by C. N. Faust
“Nicholas, you misunderstand me. I … I want to help you.” Ezbon had never felt so anxious in his life. He reached out to Nicholas, his hand trembling, and touched that red hair. Nicholas flinched, but didn’t brush him away.
“You can’t help me,” Nicholas muttered, and coughed. “No one can, not even Azrael.”
“And Arodi?” Ezbon whispered, but he knew the answer.
“Arodi is dead,” Nicholas could barely push the words past his lips. He wanted to cry again as it all came back afresh.
“I’m not him, I know.” Ezbon said. “But I still love you, Nicholas, and I want to help you. Won’t you let me?”
“Help?” Nicholas sat up, and turned to face the baron, his thin pale face flushed with fury. “How could you possibly help? Can you resurrect the dead, Ezbon Cavalla?”
“No…” Ezbon began.
“Can you kill me?” Nicholas’ voice held a thread of desperation. “Can you send me to join me beloved in the skies?”
“No!” Ezbon wanted to scream, but he didn’t. He kept his jaw clamped shut.
“Then you are of no use to me,” Nicholas fell back to his pillows. “And you can’t possibly ‘help’.”
“I can try,” Ezbon said. “Damn it, Nicholas! Just give me a chance…!”
“What more do you want from me?” Nicholas demanded. There was wild look to his eyes, a spark of hellfire that was not there before. “We were lovers, Ezbon, that’s all!”
“I loved you!” Ezbon insisted.
“Maybe so, but I loved Arodi, and that is all there is to the matter! Godsdammit, just leave it!” Nicholas buried his face in his pillow. “Leave me!”
Ezbon thinned his lips. He put his heels together and saluted smartly, turning and stalking from the room. He paused halfway through the doorway, almost turning to apologize, but he decided against it. Let Nicholas be a fool. He had come to offer his help, and it had been cruelly spurned.
Without another word, Ezbon slammed the painted doors shut behind him.
Nicholas flinched again when he hear the doors slamming shut. Ezbon was angry, he knew. But there was nothing he could do about it. What poor Ezbon didn’t understand was that nothing would ever be the same again. Nicholas Ercole had nothing left to give. He had nothing more to contribute to the world. He had done nothing to earn glory or title. Everything he had was given to him in one form or another. He had brutalized, bullied, and bribed his way through the stuffed nobles at court. He had ambitions for Ercole to be the wealthiest and most respected barony. Obviously, his plans had fallen just short of failure.
But he had loved. That was one thing the bards and the poets could not overlook about him.
Nicholas curled up, his knees pressing into his stomach, his arms locked around his knees. He wished Arodi was with him. Arodi always knew what to say to make him feel better. He missed the warmth on the other side of the bed, the smile he had grown accustomed to seeing in the morning. He missed those lips that he had often claimed in a thousand kisses. He missed Arodi’s hair, his laughter, his being.
Slowly, the baron unwound himself and stretched out on the bed.
Perhaps Nicholas Ercole had one last thing to give after all.
Sighing, Nicholas closed his eyes and gave up his ghost.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Ivan hadn’t thought to join them, and had instead taken supper in his quarters. Ezbon only pushed his foot around his plate with his knife. His elbow rested on the table, and his chin rested in his palm. He did not look up at Charon who was sitting just across from him. If he had, he might have noticed that Charon hadn’t touched a bite of his own food. It was a sure sign that something was wrong.
The only sounds for the longest time were the clanking of plates and the pattering of rain against the window. Charon sipped at his wine, but didn’t swallow immediately. Ezbon picked off pieces of bread and crumbled them between his fingers. He had lost his appetite entirely.
Finally, Charon set down his goblet.
“My lord,” he said, and his voice cut clear through the silence.
Ezbon looked up, his hand falling away form his cheek and moving up to smooth back his hair.
“Yes, Charon?” he asked softly. “What is it?”
Charon took a deep breath. “I’m going, my lord.” He said, with a note of finality.
“Good night,” Ezbon said, going back to pushing food around.
“No,” Charon said, and Ezbon’s head came back up. “No, I’m not going to bed, Ezbon. I’m going to stay here. When you and Ivan leave for home, I will not be going back with you.”
Ezbon’s heart froze inside his chest. He didn’t feel it beat, not once.
“But why?” Ezbon asked, confused. “Please, Charon, why? You have nothing here, no family, no friends! I am your friend, and I thought…” he paused, not wanting to finish his that statement.
‘I thought you loved me’ hung unsaid in the air.
“I do,” Charon said, his voice lowering. “I do with all my heart.”
“Then why?” Ezbon was at a loss.
“My duty lies here, now.” Charon knew Ezbon wouldn’t understand. He didn’t expect him to. Moving closer, he touched the baron’s shoulder. He longed for a simpler time when he could just slide right on to Ezbon’s lap. “Perhaps it’s time I told you…”
“I should say so,” Ezbon muttered.
“Nicholas was my brother,” Charon said, his voice sounding distant with the memory. “He always blamed me for my mother’s death, as I told you. And so he sent me away.”
“…’Was’?” was all Ezbon could think to say.
“Yes,” Charon squeezed Ezbon’s shoulder. “Didn’t you hear?”
“No,” Ezbon’s voice climbed higher, slightly panicked. “What didn’t I hear?”
Charon’s face grew solid, blank as stone.
“Nicholas is dead,” Charon replied, his voice flat. “He died several hours ago. I heard the servants talking about it. They found the corpse … it appeared he left peacefully in his sleep.”
Ezbon regarded Charon gravely. “If Nicholas was your brother…”
“I am the next baron Ercole,” Charon nodded.
All the pieces were coming together now in Ezbon’s head.
“But-“ his mind swam. “If you’re here – we can’t –“
“We can see each other,” Charon reassured him gently. “We just can’t see each other all the time like we used to. You understand, don’t you? Please tell me that you do.”
Ezbon looked at him. He searched Charon’s face, hoping to salvage a scrap sincerity. He only saw a smooth, expressionless character. Already he was looking into the face of a diplomat. It was as if Charon had changed over night. He had gone from being a boy to a man. And Ezbon had somehow missed it.
Ezbon gave Charon his brightest, most artificial smile.
“Of course, Charon, I am glad for you. You have my blessing.”
“Thank you,” Charon knelt down beside his chair and hugged him, kissing his cheek. “You are wonderful to me, my love.”
Ezbon didn’t respond. He could barely speak past the lump in his throat.
Charon understood. Without another word, he stood and bowed before going back to his seat. A heavier silence than before descended upon the dinner table. Neither spoke another word to each other.
Once he had finished, Charon quietly dismissed himself and left. Ezbon sat in the silence for a long time, staring into the depths of his wine goblet, wondering what had become of him.
Where had he gone wrong?
Of course, he remembered. It had all started with this damnable war.
Revolution.
Ezbon shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair. His elbows landed hard on the table and he winced. Revolution, yes, that is what began this whole process. But had it really begun before that? Had it started with Nicholas?
“I’m sorry, Ezbon. But I love him, I cannot help that.”
Ezbon buried his fing
ernails into his scalp. The pain was sharp, needlelike. He thought of Ivan, of Nicholas. He thought of how they wanted him to join this war so badly. And now everything was falling apart around them. There was no way they could win this war. No way in the seven hells.
Sitharus would show them no mercy, either. He would storm Drakkian Province and within days the entire population would be either dead or enslaved. Ezbon and Ivan would be caught and slaughtered like sacrificial goats, but it wouldn’t end there. The eternal torment would continue on in the afterlife. It was the gravest of sins to rise up against one’s king. It was graver still to rise up against a king who was on the same level as the gods! Ezbon could only imagine the terrible torments that Azrael might have in store for him after death.
It isn’t your fault, you know.
Ezbon didn’t want to listen to himself. He pressed his forehead against the table. The wood felt good and cool.
You did what you thought was right. There is no shame in that. You did only what you could.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
It can’t be this way.
Things had gone entirely wrong!
It will not be this way!
Nicholas was dead! So many were dead, but Nicholas shouldn’t have died!
He shouldn’t have died, he didn’t deserve it. Keep telling yourself that, Ezbon. Nicholas is dead, and it is all Arodi’s fault. Why did he have to love that slave boy?
The voices in his head were amplifying, shattering the inner peace of his skull. A thousand verses of Claephus joined in the mixture. They intertwined, some sickening taunt.
Soldiers meet their bloody end in battle, and true love never dies. Kings lie in bed and dream things true, but dreamers often lie.
It should have been him. It should have been he who died, not Nicholas.
The voices were getting louder and louder. Ezbon clutched at his head, moaning, gnashing his teeth. He wanted them to go away, to just leave him alone. He wanted some peace for once, that was all!
The voices were louder. They jeered and scoffed at him, with their laughing voices and smiling faces that flitted across his vision. He didn’t know who they were, or where they had come from, or why he had never seen them before.
But he had seen them before. They were the faces of his dreams, the faces of all those he once knew. They had come back for him.
He saw Nicholas first. The red-haired god of his heart stood before him, all sympathy and love. He took Ezbon’s face in his deathly cold hands and kissed him. His kiss was sweet and tender, but then he pushed Ezbon away, jeering. Nicholas shifted into another image altogether. It was Arodi, dressed as Ezbon remembered him from their first meeting. The scar that cut across his cheek was still livid and fresh. Ezbon had give him that scar. He laughed at Ezbon and pointed, smirking knowingly. He knew something that the baron didn’t. But of course, he wasn’t going to tell!
Arceia was next. Ezbon had only met her once or twice, but she was instantly recognizable for her blonde hair and pale eyes. She beckoned to him from her position on the floor, laughing, resting her hand on the curve of her shapely hips. And then it was Remphan, scowling, his one eye glinting darkly and his mouth turned down into a disapproving frown.
They all appeared at once, then. They laughed at him. They pointed, the y sneered. He wished he knew what they wanted of him. He just wanted to be alone – he only ever wanted to be alone. The voices in his head grew louder. Some were deep, resounding, and made his skull vibrate. Some were lighter, more trill, and raked against his eardrums like nails. Ezbon clawed at his head and tore out some of his iron gray hair, eager for anything, anything to make it stop!
Furious, Ezbon stood up and called out. He had no words, only sounds. He swept his arm across the tabletop and sent everything within reach flying. Goblets, plates, knives and platters all fell against the floor with a thunderous crash. Wine spilled from a smashed decanter, and the dogs rushed to devour a whole chicken that had rolled under the table. Ezbon looked around, miserable, searching for an escape. He could only think of Nicholas.
Then he saw it. It was lying on the table, one of the few things his arm had missed. Its wicked blade, serrated and slightly curved, gleamed evilly in the firelight.
The voices knew what it meant.
Yes, yes! The encouraged him, urging him onward. Yes, take it, do it! You know it’s the right thing to do.
Ezbon hesitated, but then he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the cold, ugly metal handle.
Nicholas was the only voice he could hear. Nicholas was the only face he could see. It was all he could think of, sense, wish for.
Nicholas – the man he hated.
Nicholas – the man who had abandoned him.
Nicholas – the man he loved!
Ezbon hefted the knife into the air. The fire crackled behind him, and all of the sudden he released a scream.
It was not human by any bounds of the imagination. It was entirely desperate and animalistic. It was the dying scream of a tormented soul.
And the world fell silent around him. Even the voices were no longer there.
“Take it,” Ezbon whispered. “Take it, take it!” he gripped the knife in both his hands and held it over his heart, pressed to the velvet of his doublet. His voice grew louder with each insisting word. Each time, he pressed it a little closer. “It was not mine, it was never mine. It was always yours! So take it!” he lifted the knife into the air, and brought it down with all his strength, plunging it straight into his chest.
Ezbon screamed in pain, but he had not stabbed himself through the heart. No, he had stabbed himself just to the left of it. Red pain washed over his eyes, clouding his vision. His blood roared in his ears and he swayed where he stood, threatening to topple over. But he didn’t.
Slowly, he pulled the knife from his chest. Blood gushed from the wound. The blade was red to the hilt, but he didn’t care. He gripped it again, sweat beading on his brow. His arms were shaking as he plunged it in again, just above his heart.
His knees buckled and his legs folded beneath him. Ezbon fell to the floor and doubled over. Blood poured down his chest and dripped down his hands, staining everything crimson. He barely had the strength to rip out the knife a second time. But he had to complete this task. He was going to cut out his heart and give it to Nicholas.
Ezbon closed his eyes, and whimpered with the pain. He tried to open them again, but it was too much work. His head swam, as though it might fall off. He though he could hear Nicholas speaking to him, smell Nicholas’ scent, feel Nicholas’ presence.
It was as if the Baron Ercole was standing in front of him, waiting patiently, hands out.
“Give me your heart,” the voice seemed to say. Ezbon wanted to reply. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
His hands trembled violently as he lifted the knife a third time. Blood pumped from he wounds, and tears rolled down his cheeks as he plunged the knife in a third time, just to the right of his heart.
The floor rose up to greet him, and his head hit the ground with a dull thud. Pain shot through his skull, but he didn’t care. He was beyond caring. His bloody fingers slipped away from the handle of the knife, still sticking out from his chest like a flag on a conquered battlefield. He lay in a pool of his own dark, syrupy blood. It soaked through his hair and his clothes, weighing him down to the floor. He couldn’t have moved if he wanted to, but he also lacked the willpower to try.
He knew he was dying. He wanted to whisper something dramatic, as the heroes of epics always did before the end. He wanted it to be something clever and profound. He hoped whatever it was would be written in the history books for years to come. Perhaps people would remember him then. Ezbon Cavalla, the lover, the poet. He was unlucky in love and he died of grief for his beloved. But on his tombstone, engraved forever in the stone, would be the name of Nicholas Ercole, whom he would never stop loving, never.
But his lips would not move. His tongue was lead. Nothing wo
uld obey his command.
He lay there on the floor in the dining hall of Ercole castle. Rain continued to drum against the stained glass. Somewhere in the sky, amidst the stormclouds and the lightning, a hoard of dragons hovered, waiting.
He hated to leave Ivan with this war, he hated it.
But he couldn’t help it.
The rain was very calming. Numbness was slowly overcoming him. It took his chest first, and began to spread. He wouldn’t be able to feel anything, soon. And the cold of the dining hall bit deep into his skin as it suddenly filled the room.
He wondered, vaguely, if Charon would ever forgive him.
It wasn’t likely, but he had to hope. His fate, it seemed, was to fall in love with the Ercole blood. He loved it. He adored how fierce and impetuous it was, how ambitious, how war-like. He loved how divine they seemed, how perfect.
Charon and Nicholas, Nicholas and Charon. Two men he had sold his heart to. Two Ercole baron who had taken his heart and crushed it under their heels.
They had his heart, now.
And so, as the rain continued to pour, Ezbon Cavalla was dead.
“Your majesty,” Aetius said.
Sitharus jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of his High Vizier.
“Yes, Aetius, what do you want?” he asked.
“I have just received word of happenings in Drakkian Province, sir. And it’s something you will like.” The High Vizier was smirking. That was never a good sign.
“What is it?” Sitharus asked, slightly exasperated.
“Baron Ezbon Cavalla and Nicholas Ercole are both dead, sire.” Aetius lifted his chin and smirked down his nose at the king. “Do you have any idea what that means?”
“It means… oh my Azrael.” The king glanced up at his advisor. “Ivan is the only one left.”
“Precisely, my lord.” The vizier replied sagaciously. “And there is no way in this world that Ivan Clieous can hold his ground against your army. If we send one to Drakkian Province now, we can crush this rebellion once and for all.”
“By Azrael, you’re right!” Sitharus clapped his hands. “Aetius! I want you to lead this army. Let us march straight into Drakkian Province with the king’s banner held high. I want them to know we are coming.”