The Duke’s Demon by Iris Foxglove

Chapter 11

The morning of the solstice dawned pale and clear, with no sound but the distant tapping of Clara’s sensible boots on the stone. Devon, who was kneeling breathless and hard while Sebastien knotted soft rope around his shoulders and back, only tensed slightly when the sound of footsteps stopped at Sebastien’s door.

“We’re having breakfast in the great hall, Your Grace,” Clara said. “Be sure to bring your young man with you.”

Sebastien looked up from the knot just below Devon’s breastbone, and hooked his finger under it as he turned to the door. Devon’s breath hitched at the pull of the dark rope against his skin, like a harness tugging him forward, and closed his eyes.

“We will bring him,” Sebastien said.

Devon tried to bite down a moan as Sebastien used the rope to pull him up on his knees. His bruises were starting to fade, but they were still sore, and Sebastien could only tie him around the chest and shoulders without making him wince in pain.

“They aren’t too tight, I don’t think,” Sebastien said, thoughtfully. “You’ll keep them on.”

“Fuck,” Devon whispered.

The ropes were practically invisible by the time Devon put on his jacket, but he could still feel them, and he gave Sebastien one last, pleading look which only got him a sidelong smile. Sebastien raised Devon’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles.

“It’s my birthday, you know,” Sebastien said, in a distant, vague way that made Devon wonder if he’d forgotten again. “I recall it’s customary for there to be gifts.”

“And that gift is me,” Devon said, squinting. “Trussed up for you.”

“Yes,” Sebastien said. He seemed to think about it, for a moment. “Yes, I would like that.”

They weren’t alone at breakfast. The hall was empty of servants from the village, who had all taken the day off for a festival down the hill, but Joaquin and Clara were there, with the quiet, somber-eyed Polly sitting by the hearth with Duchess. Joaquin had taken Polly under his wing, and she’d thrown out her pinafores and skirts for bulky overalls and heavy coats in an attempt to mimic his style. She actually flashed a rare smile when Devon appeared, and didn’t begrudge him when Duchess went scrambling over the polished floor to say hello.

“I don’t recall you staying for the longest night before,” Sebastien said, when Clara ushered him into a seat with the air of a general rearranging his troops. “The Abbey is always…quiet, this time of year.”

“Yes, well.” Clara glanced at Devon. “There have been some changes to the festival.”

“They’re hosting a noble from the city,” Joaquin said. “We thought we’d stay, in case there’s trouble.”

Devon looked at Joaquin. Joaquin certainly hadn’t seemed any warmer towards him since his narrow escape from the royal guard. “You don’t have to.”

“Well, I do,” said Polly, who had made no secret of being Devon’s quiet, scrawny protector, sneaking behind pillars and archways to keep an eye on him when he took Duchess out running. “Clara says you’re hopeless.”

Clara made a soft, dismayed sound halfway between a gasp of horror and a laugh.

“She’s right,” Devon said. He sat next to Sebastien, and was immediately ambushed by Duchess, who scrambled all over him as though he’d been gone for weeks rather than half the morning. Sebastien smiled faintly, in that slightly bewildered way he did when he was speaking to Sariel in his mind, and Devon reached over to take his hand.

“I’d say I’m well-protected, though,” Devon said, softly.

“Gross,” said Polly. She turned to Joaquin. “Mr. Jack, did I tell you about the ghost in the library?”

“Aye, but you can tell me again if you like.”

Breakfast was quiet in the wide, empty hall of the Abbey, with what dim sunlight there was chased out by the fire in the hearth. It wasn’t anything like the ridiculous parties in the city, or the hunts that took place in the Chastain estate, with servants rushing back and forth with leaden trays and glasses of champagne. The food was simple, and everyone was slightly unsure of where they stood, still new to the strange home they were cobbling together out of disparate pieces. They were odd people, all of them, all wounded in some way, demons and humans alike. But however much of a mess they were, and even without the pomp and revelry of the city, it was the best solstice Devon could remember.

“You know,” Clara said, as Duchess successfully managed to wrench a log from the fire, which she was gnawing on with every sense of enjoyment while Polly stared in fascination, “you said you would play me a song I could dance to.”

“I did,” Devon said, from where he was leaning against Sebastien. “Didn’t I?”

“Earn your keep, musician,” Joaquin said, watching the sparks fly from Duchess’ jaws. He stamped out an ember on the floor.

Sebastien sat next to Devon as he played, with Duchess chasing after a stumbling Joaquin and Clara, and Devon could feel Sariel pushing up against Sebastien as music rang through the hall. Polly had a cracked and wavering singing voice, but she tried her best when she could remember the words, and Devon felt the soft fluttering of insubstantial wings at his shoulder as the music rose.

They didn’t notice the knocking at the main doors until the song ended.

“I’ll get it, Your Grace,” Clara said, pulling away from Joaquin. She cast Devon a worried look.

“It’s probably just someone from the village,” Devon said, as Clara swept off towards the doors in her dark blue solstice gown. “I doubt that anyone is willing to take the risk of stealing me out from under the fire.”

Polly gave him the most patronizing look of disbelief Devon had ever seen, and Devon smiled back.

The door inched open, and a shaft of sunlight slid over the floor, shining in Clara’s dark, curling hair.

“My apologies for calling on you so early, madam,” said the voice of Adrien de Guillory, the crown prince of Staria. “I was wondering if the duke was at home.”

“Oh,” said Clara. Sebastien stood from the piano bench, and Devon could see something of Sariel in his face, the echo of the demon pushing forth. “No. He’s out.”

“Let him in, Clara,” Sebastien said, striding forward, away from the light of the hearth. “He’s the one who’s come to us.”

“He has a man with a sword,” Clara whispered, and Devon pushed away from the bench. Joaquin raised a hand, stepping in front of him, and Duchess shuffled over to growl softly at his feet.

The door opened wider, and Prince Adrien stepped through, dressed in the dark purple of the crown. A shadowed figure came behind him, his long reddish hair braided out of his face, dressed more like a guard than a noble. Devon sucked in a sharp breath, and Sabre de Valois turned to look at him, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Thank you,” said Adrien, as Devon’s heartbeat thumped madly in his ears. “Your Grace. My father the king had a message for you, and I saw fit to bring it by, since I’m visiting the village for the solstice. Have you met his grace Sabre de Valois? He inherited the dukedom just this year.”

When his mother was executed, he didn’t say. Devon wondered what Sabre thought of that.

“Yes,” Sebastien said. “We’ve met. You were being lashed on a post, by the Mislian.”

Sabre rubbed the back of his neck, but he kept his gaze fixed on Devon. “Yes, I was. Then I was dying, you might remember. In the snow.”

“Sabre, behave,” Adrien whispered. “We’d like to have a word with, ah. Your…captive.”

“His musician,” Joaquin said. Devon raised his brows.

“My beloved,” said Sebastien. Both Sabre and Adrien looked taken aback by that. “You will speak only if he wishes it. And you will not speak with him alone.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” said Adrien. A familiar, dark part of Devon started to bubble to the surface as the prince bowed perfectly, and he couldn’t quite tamp it down. He could feel the sneer threatening to twist his mouth, and his fingers curled on the top of the piano as Adrien and Sabre turned to him.

“You don’t have to do nothing, lad,” said Joaquin, quietly.

Devon took a soft breath, and stepped away from the piano. Sabre tensed, shifting to place himself between Devon and Adrien. Ever the guard dog, whispered that dark part of his mind, but Devon could see Joaquin and Clara watching from the corner of his eye, just as anxious, just as ready to step between them. And Sebastien, who appeared calm and collected but who Devon knew had Sariel practically screaming for the blood of those who would try to take him away.

“Your Highness,” Devon said. “Sabre.”

“His Grace,” Adrien said. “Duke de Valois, actually.”

“Wrong on both counts,” said Sabre. “I’m de Rue, now.”

“You’re married?” Devon frowned. “To the wh—to Laurent de Rue.”

“So long as you’re all getting my name wrong, I thought I’d say something,” Sabre muttered.

“I’ve…also changed my name,” Devon said.

“Good for you.” Sabre’s voice was dull, hard. Adrien sighed.

“My father sends word that the Duke d'Hiver has his leave to keep the traitor formerly known as Devon Chastain imprisoned on his estate,” Adrien said. “But that isn’t why we’re here.”

“Why you dragged us here,” Sabre said, under his breath. Adrien stepped on his foot.

“You said you were sorry it happened,” Adrien said.

Devon was silent for a moment. It was one thing to apologize to strangers, unsure if his words would ever reach Adrien or Sabre. It was another to have them standing there, so easy with each other, so protective, the embodiment of everything Devon had wanted as a boy.

“I was. It was wrong of me,” Devon said, forcing himself to look at Sabre. “I shouldn’t have…shot you. Tried to punish you just for existing. Hated you, the way I did.”

“The way you do,” Sabre said, firmly.

“Maybe. It’s hard to let go. Even as a traitor, someone loved you.”

“Most didn’t,” said Sabre. Devon wondered if he would ever be able to say it so simply, so clearly, as though pain were just a small thing he could set aside and pick up again. “And you turned on Adrien. Helped your father—”

“I wasn’t trying to help him,” Devon said, a little too quickly. Sabre’s gaze went, if possible, harder still. “Or yes. Yes, I was, but when you’re in the middle of it, it’s hard to stop. Look, I’m glad he’s dead. I’ll sleep easier, knowing he’s gone.”

Sabre’s eyes widened, but Adrien’s didn’t waver. He met Devon’s gaze. “What did he offer you, then?”

“A chance to escape him,” Devon said. “Maybe. I doubt I would have. I’m…safer here. I can...” He ran a hand through his hair, and the ropes at his chest tensed, just enough for him to remember the way Sebastien’s fingers felt on the knots. “Change, here.”

“That’s, ah, that’s good,” Adrien said, but Sabre was staring at Devon, and there was something in his gaze that felt familiar.

“I didn’t learn who I was until after my mother was hanged,” Sabre said, at last. “I wish it hadn’t happened that way, but it’s the truth.”

“Your mother loved you,” Devon said. His voice sounded hard, even to his own ears.

“She didn’t,” Sabre said. “I was too much like my father, I think.”

Devon nodded. The warning was clear enough—Sabre’s father had been loyal to the king to the end, and there Sabre was, still standing with Adrien, poised to fight a possessed duke if he had to.

“Neither of you have anything to fear from me,” Devon said. “I’m learning that I’m not who I was, before.”

Adrien gave Sabre a meaningful look. “I know. If it helps, and I don’t know if it will, you’ll be safe here. No one will come for you again.”

He sounded so sure of himself, but Devon supposed that came with the territory, when one was so close to the crown.

“Thank you,” Devon said, and bowed, just slightly. “Your Highness.”

“That must have hurt,” Sabre whispered, and Adrien stepped on his foot again. Devon and Sabre exchanged another glance. They would never be friends, Devon supposed, but at least they had an understanding, now. Enough of one to get by.

Adrien turned aside, and Devon let out a soft sigh. Being caught under Adrien’s gaze wasn’t as difficult as being under the scrutiny of the king, but they both had a similar intensity, and Devon had to resist the urge to head upstairs and draw the bed curtains until they were gone.

“Your Grace,” Adrien said, nodding again to Sebastien. “I was wondering.”

“No,” said Sabre.

“If I could talk to you alone,” Adrien said, placing a hand on Sabre’s chest. “Please.”

Sebastien regarded Adrien as one would a stray puppy on the doorstep. “I believe you’ve said all you need to say, Your Highness.”

“Not all of it,” Adrien said. “I have a question. About your friend.”

“His friend,” Sabre whispered, seemingly to himself.

“Very well,” Sebastien said, after a moment’s silence. “Follow me.”

He led the way to a drawing room on the first floor, down the hall. Sabre trailed them like a shadow, of course, but was left standing outside the door after a hurried, whispered conversation with Adrien. He stood outside the door like a guard, and kept glancing at Devon out of the corner of his eye, wary and watchful.

“Come finish the rest of the cocoa, lad,” Joaquin said, after a minute.

“Yes, this is boring,” Polly said. She was poking at the fire with a stick. “Who cares what nobles get up to? You should be glad you aren’t one.”

“I used to be,” Devon said. He could see Sabre trying to listen in, leaning slightly at the door. “I used to be a lord.”

“Ew, why?” Polly made a face. “Lords are the worst. We had one, back…” Her expression shuttered, briefly. “Back where I came from. He was terrible.”

“And now you don’t have to deal with him anymore,” Clara said, pushing a mug in Polly’s hands. She held out a hand to Devon. “Come here, Devon. The duke will take care of it, you know that.”

Devon carefully took Clara’s hand, and she squeezed his fingers, drawing him towards the warmth of the fire.

“Yes,” Devon said. “Of course he will.”

* * *

Adrien de Guillorywas a tall man, with auburn hair and warm, dark eyes that were nothing like his father’s icy blue. He was frightened, but not visibly so, and that was something, Sebastien supposed. Their crown prince was a submissive, but still carried authority even if it didn’t translate the way natural dominance would.

“What would you ask me, Your Highness?” Sebastien asked, once they were ensconced in the drawing room.

Adrien fiddled for a moment with the signet ring on his hand. He was gloveless, and his hair slightly disheveled from his trip. In that, if nothing else, he resembled his royal father. “Do you know that my mother was part Mislian?”

“I recall hearing that, yes. May I ask what that has to do with me? I am as Starian as you can be, you realize.”

“Yes. But, well, there’s no real polite way to say this...you’ve a demon, and I’ve heard only Mislians can command them, so I assumed that even if you were not from Mislia, your demon was.”

I am from the dark, Sariel said, curious and wary of this stranger, who’d made Devon’s heart race with fear, brought forth some of that anger and resentment that Sariel still wished to feed upon, if not only because it would take it from Devon for a time. But the dark place from where I came was not there, in the land of burning gold and bright. Sariel added, after a moment, I am older than they are. And also. Clever.

Sebastien smiled briefly. “My demon says he is older than the ones who inhabit Mislia.”

“He—oh. I didn’t. Don’t. That’s why your eyes, then. Ah. My apologies.” Adrien cleared his throat. “Your Grace, you must be curious why I’ve attended the winter festival this year, given I never have.”

Sebastien was careful when he answered. “The comings and goings of the royal family interests me very little.”

Adrien stared for a moment, then smiled a different kind of smile, one that seemed full of genuine amusement. “My father did say you were honest to a fault.”

“I want nothing to do with the Court, Your Highness. Surely your father also told you that.”

“Yes. He also seems to think allowing Devon to remain here is a reward for your loyalty.”

Sebastien inclined his head. “Thank you. Please extend my gratitude to His Majesty, when you return.”

“I wish I could have been a friend to him, your Devon,” Adrien said, with a certain earnestness that said he wasn’t lying. “But there was a reason why I couldn’t. And that’s what I am here to discuss. Long ago, I had a...vision of him, here, in the dark with a demon. My visions...usually, they come true. But I’d never seen a demon, before, and knew nothing of them. I was young, and I thought it was a metaphor. I would not let myself get close to him.”

He is a Seer, Sariel said. The blood of the bright ones is in his veins.

“My demon says you are a seer, and have the blood of bright ones in your veins.”

“Bright ones?” Adrien asked, curious.

“I believe that’s what he calls Mislians of old, before their eyes went black.” Sebastien thought for a moment. “What is it you would ask of him, Your Highness? I must tell you, his answers do not always make sense, when you ask of things that happened long ago, or before he came to me.”

“I’m used to that, my visions rarely make sense at first.” Adrien ran a hand through his hair. “That’s why...I want to know more about them. You said your demon knows I’m Mislian, a seer...does it know why—”

“He,” Sebastien said, Sariel’s voice ringing through his own. “He. Not it.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Adrien said quickly, with that same genuineness. “He. I am...curious, as to what your demon knows of my visions. If he might know how I could control them, or understand how to interpret them, or change the things I see.”

“I shall ask, of course. But you will first swear that Devon is safe here. Sariel will take a vow as proof you mean it, he is...remarkably unskilled in the art of deception. Like me, he does not lie,” Sebastien clarified. “But he will remain obstinately silent, if he must, to ensure he gets his way.”

“Fascinating,” Adrien breathed. “Yes, of course, as I said, Devon is remanded to your custody. I would keep him here, though, and not, ah, bring him to the capital. People will not be kind to him, knowing what he tried to do.”

“He had a reason,” Sebastien said. “It was poorly thought-out, but fear made him rash. Desperate.”

“Fear? Of my father?” Adrien looked suspicious, and ah, yes, there was the resemblance to King Emile.

“No,” Sebastien said. “Fear of his own. The demon you saw in the dark, it might very well have been a metaphor, not my demon at all. It could have been Devon’s, and that was Oscar de Chastain.”

“I...oh.” Adrien winced. “In my vision, the demon came upon him at night, in the dark, and….” He coughed. “Never mind. I do swear he is safe here, my father has decreed it so. I will send it sealed with his signet, if you wish.”

“I would not mind that, yes. All right. Ask your questions, then, Your Highness. We shall see if Sariel has answers for you.”

“Do I have a demon?”

No. He has older magic. Before the Mislians bound my kind to their blood, they were gifted. When the Mislians called to the dark, the things that answered drowned their light. It was how they kept them tethered, without. Taking the soul, as I took yours. But some remained untethered, with a light that shone too brightly.

“Ah, I think I can explain. Mislians called demons forth, and when bound it turned the mage’s magic to a different sort. I had no magic, so I have a bound demon. You have no demon, only the old magic.”

Yes, Host. If he wishes for a demon, the dark here will not give him one. The doors would not open. His magic is too bright.

“If you came seeking a demon,” Sebastien said, softly. “This is not a place for you to find one. Sariel says that anything, ah, here. Would be repelled by the brightness of your particular type of magic.”

“I don’t want a demon, Your Grace. I want answers. I want to know how to understand my visions. All this time I thought Devon was a demon in the dark and refused his friendship, and look what happened. I thought Sabre would die. So if I see—other people, that I love—harmed, would I...how do I know what it means? What it really means? What’s the point of having these visions if I can’t do anything, or help anyone I care for when they appear in one?”

That is bright magic. Demons know only what you know. The ones to who we are bound, their dreams are our dreams. Light-bearers are born, not made. The mages with dark-drowned eyes, they are made.

“Sariel says that your visions come from your Mislian magic, and that it is...part of you, not made as is the sort you have when you bond with a demon. I would imagine, Your Highness, if you wish to know more...you should seek out a Mislian seer, one who, like you, has the magic but no demon.”

“Like Laurent,” Adrien murmured, under his breath. “And you knew he was a Mislian.”

“Sariel knew,” Sebastien corrected. “I think he could sense that Laurent had the old magic, when we were at the Chastain estate.”

“Oh, yes, about that,” Adrien said, but idly, as if he were preoccupied. “I—should tell Devon. His father’s estate was given to Laurent and Sabre de Rue by the king, since the Chastains were declared traitors to the crown.”

“My Devon will not care, and he is no longer a Chastain.” Sebastien’s voice rang with Sariel’s as he said, “And I imagine that news is of little interest, but I will pass it along, regardless. Is there anything else? I am afraid I cannot help you much, Your Highness. The magic you have is in your blood. My demon is in my soul.”

“That’s—no, you’ve been very helpful. You and your...demon, both.” Adrien gave him a bow, which technically, Sebastien should give to him—he was the dominant, but Adrien was the Crown Prince. “I’ll collect Sabre, and we will be on our way.”

If he was waiting to be invited to the celebrations at the Abbey, that was not going to happen. But he seemed content to take Sabre and go forth toward the village, where they would light the fires so the dead could find their way home. Sebastien remembered his mother saying, once, that children born on the Longest Night belonged partly to this world, partly the one beyond it. It was, she used to say fondly, why Sebastien was a night owl, why he’d get in trouble for staying up reading too late when the rest of his family rose with the sun.

Devon was nowhere to be found when Sebastien and Adrien left the drawing room, but Sabre drew himself up and bowed slightly to Sebastien. “I do not expect we’ll be back, but tell Devon...I know what it feels like, thinking you’re never safe. Maybe I would have the right to take this place away from him as his father tried to do to me, but I’m not like that, and I won’t.” After a moment, he added, “But my husband feels differently, so perhaps you should make certain they never meet.”

Sebastien studied this strange man, who he last saw bound to a post, moaning in ecstasy under the lash. “Devon will stay where he belongs, here with us. You and your lord husband need not worry. But I will relay your words.”

This one, Sariel murmured, in his mind. This one would moan under the knife. How curious.

This one is not for us, Sebastien told his demon, amused. We have all we can handle, my demon.

“May I ask, what is the vision that brought you to me?” Sebastien asked, as he saw them to the door. “You need not tell me if you don’t wish to, but we are curious.”

“We…? Oh. Right. I don’t...it was a vision of someone close to me, in pain. I see it in water, and I...don’t want it to happen. But I don’t want to do the wrong thing like I’ve done before, either. I want to know how to make them stop, or make sense of them.”

Sebastien nearly doubled over as Sariel, who’d been mostly content to watch behind Sebastien’s awareness, pushed forward. “The bright magic blinds you,” Sariel said, through his mouth, in his voice that sounded like bells. “Look to the dark, Prince of Staria. Look toward Mislia.”

“I, ah. Thank you...Sariel d'Hiver.” Adrien’s face went pale, but he didn’t turn away. “I appreciate your. Assistance.”

When the prince and his sword took themselves off to the village, Sebastien went to find Devon. He drew him away from the fireplace, and said softly, “Come, my flame. Let us find you a suitable warm coat, and the three of us shall celebrate the longest night together, in our own way.”

They didn’t get away easily, of course; Polly wheedled Devon into allowing Duchess to stay with her, and Clara insisted on packing “a few things” to take—even though they’d eaten—including hot cocoa, a bottle of rich red wine, some snacks, and a particular favorite of Devon’s that made him smile to see included, a cherry tart.

“You’ve never said, m’lord, what your...other, likes,” Clara said, as she handed over the basket.

“Oh.” Sebastien thought about it. “Sariel likes things with a strong taste. Intensity.”

“That seems to be in order, then,” Clara said, amused, glancing over at Devon.

Devon gave a scowl, but there was a smile there, somewhere beneath it.

“There’s some spice in the chocolate for Sariel,” Clara continued. “If I may use the name.”

Yes, Host, Sariel murmured. He seemed a bit distracted.

“He has no problem with that. I did tell him not to bedevil the baby,” Sebastien added.

Clara flashed a smile at him. “Well. If he can’t sleep, a little bedeviling might not be a bad thing. Go have your celebration. We’ll keep the fires burning for you, Your Grace.” She bowed. “And he might be your consort, but I am not calling your musician my lord.”

“Please don’t,” Devon said, and took the basket.

* * *

The villagebelow the Abbey glimmered with light as Devon left the arching gate of the courtyard. Campfires burned in the fields and gardens, and tiny lanterns bobbed over the hillside as people sat down to observe the longest night of the year. Devon watched them for a moment, and turned aside as the lights began to blur and swim in the dark.

“You didn’t bring a light,” he said, as Sebastien took his arm. The hill rose above them, blocking the distant sea, and the grass crunched with frost as they started to climb.

“We’re never lost, in the dark,” Sebastien said.

“It’s a tradition, you know.” Devon craned his neck to look at the stars, which were brighter with the Abbey blocking the lights of the village. “We used to light a lantern on the solstice every year. It was supposed to guide the dead home—Marius and I, we had to recite every head of our line when we lit it. To call them, I suppose, or remember them.”

“Are there any you want to remember?” Sebastien asked.

Devon fell silent. His breath steamed in the air, and a breeze pushed at his back, as though ushering him up the hill.

“I don’t know,” he said. “No. I don’t believe so.”

“Then your father may stay lost,” Sebastien said. “I would not set a light to guide his path.”

“And your own family?” Devon kept his arm around Sebastien’s. Sebastien’s cane struck the earth with every step, a low beat like the drumming of a heart.

“My family must have found their own way, in time,” Sebastien said. “And I have found you, and Sariel.”

“And the others, now.”

“Yes.” Sebastien’s face was shadowed, but the light of the stars made a dim outline of his profile as they reached the crest of the hill. “Our world is changing. And it would not have, if we hadn’t found you.”

“Like a wild dog, too quick to bite.”

Sebastien touched Devon’s cheek lightly, and when Devon turned to look at him, Sebastien held him there with gloves fingers.

“I am trying to tell you,” Sebastien said, and the dominance in his tone made a thrill roll through Devon, “that you are precious, and clever, and you burn so brightly that you make us feel warmer. It has been a long time, for both of us, since we have felt the true heat of a fire.”

He kissed Devon, then, in the dark at the top of the hill, with the stars wheeling above and the lights of the village flickering below.

“You are beloved,” he said, and Devon could hear Sariel there, pushing forward, his voice ringing. For just a flash, there was the smoky, indistinct shape of feathered wings unfolding against the sky.

They sat on the hill together, the basket at their feet, and watched the sea spread out before them like a cloth over the horizon.

“Sariel does not like the sea,” Sebastien said, as they broke the chocolate between them. “But the stars fascinate him. They’re brighter here, away from the village.”

Devon kissed Sebastien, and smiled when he tasted chocolate. “I wish I remembered the meanings of them. The constellations.”

“They don’t need a meaning,” Sebastien said, in Sariel’s voice. “They are enough. Hold, Dev-on.”

Devon grinned as Sebastien gently pushed him onto his back, kissing him, one hand cradling the back of his neck. “You could say I can see them better from here.”

“They are in your eyes,” Sariel said, and Devon stroked Sebastien’s cheek as he would Sariel’s in the dark room.

“We have something for you,” Sebastien said. Devon couldn’t help but smile as he dug through his coat, still crouching over Devon with his long, pale hair framing one side of his face. Devon brushed it behind his ear as Sebastien pulled something out of this pocket. He drew Devon’s hand to it, and Devon felt the soft, supple leather under his gloved fingers.

“A collar,” Sebastien said. “To remind you always that you are beloved, and safe. That you are ours.”

Devon’s breath caught. “Will you put it on me?”

He was drawn up, gently, reverently, and grabbed at Sebastien’s coat as the collar was wrapped around his neck. It was cool against his skin, but secure, and he looked up into Sebastien’s eyes and found the world had blurred, the stars merging into streaks of light.

Sebastien kissed the tears already cooling on Devon’s cheeks. “You’re a mess, Devon.”

Devon laughed, and practically climbed into Sebastien’s lap to kiss him back. “I love you,” he whispered, almost desperately, pressing his forehead to Sebastien’s. “I don’t think I believed I was capable of it before I met you. Both of you.”

“We are all learning new things,” Sebastien said, and lay him on the grass again, kissing him until Devon was warm and flushed, the world fading into a distant haze around them. “Let us go home, Beloved. Where you are ours, always.”

Devon drew Sebastien in for a kiss, smiling and fond, and lay his hand over the collar at his neck.

“Yes,” he said. “And you are mine.”