11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

It was not a mystery or a surprise that Evander was angry.

Marcos had known that if he ever had to tell Evander the truth about Vanya, he'd be upset.

But then he hadn't foretold having to tell him while Vanya was standing right there, beautiful and reproachful, or that his betrayal would be so much deeper and more pervasive than either of them could have imagined.

So, it was not particularly a surprise that he was furious or that as they'd packed up, Evander had refused to look in Marcos' direction and only spoken to him when asked a direct question.

It was not unexpected—in fact, Marcos realized this whole journey, while he and Evander had been growing closer, he'd been anticipating a moment just like this one, when it all went to hell—but that didn't mean it wasn't agonizing.

Still, despite Evander's sulking, they made good time heading down from the Well. Not for the first time, Marcos was glad they'd taken the horses, because it was so much faster than being on foot. He had to acknowledge now that the Mother had at least had some idea of what they'd been going to face, and she'd tried to prepare them as best she could.

Even her suggestion to Evander about the Well had ended up being prophetic. He'd taken the chance and gaining his powers back had proven to be the difference in the confrontation with Vanya.

Vanya hadn't been powerless. He could have fought back, but instead he'd fled. No doubt because he'd come to the Well assuming that only Marcos had any power. The very last thing he'd expected was Evander's sudden—and very fiery—determination.

Marcos could feel dusk coming as they headed down the mountain. He could taste it in the air, and, even worse, he could taste a coming storm in the air. Snow, he realized, we're going to get snow.

He kept a sharp lookout for the right kind of setup that he wanted to ride out the storm, and finally, half an hour or so down the road, he found it.

Large trees, with heavy evergreen boughs that would shield them from the worst of the snow, and a few additional downed logs, which he could quickly use to construct some kind of makeshift shelter.

"We're stopping here," Marcos announced, nudging his horse off the road and down into the little valley, where he hoped they could weather the storm.

"Why so soon?" Evander demanded to know as he followed suit.

"Storm's coming," Marcos said succinctly. "This is going to be the best place to ride it out, I think."

"We could try to find the Mother's cabin," Evander said.

"Why bother her? We'll be fine here," Marcos said.

"In the snow?" Evander sounded dubious.

He deliberately did not remind himself that only a day ago, Evander had trusted his judgement on matters similar to these. It hadn't taken very long to get used to how sweet it had felt for Evander to respect his opinions.

And now, it was all shattered, because he'd deliberately withheld the truth.

If it hurts, you have only yourself to blame.

"I've camped out with a thousand men in much worse," Marcos said, stopping his horse in a relatively flat, insulated area ringed with trees. "We're well supplied. And after this, it's only a few days' ride to Beaulieu if we push the horses."

"Oh, so you're not concerned about the horses, then?" Evander asked archly. Trying, Marcos was fairly sure, to be difficult on purpose.

"No," Marcos said, determined to be patient and give Evander no more reasons to be pissed off. "I think the Mother's enchantment is still upon them, and some hard riding won't hurt them. A week, sure, but we're not a week away from Beaulieu, not if we use the regular roads."

"Not worried about hiding either?"

"Are you? Will Gray and Rory have sent out a search party for you?" Marcos questioned, even though he already knew the answer.

Evander rolled his eyes. "No, I left a note, so they wouldn't. They know sometimes I have matters I need to tend to. They wouldn't worry."

"Then," Marcos said smoothly, "it's no problem to keep to the main roads. Deimos won't come at us yet. Come, help me get the packs out. I want to get a shelter built. These evergreens will keep out most of the snow, but in case it turns to ice, I'd like some further protection for us and our fire."

Evander didn't respond, merely dismounted and began to untie the packs off the back of his horse.

Marcos decided that maybe silence wasn't such a problem.

It was better, anyway, than having Evander argue with every single suggestion he made. With Evander quiet, he could focus on the task at hand—which was making sure they'd be reasonably comfortable for the night ahead.

He grabbed a small sharp axe from his own bundle, and spent the next hour chopping logs and rearranging them into a shelter-like formation. Evander kept silent, but he could feel his eyes on him almost continuously. Like he wanted to look away, but couldn't, and resented the hell out of that particular fact.

That's fine, Marcos told himself as he set the last log into place. He'd had long stretches, one even lasting nearly a decade, where he'd been furious with his own heart for settling on the one creature who'd barely ever acknowledged his existence.

It hadn't been fair, but then Marcos had learned the hard way that not even an immortal life, an everlasting life, was fair.

It seemed like Evander should have learned that particular lesson long ago, considering Deimos' punishment, but perhaps he had not.

While he'd been setting up the shelter, it seemed that Evander had been taking stock of their provisions, and he'd also started a fire, gathering together all the bits of wood that Marcos hadn't needed or used. He'd even constructed the facsimile of a pot, which was currently hanging on a forked branch over a magically created fire, simmering briskly away with some kind of greens and some of what remained of their dried meat.

"I thought," Evander said when Marcos examined the setup, "that perhaps a hot meal might not go amiss."

It was not an apology. Not when he still wouldn't look at Marcos, not really, and it was absolutely offered begrudgingly, but he'd done it anyway.

Evander could absolutely indulge in a good sulk. Marcos had seen it for himself on many occasions. But Evander wasn't stupid, and not cooperating with inclement weather on the way would be the height of stupidity.

"A hot meal on a cold day like today? With snow coming?" Marcos looked up to the sky—a dark, ominous gray that boded ill. "It will definitely not go amiss."

"Come, let's eat before we finish settling in," Evander said, gesturing towards the pot. "If you could grab it."

Marcos did, ignoring the singe of the burn on the tips of his fingers. He'd heal quickly, he always did, and there were much more pressing matters to worry about. He settled the pot between them on a nest of blankets as Evander revealed what he'd been working on. A roughly carved spoon.

"It's not perfect," Evander said apologetically, "but I think it will do." He handed it to Marcos, who was impressed.

"What about for you?" Marcos asked.

Evander shot him a surprising grin. Was he not so angry after all? Or had he forgotten how furious he was supposed to be? Marcos wasn't sure. "I made my own," he admitted, lifting up a second spoon. Still roughly carved but it would be enough to scoop up the hot broth. "I thought it might be easier."

"Than sharing when you're so angry with me?" Marcos stated. "Absolutely."

Evander shot him a glare. "I . . ."

"Are angry with me," Marcos finished for him dryly. "I know."

"It's just . . ." Evander hesitated again. "You should have told me about Vanya."

"You'd have been angry with me then, or angry with me now." He scooped up some broth and lifted it to his lips. "I don't see much of a difference."

Evander grumbled something under his breath, but didn't say anything else as they ate, methodically and quickly.

The soup wasn't much—just some dark greens and grasses that Evander had found tucked here and there between the trees, and the dried meat, reconstituted, but it was hot and filling.

"I must finish," Marcos said, getting to his feet as he watched the first snowflakes begin to fall. "We must be settled in before it starts in earnest."

Evander nodded but didn't say anything.

When Marcos finished securing the horses, and brought the fur cloak over, Evander had covered the makeshift pot with a thatch of leaves he'd woven together, and he'd half buried it to keep it warm. "The rest for breakfast," he explained, when Marcos had glanced over at what he'd done.

"I'm sure we'll be glad of it," Marcos said. He extended the fur. "The temperature is dropping, rapidly. I can feel it. Put this on, and get settled in for the night."

"What about you?" Evander questioned.

"What about me?"

"How will you stay warm?"

"I'll be fine," Marcos said gruffly.

"No," Evander argued. "No, you will come in here with me, and we'll bundle up together."

Marcos opened his mouth to remind him that it wasn't a good idea, considering how annoyed he was with him, but before he could, Evander snapped out, "I might be angry at you, but at the same time, I don't want you to freeze to death. Come on, be reasonable."

"Well, when you put it that way," Marcos muttered under his breath and settled down, his own cloak billowing around him as he sat down under the shelter.

He kept his distance from Evander though, because he wasn't going to be stupid enough to push himself into his space—even though with the snow coming down harder and the temperature dropping, the best tactic would have been to press their bodies together for warmth.

But Marcos would rather freeze than touch Evander when he didn't want to be touched.

They sat like that for a bit of time. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour. Marcos reached down, almost instinctively, for the knife he usually kept in his boot, wanting the familiar feel of it in his hand to ground him. It could always use a cleaning and sharpening, and with his sharp eyesight, he could still see well enough in the dark to use it as a distraction.

But he couldn't.

His fingers closed around nothing and he remembered a moment too late that the knife had claimed Evander, and it was his now.

Maybe it was always his, just like you, and you're both fucked, Marcos thought bitterly.

He'd believed that nothing could possibly be worse than never having Evander, even though he'd gotten used to the idea over the last few hundreds of years. But no, he'd been utterly wrong.

Because it was so much worse to experience a taste of Evander, and never get another. He'd never even gotten to really revel in it, in him, and he shouldn't be disappointed, but he was.

There'd been so much he wanted to share, to experience, to savor, and now he likely never would.

Evander, more than any other Guardian or man he'd ever known, knew how to hold on to a grudge.

"I can feel you thinking over there, and it's not anything good," Evander said suddenly, surprising Marcos.

"You don't know that," Marcos mumbled.

Except that Evander probably did, because he knew everything, every deep, dark, ugly secret that people held close to their chests. The only reason he hadn't discovered any of Marcos' secrets before was because he hadn't wanted to know.

He'd been far happier not realizing how Marcos felt.

"I'm only surprised that you haven't suggested we get closer, for warmth," Evander said conversationally.

"I didn't want to impose," Marcos said roughly. Not letting himself think about what that would feel like. How much he'd enjoy it.

How Evander would likely tolerate it.

"Now you're sulking too, and it just isn't going to work. Only one of us can sulk at a time."

"I'm not aware of that particular rule." Marcos shouldn't feel bitter, but he did. Why was Evander always pushing like this? It was annoying. It also managed to be endearing, even though he didn't want it to be.

"Maybe we can't freeze to death, but we can be uncomfortable," Evander said breezily, like none of this was actually significant.

Marcos' fingers tightened into his cloak, and then he realized, suddenly, that Evander was doing what he always did.

Pretending that none of this mattered, in an attempt to hide just how much it did.

"Fine," he said, giving in. He scooted closer. "We can't have you being uncomfortable." Marcos' leg pressed against Evander's, and then his side, and then his shoulder. He knew none of this was going anywhere, but it felt . . .

You are not going to feel any of this, he instructed himself firmly, you are just going to keep each other warm.

But then Evander lay down, curled up, and reached over, tugging him down with him, and Marcos nearly protested but then he sighed, deciding there was no point in protesting any longer.

It was easy—far too easy—to pull Evander that last inch, and settle him right against him, his bigger body curled around his much smaller one.

Now he'd really need to not feel a thing, because if he did, it wouldn't matter how cold it was, he was going to want, and that was a shortcut to getting hard.

Marcos focused on keeping his breaths deep and even, when suddenly Evander wiggled against him.

That was impossible not to feel. Evander's curves rubbing against his . . .

Marcos heard his own sharp intake of breath.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Just trying to get comfortable," Evander said, and the faux innocence in his tone made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing: playing with fire.

Evander might not have spent a lot of the last few hundreds of years indulging in pleasurable pursuits, but he was not naive.

"Well, get comfortable, then," Marcos muttered as Evander wiggled again.

"You feel very comfortable, very warm," Evander said. "I didn't know . . ."

But he wasn't stupid, he'd have to have at least guessed.

"Go to sleep," Marcos said sharply. Hoping that Evander would leave it alone. Knowing he wouldn't.

Evander's hand tucked into the front of his tunic, slipping under the edge of his leather armor. Resting against the bare skin of his stomach. He hissed, and not because Evander's fingers were icy.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding apologetic at all, "my hands are cold."

"Your hands are freezing," Marcos complained.

"Maybe you can warm them up," Evander suggested slyly.

Marcos' self-control was legendary, but Evander had always shredded it like it simply didn't exist. When Evander's body curled even closer to his, his questing fingers tracing cold patterns on his abdomen, lower and then lower still, until he was only a breath away from where Marcos' cock was straining for him, he snapped.

"Did you hit your head?" he demanded to know. "Are you under some kind of spell?"

Evander's fingers stopped for a second, but then they kept going, tucking themselves into his breeches. "I was annoyed with you," he admitted, "but that doesn't mean I don't want to touch you. I like touching you. And I thought you liked me touching you."

Marcos groaned as he finally clasped his cock. His fingers were cold, and his length was hot and straining and pleasure surged through him.

"I do," he ground out, trying desperately not to buck against Evander's hand. It felt so good, he was hanging on by a single thread.

And like Evander knew it, he gripped him harder and gave an experimental twist.

Marcos couldn't stop it anymore; it was like his body had been possessed with someone with a lot less sense and a surplus of desire.

It was easy enough to turn Evander, until he was facing him. Evander curled his fingers around him and gave another slow, deliberate jerk and fire bloomed in his belly, racing through his veins, burning away the last of his reservations.

Evander's lips were cold, too, as he leaned in and kissed him, but his body was warm as his hands searched for the gaps in his cloak, tucking into his clothing, reveling in the feel of his skin.

"Please," Evander gasped into his mouth as he tilted his head, trying to get his tongue deeper into Marcos' mouth.

And who was Marcos to deny him?

His cock was as hard as his own, slippery at the tip and Marcos' thumb slipped through the moisture, smoothing his passage downward. Oh, he wanted to get his mouth on Evander, had craved the taste of him for ages, but this would have to do. For now.

Evander redoubled his efforts, every twist of his wrist making Marcos pant a little harder. It was just a simple handjob, it shouldn't have felt so good, but knowing it was Evander's hand, and Evander's mouth he was kissing, and that he was so into it, desperate little pleas falling from his lips into Marcos' mouth, pulled him right to the edge.

"Shouldn't feel so good," Evander slurred as Marcos tugged him right there with him.

"Yes," Marcos said resolutely, "it should," and the knowledge of it wrapped around him, right along with Evander's hand, and he convulsed as his orgasm roared through him.

He felt Evander's cock twitch in his hand and then he was coming too, groaning loudly, like he couldn't hold the sounds back.

Marcos' heartbeat slowed, and he realized that they hadn't thought this through very well.

"We . . . uh . . . made a mess," Evander said sheepishly, just as Marcos realized it, too.

But while he had no intention of ever discussing this with Evander, this wasn't the first time he'd been on the road, in a campaign, and indulged in a quick jerk-off session. He knew what they could do.

"Can you reach the waterskin with your other hand?" Marcos asked.

"Yes," Evander huffed out, and Marcos could see the flush on his cheeks growing deeper. He deposited the waterskin between them, and Marcos unscrewed the lid, wetting a corner of his cloak. He made quick work of himself, and then carefully cleaned off Evander as best as he could.

"Is that alright?" Marcos asked.

"Yes," Evander said, sounding surprised. "But your cloak . . ."

"Not a problem," Marcos said, and now that both hands were cleaned, he ripped off the corner, tossing it to the side. "Just a little shorter now."

Evander stared for a long second, and then threw his head back, laughing like he couldn't stop.

"What?" Marcos asked, puzzled. He hadn't thought it was particularly funny, but Evander kept laughing.

"You're just so resourceful," Evander said between gasps of laughter.

"I didn't think that was such a bad thing. Or such an amusing thing."

"It's . . ." Evander waved a hand. "I just . . . every time I think I have you put in the right box, you find a new box, and it should annoy me, but it . . . it occurs to me that maybe I should just stop trying to find a box and accept that I simply cannot quantify you."

"And that's funny?" Marcos was confused. But he was fairly certain, at least, that this was a good thing.

"I was so mad at you," Evander said, not really answering his question. "But you're an impossible person to stay angry at, you know?"

"Because of the box thing?"

Evander nodded, his laughter finally quieting, his eyes growing solemn. "I never know what to make of you, and then you open your mouth or make a suggestion or just look at me a certain way, and I know."

Marcos thought he actually understood.

There'd been that long winter, all those years ago, when he'd spent all those months puzzled and trying to place why he couldn't seem to look away from Evander, whenever he was in the room.

His heart stuttered, as he wondered if maybe it could be the same. Could Evander be feeling the same way he'd long felt about him?

Hope was terrifying, but it blossomed inside Marcos anyway.

"So does that mean that you're not angry with me over Vanya anymore?"

"I'm . . ." Evander hesitated. "I'm very angry at him. More than angry. Every time I think of him, I could burn him to ash, all over again. But you? It's different. I wish you'd told me the truth, because you had it, and I didn't. But no, I'm not angry with you anymore."

Marcos tucked Evander into him, even closer. Felt his body relax in his arms. "I wish I had, too. I'm sorry."

"That's enough," Evander said with a sigh, and they were still in that position when Evander finally drifted off to sleep.

Leaving Marcos awake and contemplating how everything between them was changing, and even if he wanted to stop it, he wasn't sure he could. It was out of his hands now.

Digging their way out of the snow was the hardest part of the return to Beaulieu.

After they'd warmed up the horses, and took to the road, the next two days passed quickly. They stopped briefly, when full dark had hit, to rest their mounts, but whatever spell the Mother had enchanted them with had given them incredible stamina and energy, and Marcos had marveled at it.

Evander could see the practical applications of such a charm, but he'd also not spent so many hundreds of years planning wars and battles and campaigns, so he'd found it rather less interesting.

Or at least he would have, if Marcos hadn't kept talking about it.

As his anger at the other Guardian had faded as they'd galloped towards Beaulieu, Evander had felt his interest blooming every time Marcos opened his mouth.

Had he always been so fascinating? Or was that a symptom of how much Evander liked touching him and having him touch him in return? He wasn't sure, but it felt like he was finally casting away the last of the prejudices that Vanya had infected him with.

Marcos was loyal and kind and skillful in battle and he was intelligent.

Just as intelligent as Evander himself.

In some regards, perhaps more so, which was not something he would be admitting to Marcos or anyone else anytime soon.

He had appearances to maintain, after all.

And as for appearances . . .

They were only a few leagues away from the castle proper, when Marcos slowed his horse to a slow trot.

"Why are we stopping?" Evander asked, pulling his horse even with Marcos'. "Is something wrong?" The journey back to Beaulieu had been shockingly uneventful. They'd run into plenty of people on the road, of course, but none of them had seemed even remotely suspicious.

If Deimos was keeping an eye on them . . . if Vanya had reported that Evander had regained his powers . . . he was doing nothing about it.

Yet.

"Nothing is wrong," Marcos said, but the heaviness in his words proved the opposite was true.

"Yet, I don't believe you," Evander retorted, unable to help teasing him a little bit.

It was just that Marcos was so delightful to tease and flirt with—all stoic and solemn and earnest, but Evander had discovered the right joke would make him smile, and it was like watching the sun rise at the Castle at the Top of the World. It blinded him, enchanted him.

Marcos sighed. "I was wondering if it's wise to return to Beaulieu as ourselves."

"As Marcos and Evander?" Evander had been so distracted by his growing fondness for Marcos that he hadn't given it any thought.

But Marcos had.

That's only because he's had so long to get used to his feelings. You're just reconciling yourself to them. You don't even know what they are yet.

"Nobody at the castle will recognize you as Evander, and I have never appeared on the surface as Marcos. Before now."

"I haven't ever been Evander, either, not since the very beginning," he admitted. A fact that he was fairly certain that Marcos already suspected. "But I . . ." He didn't want to return to the form of Rhys. And Evrard, he would cause questions. Too many questions.

It would be better to change himself back to Rhys.

But as much as he'd resisted returning to his original form, to becoming Evander again, he was loath to let it go.

"Just until Rory and Gray recognize you, and don't think you're a stranger," Marcos said reassuringly. "We don't want them to think we're threats."

It was logical. It made sense.

But Evander hated doing it. A second later, he stared at Marcos through Rhys' eyes.

Marcos had never touched this body. Never shown Rhys the kind of pleasure he'd shown Evander.

Maybe he didn't care about Rhys, not the way he cared about Evander.

But then the air around Marcos shimmered and he was suddenly, inexplicably Merleen again. "A disguise more than anything else," he said. And then he was reaching out, catching Evander's cheek in his palm and he was kissing him with enough passion that there was no way that Evander could doubt how he felt.

Not about Evander. Not about Rhys.

"I guess," Evander said breathlessly, after Marcos turned away, "that you don't mind Rhys, then."

Marcos turned towards him. "You're you, no matter what form you take. I see you, as a unicorn or as an eagle, or as Rhys, but it's always Evander who's looking back at me."

It made sense; Evander never felt like he was truly different, no matter what form he took, but while a change could be a breath of fresh air, he'd discovered that he really liked being Evander.

And part of that was the way that Marcos looked at him when he was.

"That's all well and good, but don't try to deny that you prefer me as Evander," he teased.

Marcos shrugged. Evander thought he might have caught a hint of a blush high on his cheekbones. "That was how I knew you for so long," he admitted. "Do you prefer Merleen . . . or Marcos?"

That was easy enough. Merleen had unsettled him—but he wasn't sure now if that had been because Merleen had been a disguise, and with his reduced powers, he hadn't quite been able to penetrate it, or if he'd actually been attracted to the disguise, and the man underneath it, and he hadn't known how to deal with that.

"Even when you're wearing this," Evander said, waving at his Merleen form, "you're still Marcos. Always Marcos."

He wasn't sure how he'd managed to fool him in the first place.

He did it by keeping his distance.

But there isn't any more distance between you. Not anymore.

"Then," Marcos said with a grin, "I think you have your answer."

"Tonight, we'll be ourselves again," Evander said, realizing he wasn't just making Marcos a promise, but himself.

"Yes," Marcos agreed, and nudged his horse, Evander following suit.

They galloped the rest of the way to Beaulieu, to the gate, where they slowed for the guard who stood watch over the entrance.

"Is that you, Rhys?" the guard asked, looking surprised. "Their Highnesses will be so pleased that you're back."

"Hello, Godrick," Evander said, and it was like falling back into a familiar shape—and a familiar voice, tinged now with the Ardglassian accent he'd always used as Rhys.

"And you too, Merleen," Godrick said with a smile, motioning to the other guards to raise the gate.

"Why was the gate closed?" Marcos asked, and Evander could tell from the frown on his face that he was concerned.

The gate normally wasn't shut during the day, even though there was always a rotating guard posted at the entrance, because Marthe was thorough and incessantly concerned about the kings' safety.

"There's been . . ." Godrick paused, like he wasn't sure what he should say. "Some weird things, I suppose? And you know the general, she likes to be cautious."

"Indeed she does," Marcos said, patting Godrick on the arm as they rode past him.

They exchanged a look once they were clear of the gate.

"Weird might be a way to explain that the sorcerers have emerged again," Evander said under his breath as they stopped next to the stables, and finally dismounted.

Marcos stretched his back. And even as Merleen, Evander had discovered that it was difficult to even focus when he moved. He was so deadly and so graceful, all in the same moment, and it was mesmerizing.

He wanted to get him alone, and get all his clothes off.

But first, they needed to see Rory and Gray, tell them the truth, and find out what Godrick had meant by weird.

Unfortunately Evander already knew that wouldn't be quick.

"You're back."

Evander turned and Anya was standing there, with a smile on her face, but there were shadows under her eyes, and she looked . . . uneasy.

Apprehension bloomed inside Evander. While he and Marcos had been traveling back to Beaulieu, had Deimos and his sorcerers already turned their attention towards the people that Evander cared about the most?

"We rode back as quickly as we could," Evander said.

Anya nodded. "Gray and Rory will want to see you," she said.

"We have much to discuss," Evander agreed.