to finish what he was saying.
“I was lonely. He told me about his life here in the Imperium. He told me how he was raised.” The archbishop quirked his head.
“And how was he raised?” He knew instinctively what the man was getting at. He wanted to point out the ugliness of what Aoren had been through. He did not blame the man for the machinations of what his enslavers forced upon him.
“I know what the Inquisition forced him to do. I know how he hardened his heart after that…that bloodbath.” The archbishop gave a soft scoff and slight roll of his eyes.
“You surprise me, young prince. That you would have such disdain for a culling of the weak when your own people engage in such a harrowing practice of your own.” The archbishop shook his head.
“You cheapen the meaning of the Warren March.” He spat back at Franz, heckles rising as the man somehow insinuated that the tradition was somehow the same. The archbishop quirked a brow.
“Do I? You send young Avialae, young men in their prime, to plunge into the Deeps of the Warrens in search of crystals to show strength and prestige. For what? To protect the people of Kalzasi? Evidently the training regiment of your soldiers needs much improvement if you must throw generation after generation of promising youth to the slaughter. How is that any different than training the Kathar to live with the reality that only the best and brightest of them deserve life? Are they not rooted in the same concepts?” The man’s tone was conversational. There was no true challenge in his voice, he spoke as though he were merely pointing out parallels in the two paths of thinking. There was a kernel of truth in what the archbishop said. That stung but he was also aware enough to know that Franz was intentionally associating the two ways of thinking.
“It differs in the road taken after it, archbishop. Kathar have no choice in who or what they become after their trial. Synnekar embark upon such a journey to remind us of our duty to our people, no matter how grim the cost. Once finished however, who and what you become is yours to choose. We also do not force the Warren March upon anyone.” The man chuckled.
“Merely deny them the rights of adulthood if they refuse it.” He narrowed his eyes at that. He could not refute that. It was a flawed practice, truthfully. Many times there had been those who had voiced the notion of abolishing the Warren March entirely. The conversations never got very far.
“But we have gotten far afield! Tell me, what of Aoren’s life after his trial?” He did. At least, he knew portions of what Aoren had shared with him.
“Of course. He served as a patrol captain for the 7th Legion. Forced to fight against Atinorin patrols.” The archbishop canted his head, giving him a slow blink.
“Forced? No, my dear prince. Aoren volunteered for his station. All Kathar are given the collar that marks them as servants of the Imperium. Many, however, seldom require its gentle guidance. Aoren was one such soldier. He obeyed the will of the Emperor because he wanted to. He obeyed with great zeal, if I recall.” The archbishop picked at a piece of lint and flicked it, straightening the lapel of his jacket. That was something that he had not known. It was not something that Aoren had ever qualified either. Many times they had discussed the pains of his past. Sometimes he brought up the terrible things he had done in service to the Imperium. Always, he had thought that Aoren had simply been under the influence of the terrible collars that Imperial Kathar were forced to endure. His bondmate had never corrected him on that assumption.
“Shall I tell you of one of his most bloody missions? Coincidentally, it happens to be the errand in which he lost his way.” He would have remained silent. But a question always required a response. He had learned that early on.
“Tell me.” Franz smiled at that. It was not a nice smile. It was sharp and filled with the warped glint of someone who knew they were about to speak something vile and enjoyed it.
“It was years ago now but I remember the report. The legion had been dispatched to collect an errant noble who had betrayed our glorious purpose. He had been collaborating with our enemies and needed to be punished, you see. Aoren was dispatched with only a single directive from the Emperor; to make an example of the traitor.” A knot was beginning to form in his stomach. He already did not like the direction that this story was going. Still, he listened.
“Aoren performed his task with the precision expected of him. What was not expected was how brutally efficient he was in setting the example for traitors.” Franz grinned then. It was clear that he did not dislike the results. “He found the traitor’s relations you see. Every last one of them. From immediate to several distant cousins, if memory serves.”
An awful feeling welled up inside of him.
“He dragged each and every one of those men, women, children, elderly and infirm to the edges of the empire. It was a caravan of dismay. A march of shame to mark the fall of an entire bloodline. The Atinorin patrol, you see, was not simply performing border guard duties. They had been dispatched by Atinaw to stop what was coming. To rescue. To save innocent people.” The archbishop was fiddling with the knob of his cane idly, twisting it slowly in his spindly fingers. Franz grinned.
“One by one, he slaughtered them. Personally. I am told that he tore some of them apart with his bare hands. I am told that he cut others to ribbons. Burned them. Decapitated them. T’was quite a thorough butchering of people, if reports are to be believed.”
Shock reverberated through him. Aoren had told him he had been commanded to do dark things during his life among the Imperial Legion. But he had never gone into grim detail. He had never probed too deploy, wanting to spare his bondmate the hell of having to relive such things.
“He--” Franz cut him off.
“Chose to do this. Remember, young Talon, he was given only a single order. To make an example of the traitor. He could have simply hunted the man down. He could have simply dragged him back to the empire to face judgement before a Magister. He could have done many things. He chose to slaughter an entire bloodline as recompense for one man’s sins. But it did not stop there. When the Atinorin patrol intervened, it became a bloodbath. Aoren went berserk. Apparently something within him snapped and he killed indiscriminately. Soldier. Civilian. It did not matter. Everything in his path fell to his Pact blades. The very blades he has wielded so adamantly to protect you.” Silence hung between them. He was shocked. A part of him was horrified but another part of him was ready to believe all of it was a lie being twisted to make him doubt his beloved.
“You are--” Again, Franz interrupted him.
“Lying?” There was the slightest quirk of the archbishop’s brow. “To the Divine of Justice? No. Lies are easy. Lies can be pretty. But the truth? Oh, the truth reveals so many things. So many of them ugly.”
His mouth hung slightly open as he stared at Franz. Without even thinking about it, he reached desperately across the bond. He reached for Aoren. He reached for his bondmate. He reached for his husband.
Aoren flinched away.
That, more than anything, made him tremble.
Is it true, my beloved? Did you do this?
Silence.
Aoren? Please, answer me.
Silence.
Please…
When nothing came back across the bond, he lowered his gaze to the floor. He did not know what to think.
“It is hard. I know it is hard, being told the truth. It is hard when everything you believe is thrown into doubt, when the people you know are revealed to be people you know nothing about.” He could hear the smile in Franz Kircher’s voice. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying causing this doubt to ripple between him and Aoren.
“But I think that is enough for today.” Anxiety spiked inside of him. The conversation was ending. That meant…his head shot up and he looked at the archbishop with wide eyes. His heart began to beat faster in his chest. He knew what was coming.
“Perhaps tomorrow I shall share more, more truths about what dwells in the dark of your lover’s soul.” The archbishop rose from his seat. He felt tension coil across his body. Every muscle in his form was begging him to move. To do something. To fight. To scream. To protest. But he was frozen. Frozen in shock because what he feared in that moment, was not the pain they would inflict upon his body. It was that he was about to be shown that he had been terribly and intentionally lied to.
By a man whom he shared his heart and soul with.
“Until tomorrow, young godling.” Franz Kircher departed.
The broadcast returned. It was crystal clear this time.
Aoren’s screams sounded choked.
He sounded like he was sobbing.