talk me through the damage

Worrying about other people isn’t something Lord Dyrr’s heir is supposed to do. Yet when Vizaeth finally returns to Master Do’Urden’s quarters, Rhylfein can’t entirely suppress the jolt of relief the sight of him conjures. He shifts up in his chair.

“Hey, handsome, get over here—Viconia was right, we got the good seafood stuff. I saved you—”

“Not hungry.”

Vizaeth hurries past the cluster of chairs they’ve pulled in around a low table full of finest fare, shoulders hunched, head down. Nothing unusual in his tension; he’s always on edge, expecting a knife in his back. He’s not wrong to be that way at Sorcere. But he doesn’t go, as Rhylfein expects, to Master Do’Urden’s door—instead he retreats to the corner of the room, where he sinks down against the wall, head pressed to his knees.

“Let him sulk,” Nadrak says, picking bits of crab from his teeth. “More for the rest of us.”

Rhylfein ignores him. Viz is curled into the gloom between two bookcases, as if he’s trying to disappear into the narrow gap. He came back alone, when he should’ve had Master Oblodra with him, and a gnawing suspicion rises as Rhylfein crouches to join him in the shadows.

“Didn’t go well, huh?” Silence. “You should eat something.”

“Fuck off,” Vizaeth mutters into his thighs. Rhylfein takes his hand and tugs it away from the death-grip it has on his shin.

“Come on, pretty boy. Look at me.”

Illusions collapse in shivering ripples as Viz raises his head. Scars appear on his arms, familiar lines more old than new—a fact Rhylfein shouldn’t notice, care, or be so glad about—but the magic doesn’t stop there, the way it usually does. It rolls upwards, and bruises appear on both sides of Vizaeth’s face: one blotchy, the other distinctly palm-shaped. His eyes are bloodshot, his lip split and swollen, and there’s a fresh new bitemark right below his ear.

Anger cracks like a thunderclap in the back of Rhylfein’s skull.

“I’m going to kill him.”

Vizaeth’s nails dig into his hand. “You’re not going to touch him,” he snaps. “He’s mine. I’m his, he’s mine, he wants me and I…and we…” The sudden burst of intensity collapses, and he drops his head back to his knees. “You’re not going to touch him,” he repeats, tonelessly.

“I’m going to cut his dick off and feed it to him, is what I’m going to do. Fucking rat bastard.”

“What’s that? Thaezyr fucked a rat?” Nadrak calls. He’s grinning over the back of the chair he and Welvryn have crammed themselves into, and he only said it to be a shit, but it has the intended effect. Viz bolts to his feet, fists wreathed in bright teal. He’s halfway through a blight spell before Rhylfein grabs his elbow and slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t. He’s not worth it.”

“Oh, you mean he fucked Mizzrym,” Nadrak says, as if it’s only just dawned on him. “That makes more sense. You’d rip yourself to shreds trying to fuck that familiar of yours. Then again, that seems like the kind of thing you’re into.”

Teeth sink into Rhylfein’s palm. A burst of pain, a swirl of red mist, and Vizaeth lurches through the Weave—the wrongness of the forced necromancy is like nails on a chalkboard, a violent mental shriek. Nadrak lets out a cry of alarm as Vizaeth appears an inch from his face, and topples backwards off of Welvryn’s lap, narrowly missing the table. Viz moves fast—faster than Rhylfein’s ever seen him move before—and in seconds he has a knee in Nadrak’s stomach, a knife in one hand and the other wrapped around Nadrak’s throat.

“Shut your filthy mouth,” he hisses, the words reverberating with death magic.

Bright pinpricks of blood appear where his claw-like nails dig into Nadrak’s skin, and Rhylfein figures they’ve got maybe ten seconds before they can add drow tongue to tonight’s menu. He starts forward, but Viconia gets there first. Her fingers fly through the enchantment, and the second the final words trip off her tongue, Vizaeth is frozen in place. From the fury in his immobilised eyes and the tension in Viconia’s jaw, she’s having to work to keep him that way.

Nadrak scrambles out from under him, rubbing at his throat as Veryan helps him to his feet.

“Crazy fucking bastard,” he spits out. “You should’ve been drowned at birth.”

“Keep talking, Myath, see where it gets you,” Rhylfein says. He takes tight hold of Vizaeth’s arms. “Let him go.”

“He still has a knife,” Viconia says through gritted teeth. Hard to tell with her if it’s the effort of holding the spell over Vizaeth’s rage, or if she’s just pissed off at the whole situation.

“I said let him go.”

“Fine.”

She gestures sharply, Weave evaporating into component strands at her command. The second the spell drops, Vizaeth thrashes free of Rhylfein’s grip, and yeah, hard to forget about the knife when it’s his throat it’s now aimed for. It’s not made for more than eating, but he’s seen what Viz can do with a blade. He grabs Vizaeth’s wrist—and doesn’t miss the way he winces. Another black mark for Mizzrym, that fuck.

“Drop it.”

Teal in Vizaeth’s eyes, a flat absence of light gathering in his fist.

“Drop it, pretty boy, or I’ll make you.”

Viz yanks his hand free and hurls the knife across the room. It buries itself point-first into the thick spine of one of Nalfein’s books. The glow in his eyes brightens, then abruptly dissipates, leaving them old-blood blank.

“Fuck you,” he says, the words dead and hard, then rips at the Weave again and the last thing Rhylfein sees before the door to the spare room slams shut is a fading swirl of red mist.

Silence hangs heavy in his wake. Rhylfein lets out a sharp exhale, and pointedly avoids making eye contact with anyone as he drops into the chair next to Veryan, grabbing one of the remaining bread rolls and shoving it into his mouth for something to occupy his teeth. He’s surprised Master Do’Urden hasn’t come rushing out to see what all the ruckus is about. Then again, he’d looked exhausted when he excused himself for a moment’s rest once their food arrived. It hadn’t exactly been early when Mistress Baenre kicked his door in and dumped a squabble of apprentices in his lap.

Still, he should’ve sensed something, or at the very least his familiar should have, but there’s no sign of the fox either. Both of them napping while Vizaeth undoes the work he’s spent months on, shredding his weakened Weave using necromancy and blood in ways he shouldn’t. Rhylfein pokes at the teeth-marks in his palm, shallow indents just enough to break the skin, already scabbing. Who knows how much damage Nadrak’s little taunt has done—and that on top of whatever Mizzrym inflicted.

“There’s something seriously wrong with that boy,” Welvryn says, breaking the silence. “I cannot understand what appeals to you about him, Rhylfein.”

Nadrak, sat sprawled between his legs while the other boy plays with his hair, nods agreement. “Remember when he first got here, and he was always spitting up blood?”

“Vomiting it up, you mean.” Welvryn grimaces. “Give him credit, he had the balls to come on to me with viscera in his teeth.”

“How’d it taste?”

“Never bothered to find out. Rhylfein?”

“Coward,” Rhylfein says. “I like the taste of blood. And I don’t know, Welvryn, I just like him. He’s fun. He looks at half our class like he wants to eat them alive, and the other half like he wants them to eat him.”

“Yeah, and he looks at Mizzrym like he’s Lolth’s Chosen.”

“He’s in love with him,” Veryan says quietly, and though his voice is low, everyone immediately looks to him. The szarkai is many things; ignorable is not one. He meets Rhylfein’s eyes, almost apologetic. “I know you and he are…involved, but he’s in love with Pharaun. Has been for years. We’ve all seen it.”

“Gaer zhau nau ssinssrigg jhal Lolth,” Nadrak recites. “Isn’t that what the Mistresses say? He’s not in love with anything. He’s obsessed with Mizzrym, that’s all. Dressing like him, running around like some fucked up clone, acting superior because he conned Pharaun into fucking him. Now his little scheme’s backfired, and what? We should feel sorry for him?” He snorts. “He’s lucky Mizzrym didn’t arrange an accident.”

“Mizzrym’s a cunt,” Rhylfein says, and throws one of the remaining half-eaten crab-claws at him. Welvryn snatches it out of the air and sets about making it fully eaten.

“On that we can all agree,” he says through his mouthful. “Doesn’t explain why you decided to put your dick in crazy, Dyrr.”

“You’ve met Rhylfein, right?” Viconia says.

They all snicker, the mood immediately lightening. She can match Rhylfein in a scrap, easy, but she can politic far better than he’s ever been able to. Being the only girl in Sorcere has equipped her with the necessary skill to defuse any given situation, which right now means reading him well enough to see that if Welvryn and Nadrak keep talking, it’ll be him with a knife at one of their throats. So she distracts them, turning the conversation to Kenafin’s well-deserved suffering, while Rhylfein’s laughter dries in his throat, and his gaze drifts to the door of the spare room. Viz is in there, fucked up and alone, exactly the way he’s spent most of his life.

Rhylfein picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. He knows Vizaeth loves Pharaun. He also knows he hates Pharaun for using that fact, even though it’s fair game to prey on such weakness. Viz should’ve known better than to have flaunted his feelings so openly, because now that the love is gone—or maybe it’s back, maybe Mizzrym’s raped the devoted obsession back into him—he has nothing.

Rhylfein tugs the thread out and out, wrapping it tight beneath the knuckle of his forefinger. It’s not like he’s made the mistake of bringing feelings into things. He likes Viz, sure. He is fun. Fucks like a demon, and has the same violence in his veins as Rhylfein does—carving out Kenafin’s eye with him was as good as the first time fucking him. Better, maybe. So yeah, he likes him. But no-one will ever catch the word love anywhere near his thoughts about Vizaeth Thaezyr.

“What happened?” Veryan leans over to whisper to him, close enough that they can conspire. “To Thaezyr, I mean. We didn’t leave Kenafin or his cronies in any fit state to make that much of a mess of him.”

“Either Oblodra’s more of a freak than we previously thought, or he left him alone with Mizzrym,” Rhylfein says. The thread around his finger breaks. “And then Mizzrym happened.”

“It may have been deliberate. Vizaeth’s a halfway decent manipulator when he wants to be, and he’s wanted to get back with Pharaun ever since—”

“A bloody lip and a fucked up face isn’t getting back with him,” Rhylfein snaps. Veryan doesn’t flinch. He’s faced down Rhylfein’s stormy moods before. “If he’d done that, he wouldn’t be here, would he? He’d be sleeping it off in Mizzrym’s bed, then come waltzing into class tomorrow like king of the fucking Underdark because for some insane reason he still thinks Mizzrym gives a shit about him, despite everything he’s done.”

“What’s Mizzrym done?” Welvryn asks, and Rhylfein realises he’s let his voice get loud. He’s too pissed off to care.

“What hasn’t he done? Stabbed him, gutted him, beaten him, raped him—you’re right, Welvryn, there is something wrong with him, and the worst part is that everyone sees it and no-one’s going to do a fucking thing about it because if he’s getting fucked over, hey, at least it’s not one of us, right?”

He shoves to his feet, hands balled at his sides. It’d be great if he had something to punch right now, but the person whose face he’d prefer to mangle isn’t here. He kicks the table over instead, sending everything scattering in a crash of silverware and splattering food. Viconia leaps up. “Rhyl—”

“Fuck this,” he says, waving her away. “I’m done.”

Conscious of all eight eyes boring into him, he turns his back and finally follows after Vizaeth.

---

None of the wall lamps are lit, and it’s cooler in here than the main room, enough of a difference to make him shiver. Vizaeth is an indistinct shape on Nalfein’s spare bed, a knot of shadow curled in the centre of the sheets. He doesn’t move when Rhylfein sits behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder. He’s got one arm cradled close—the injured one Rhylfein grabbed earlier. What did Mizzrym do? If it’s broken, that means the infirmary, which Viz hates with a passion.

If it’s broken, Mizzrym’s earned a break to match.

Rhylfein ventures a short, cautious stroke of Vizaeth’s upper arm. Still no reaction. Asleep, hopefully. He rubs a thumb over the bare skin, the scars fewer and fainter up here. Maybe he can convince Veryan to take a look later; he’s got a little healing ability, as Rhylfein understands it. Not as strong or trained as Nenrina’s, not yet, but some. It would just be a matter of convincing him to help, and Vizaeth to let Veryan touch him—a small impossibility in and of itself. There’s some sharp history between them, laced with fear and anger and pain, and both of them get cagey when he pokes at the edges of it. It’s not unlikely that such effort would result in Veryan making things worse on purpose—there are only a handful of arcane syllables between curing a wound and inflicting one—but Rhylfein would rather chance that than watch Viz cripple himself permanently through sheer stubbornness.

Sighing under his breath, tired already, he reaches out to brush Vizaeth’s hair back from his face.

“I heard you,” Vizaeth says. Rhylfein freezes, mouth gone suddenly dry with the taste of regret.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck you. Fuck all of you—you don’t know me, you don’t know Pharaun, and you said you wouldn’t tell anyone what I did with him, you fucking liar!” Vizaeth bolts upright, serpent-quick. Rhylfein snatches his hand back.

“I was defending you—”

“I don’t need you to protect me!”

He launches forward, lips pulled back in an animalistic snarl, and tackles Rhylfein to the floor. Stars burst across his vision as his head smacks off the ground. Nails gouge at his neck, his arms; a knee slams into his stomach, and instinct takes over. He shoves up, rolling Viz beneath him, pinning him with an arm across his throat, but before he can bring his fist down to clock the stupid fucker in the jaw, Vizaeth lunges up and bites him for the second time tonight. Rhylfein jerks away before he can draw blood.

“You little shit! Why do I even bother?”

“Because you think I’ll do whatever you want if you fuck me hard enough.” Vizaeth’s eyes are wild, hair a tangle, teeth bared in nothing close to a smile. “You’re just like Pharaun.”

It feels like someone’s knocked the air out of him. His temples throb. “Shut up.”

“Fucking make me.”

A hiss of magic and bloody spit turns to swirling mist, putting Viz on his feet, and seconds later a solid kick lands in Rhylfein’s ribs. Growling, Rhylfein scrambles up to charge him—and misses, running headlong through another swirl of mist. Fuck. The thing is that if Vizaeth has decided he doesn’t care about fatally unravelling his Weave anymore, there aren’t any limits to his casting; he can keep going until he bleeds to death. The way he is at the moment, Rhylfein strongly suspects that’s the outcome he’s hoping for.

Across the room, Vizaeth has the little finger of his left hand gripped tightly in his right. He locks eyes with Rhylfein and jerks his right hand down. There’s a sickening snap, and pitch-black ribbons of energy start to writhe up from his feet.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Rhylfein bolts towards him, and Vizaeth isn’t fast enough to swap the more powerful spell for a misty step in time. They both go sprawling, the flood of negative energy dissipating—one of the fading ribbons brushes Rhylfein’s ankle, and his entire lower leg goes numb.

Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need it. He gets a solid punch under Vizaeth’s ribs; another glancing off his shoulder as he squirms free. Vizaeth fights like he fucks, nails and teeth and elbows, leaving bruises and bloody scratches, tearing at Rhylfein’s clothes and skin, ripping at his hair. Worst of all, he’s started laughing. It’s a high, manic sound, the razor edge of buckling sanity.

“Is that it? Is that all you can manage?” He’s back on his feet, swaying, faint curls of red mist clinging to the many, many places he’s now bleeding. “Surely you can do better than that, Pharaun.”

Rhylfein shoves him, sending him slamming into the wall beneath one of the sconces. His head cracks off the stone, and he’s crying now; crying and laughing and bleeding with his nails sunk into Rhylfein’s arms.

“Come on,” he taunts through reddened teeth. “Hit me hard enough and you can fuck me again, how about that? Don’t you want me, Rhylfein? Show me how bad you want me!”

Rhylfein’s arm is up, drawn back for a blow, and Vizaeth’s eyes glitter like he wants it, like he deserves it, and Rhylfein drives his fist into the wall so hard something cracks, and crushes their mouths together. Vizaeth sobs into the kiss, scrabbling at him, trying to push him away.

“Stop it. Just stop it,” Rhylfein whispers roughly. He wraps both arms around Vizaeth, holding him tighter and tighter until something gives way and he collapses like someone’s cut all his strings. Rhylfein kisses him again, salt and iron on his tongue—and what do you know, he still quite likes the taste of blood.

When he speaks, it’s like dragging the words through tar. “You’re a fucking basket case, Thaezyr.”

A laugh; broken, but not hysterical anymore. Rhylfein leans his forehead to Vizaeth’s, and is about to say something maybe stupid and definitely reckless, when someone flings the door open and all the sconces flare into blinding life.

“What is going on in here?”

Master Do’Urden really was in bed, it seems, but even barefoot and shirtless, with his hair in tangles, the power in his voice is enough to send a shiver of fear down Rhylfein’s spine.

“Nothing.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Nalfein’s gaze hardens as he takes in their injuries—and no doubt the mess of magic lingering in the air. “Both of you come here.”

With some difficulty, Rhylfein extricates himself from Vizaeth’s iron grip. He takes the hand that isn’t injured, tugging him away from the wall. Throbbing pain spikes up his own arm; he’s cracked something, broken a finger, maybe. He sighs internally. His cousin is going to take great pleasure in ripping him apart for this mess.

Master Do’Urden looks over them as they approach, taking in the blood, the bruises, the torn clothes. His lips press into a thin line, and Rhylfein can see him putting pieces together; his violence, Vizaeth’s viciousness, how close they were when he walked in, the unlikelihood of a fist putting a bruise like that on Vizaeth’s neck. Boys get involved at Sorcere all the time, fucking and fighting in equal measure, sometimes using the latter to achieve the former, but that’s not what this is and normally Rhylfein wouldn’t care what any Master thinks of him, but he still wants to put his foot through Mizzrym’s face, and Master Do’Urden is a pretty big fucking boot.

“Viz, you have to tell him,” he says. Vizaeth shakes his head, staring resolutely at the floor. “Viz—”

“Tell me what?” In the face of their mutual silence—his pleading, Vizaeth’s sullen—Nalfein folds his arms. “Are either of you going to answer me, or am I going to have to fetch Mistress Baenre back here?”

“It was Master Mizzrym,” Viconia says. She’s appeared behind Nalfein, eyes widening as she sees the state Rhylfein’s in. “Master Oblodra left him alone with Vizaeth, and—”

“Pharaun didn’t do anything,” Vizaeth cuts her off. The magic radiating from him, Weave-wrapped fury, makes Rhylfein’s teeth ache. Viconia scowls.

“Why are you so committed to letting him get away with this?”

“Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone?” Teal sparks from his lips, misted with blood. Nalfein holds up a hand.

“That’s enough, both of you. Apprentice Despana, there should be enough supplies in my apothecary closet for another poultice. Have apprentice Xorlarrin help you put one together.”

“But—”

“Now, please.”

Grumbling under her breath, Viconia obeys. She passes Welvryn and Nadrak on her way to the closet—Nadrak starts to say something, and without breaking stride, Viconia backhands him in the side of the head. Master Do’Urden pretends not to notice.

“You two are going to patch each other up,” he says, addressing mostly Rhylfein because Viz has gone back to staring at the floor. “You can go to the infirmary in the morning if you need it.”

“Yes, Master Do’Urden,” Rhylfein says. Vizaeth’s hand in his is shaking. He squeezes, ignoring the jolt of pain the action sends up his arm. Nalfein sighs, resignation and exhaustion flashing over his face for a moment before he schools it to calm.

“Do me the courtesy of allowing me more than an hour of reverie in peace tonight, and I don’t see that your cousin—or Lord Dyrr—need to hear about this.”

Rhylfein swallows. “Thank you.”

A knock—Viconia and Veryan, with clean water, a fresh poultice, and a tray of other supplies including, Rhylfein hopes, something to dull the pain. Viconia looks as though she wants to say something, and if Vizaeth wasn’t clinging to him, she probably would. As it is, she only nods, one eyebrow arched in a manner he knows means they will talk later, and lets Nalfein usher her out after Veryan. The door clicks shut quietly, and Rhylfein is once again alone with Vizaeth.

Sat on the bed, they clean up the blood, staining the water deep, dark red. He splints Vizaeth’s finger, then his own, and is pleased to find a small vial that turns most of the pain to a distant pulse, almost ignorable. He lingers over the scratches in his neck, half-hoping they’ll scar in spite of the poultice. Lord Dyrr’s fury might be worth it to finally have something permanent on his skin.

“You probably want this back.”

Vizaeth is holding out the choker he borrowed. The velvet is too dark to make out any bloodstains. Rhylfein takes it, rubbing a thumb over the fabric, then leans forward and re-fastens it around Vizaeth’s bruised throat.

“Nah,” he says. “Looks better on you, anyway.”

Vizaeth’s eyes shimmer. Fresh tears spill in silent tracks down his battered face. “Why does this keep happening to me?”

He crumples into Rhylfein’s arms—gods, he’s so fucking small. Not the way Rhylfein is, simply by birth, but made that way, carved and starved into a shell of necromancy and need, and Rhylfein doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it. He doesn’t have an answer. There isn’t one. It’s just life, for drow like them. They exist to be used, and at least Rhylfein knows what Lord Dyrr has planned for him. He’s a tool; Vizaeth is nothing but a toy.

A flicker of magic, less effort than a cantrip, and the lights go out. They curl together in the dark, skin to skin, Vizaeth’s pulse rabbiting under his palm.

“Hey, handsome,” he murmurs. Vizaeth tilts his head up, and Rhylfein captures his mouth in a kiss, soft and slow. An almost inaudible whimper accompanies the press of Vizaeth’s tongue to his, along with the faintest tang of iron. Rhylfein strokes his hair, his neck, his shoulder—maybe it’s his imagination, but he can feel something vibrating beneath the skin, magic shifting, sliding against itself. Jagged shards, grinding together. He has a very limited idea of what exactly Viz has to do to get his tangled Weave to settle, only that it involves being calm.

If the past hour or so is anything to go by, Rhylfein is decidedly not good at keeping Vizaeth calm.

“Rhyl,” Vizaeth whispers, “I want to forget. Make me forget.”

What he is good at is keeping Vizaeth distracted. He cracks a smile.

“Sure thing, pretty boy,” he says, and does just that.