12. Knife’s Edge

The house had changed again.

After the birth of Elena, Evander, and Aleks Akti's second child, a girl they'd named Kelta, Azaiah and Nyx returned to their home by the river of the dead. She was a healthy baby with equally healthy lungs, and watching the way Nyx had smiled down at the baby, the catch in his voice when he'd greeted little Kelta in the old imperial dialect, was a memory Azaiah would cherish. While Azaiah's siblings and their immortal companions had become Nyx's family, it was nice to see that he had connections in the mortal realm, too. They, more than anything else, burned away the last vestiges of Glaive from Nyx's soul, and hearing the entire Akti clan call Nyx "uncle" was more than enough to keep Azaiah's own dark mirror firmly at bay.

Now they were back, with the river running dark and quiet beside their little house, and it was Nyx who stood with his hands hooked in his belt and tilted his head, frowning slightly. He still stood like a soldier, Azaiah thought. "It's happened again—the house. We've never had a hammock, have we?"

Azaiah shook his head, feeling the weight of his scythe vanish from his back, a sure sign his duties were complete for the moment. The hammock was simple, big enough for two, and strung up between two trees that looked very much like the pine trees in Lukos. "No. Perhaps it was Aleks." His ferryman and future successor liked to do that sometimes. He would leave little gifts for Azaiah and Nyx, sometimes useful, sometimes comical, sometimes both.

"Maybe," Nyx said, tumbling into the ropes with a soft laugh. "I forgot how much I liked these." He maneuvered about in the hammock, then put his muscular arms over his head and waggled his eyebrows at Azaiah. "Want to join me, beautiful? There's plenty of room."

Azaiah knew his siblings sometimes thought of Nyx as a quiet, stern man who never smiled and took his duties as Azaiah's Grief very seriously…and that was true, to a point. Nyx was reserved around Azaiah's loud, colorful family, but he'd always been that way, even back when he'd worn the armor of a soldier and fought under a banner most had now forgotten.. Nyx was perfectly able to smile and be jovial when the mood struck, as it often did when they were at home. He'd told Azaiah that it was easy to be happy here; it was the one place where all his memories were good.

Azaiah smiled at him, then climbed a bit hesitantly into the hammock, though it held plenty of room and only swayed a bit under his added weight. That didn't make it entirely comfortable, though, as Azaiah was taller than Nyx and had to shift a bit to find a position that wasn't terribly awkward.

Nyx laughed. "Death in a hammock. Who would have thought? We should ask Cillian to paint you."

"Hmm." Azaiah pushed his long, silver-white hair out of his eyes and tried to look as dignified as possible. "Cillian is a dancer, you realize, not a painter."

"He's the god of art. Surely he can figure something out. If not, I'll take an interpretive dance. In fact, I think that'd be better." Nyx swung a leg over the side of the hammock when they were both settled side by side, and gave a little push to make the hammock start rocking gently.

"My brother hates these," Azaiah said, though he found the sensation was actually quite pleasant.

"Arwyn? You'd think a former pirate would appreciate a well-made hammock."

"Oh, Arwyn probably wouldn't like them, but that's because he prefers comfort—silk sheets, down pillows, that sort of thing." Azaiah settled so his head was on Nyx's shoulder, as Nyx continued to rock them with his foot. "Leviathan, that's who I meant. He says it's too much like a fish caught in a net."

"The Tempest caught in a hammock," Nyx said, smiling over at Azaiah. "Now there's a painting I'd like to see. It'd have to be a bigger hammock, if he were a dragon, and maybe a few more trees, too."

Azaiah gave a soft laugh and turned his head, and Nyx kissed him there as they relaxed under a sky of distant stars, though neither of them were ever sure if they were stars, or souls, or something else entirely. Azaiah thought perhaps they were stars that had burned out in the heavens, souls of a different kind showing up here, where all things ended and began again.

It was lovely, really, that there were still mysteries left to ponder, even for the god of death and his companion.

The hammock wasn't the only thing the house had produced, it seemed. The bed was the same—Nyx was fond of it, and he was the only one of them who liked to sleep—but there were other small changes. Some potted plants had appeared on the windowsill and a terra cotta pot with a cactus, reminiscent of the ones they'd seen just recently in Arktos. There wasn't a kitchen, but a small alcove with a simple wooden table on which they played Winter, a tea set for when the mood struck, and a hearth where a fire burned perpetually bright and at just the right temperature.

Beyond the alcove, where there used to be a wall, two steps led down to a brand new area, a room with an entire wall of windows that looked out onto the river, with a large tree inked in stark black on a white wall on the opposite side. It was the tree from d'Hiver under which they'd made their companion's vow, which now flowered in the spring, just like the others in the grove. This illustration, however, was the tree as it had appeared when they'd made their vow, barren branches with only a single red bloom atop the highest, trembling and so very close to falling.

Beneath the mural was a piece of furniture somewhere between a fainting couch and a proper bed, with a small table next to it, on which were several knives and soft cuffs to be used on the restraints cleverly hidden in the design of the couch.

Nyx picked up one of the knives, a thin, silver blade, and arched his eyebrows. "Is this a gift from Arwyn?"

Azaiah shook his head. "No. My brother has never been here. No one has but you and Aleks."

Nyx played with the blade, light glinting off its surface. He frowned. "I don't like to think about how lonely you were, before me."

Touched, Azaiah lay a careful hand on Nyx's shoulder. "Lonely, but not always unhappy, not here, anyway. Even in the long years of our separation, this place has always been a solace, even if only for my own grief."

"Now it's going to be a solace where you're happy, and not alone. Never again. Your grief is here, but that's me." Nyx's voice rang with dominance, and Azaiah gave a little shiver. Nyx's dominance was always present, even here, but he rarely bothered using it. Azaiah never minded it, in fact he quite liked it when Nyx used it, though he understood why Nyx was often hesitant to do so, when he'd spent too long using it for violence.

Nyx put the knife down and picked up another, studying it. There was a brief flash of revulsion on his features that he wasn't quite quick enough to hide. "I don't know why the house thinks we want a hammock and a torture chamber."

"I do like the mural," Azaiah said, a bit hesitantly, because nothing about the soft cushions on the couch resembled a torture chamber. "And, ah, the placement of that bed by the tree reminds me of the altar where I was sacrificed."

Nyx didn't bother to hide his flinch this time. "You say that so calmly."

"It was over a millennia ago, Nyx," Azaiah pointed out, smiling. "And it was never an unpleasant memory. I have told you that I bared my throat willingly, and I meant it."

"Sure. Doesn't mean you want to play with knives just because you–" He stopped. "Azaiah."

"Yes?" Azaiah did love when Nyx said his name, firm and with a touch of dominance. It made Azaiah want to kneel for him, and he savored the desire to sink to his knees.

"Doyou want to play with knives?" Nyx studied him, gaze sharp, focused—still a general, if he needed to be.

He didn't need to, and Azaiah would never ask that of him—even if he liked to think about it sometimes, Nyx running a knife over his body, so careful and precise. It wouldn't bring Azaiah any physical pain, but the idea that it would cause Nyx any mental anguish in relating it to his past meant that Azaiah would never ask for it.

Apparently, the house had decided to ask for him.

"Azaiah," Nyx said, his voice firm. "Do you?"

Azaiah couldn't lie to Nyx, regardless if he were using his dominance or not. "I, ah. Perhaps have thought of it a time or two. You're very skilled with them."

Nyx was staring at him. "I was good at torturing people with them, Azaiah. It wasn't a quick draw of a blade across the throat. I took them apart."

The guilt and shame in his voice made Azaiah ache. He went forward and took Nyx in his arms, kissing him. "I know you did, my beloved. I know why."

"How could you even want that?" Nyx asked, drawing away, looking at him with a searching expression. "There's a difference between your kindness and compassion to the worst murderers and thieves, and wanting the man you love to hurt you like he used to hurt so many others."

"Nyx," Azaiah said quietly, taking Nyx's hand in his and bringing it up to his mouth, kissing his scarred knuckles gently. "You can't hurt me, especially here. Remember how it felt when we came here after making our bond, and I took you with the lightning from my storm?"

Nyx inhaled softly. "I could live to be a thousand and never forget that."

Azaiah smiled wryly. "I believe you may have already lived that long, my soldier."

Nyx snorted. "It's rude to comment on an immortal's age, you know."

"I'm older than you are," Azaiah reminded him. "I walked the world for some time, before your soul called to me."

Nyx drew him close and kissed him again. "Can you try and explain to me why you'd want this?"

Azaiah wasn't sure he could, really. "I told you before, my own mortal death was transcendent. It was the last time I felt pain—physical pain," he amended, because their years of long separation had been an agony of a different sort. "I don't feel it anymore, but the memory of it is…inspiring."

"Inspiring, he says." Nyx raked a hand through his short hair. "You were a submissive before you were Death."

It wasn't a question, but Azaiah answered anyway. "I was, yes. It was thought it made the sacrifice more amenable."

"It doesn't make you angry, that they did that to you for nothing? If your predecessor hadn't chosen you as her successor, you would have just been dead. You yourself told me that you couldn't stay your hand when the time comes, so what good is killing a healthy person going to do for the people left behind?"

"Nothing," Azaiah admitted. "But it was the custom, then, one I am glad has fallen out of favor. There's no need to hurry what is inevitable for all."

Nyx's serious expression eased into a smile. "Were you a masochist, too?"

Azaiah thought about that. "I don't know. I was never with anyone as a mortal. I knew that I was a submissive, but that was as far as my understanding of my alignment went."

Nyx turned from him and went back to the table, where somehow during the conversation, the other implements had turned to knives, as if the house was responding to both unspoken desires and uncertainties. "I was never a sadist," Nyx said, picking up each one in turn. "As a soldier, I used to think there was honor in killing. But I was young, idealistic, even if I would have chafed at the word back then. And when I was Glaive…"

"You took no pleasure in it, I know that. You don't need to explain, Nyx. I would never want you to feel badly about what we do for pleasure."

Nyx turned and gave him a rueful smile. "You really are the kindest god of all, Azaiah. If this house is connected to you and not me, then the knives are here because you want them."

Nyx's gaze was sharp despite his smile, and Azaiah lifted a shoulder. "I can't say the idea isn't arousing, but that isn't worth your discomfort or unhappiness. Those days are behind us. Just because the house provides doesn't make it a requirement."

"But do you want that? For me to use knives? Do you want to use them on me?"

Azaiah felt a pleasant little shiver, and he was sure Nyx could tell. "I would enjoy the sensation of you using them on me, I think, but I wouldn't want that if it made you unhappy or upset."

"We're talking in circles. We should be honest about what we want, with each other and ourselves." Nyx gave a soft laugh. "Your brother Arwyn wouldn't have this problem."

"Likely not," Azaiah agreed. "Desire is his realm, after all, and I don't think he's ever felt shame in anything he wants, especially with Declan. But you are right. We should be honest, so I will answer your question. Yes, I would like to bare myself to you and the knife, but only if you enjoyed it. That matters more than a fantasy, Nyx."

Nyx picked up the knife again, running fingers over the blade. "A fantasy."

"Well, yes. You can't hurt me here, but even if you could, I know that you wouldn't."

Something about that seemed to give Nyx pause. "Maybe it would help. I have dreams about it sometimes, what I did as Glaive. Once, the dream changed from me with some nameless unfortunate soul tied to a tree, and you on…a bed just like this one. You weren't screaming from the knife. You were begging me for it. So maybe this isn't just you. Maybe it's a way for me to banish those dreams for good."

Azaiah thought about that. Nyx still slept sometimes, for the pure enjoyment of rest, but Azaiah had no idea he'd suffered nightmares here. "It might have been Astra, or the house itself. It is an extension of my realm, and therefore, of me. It wants you to be happy just as I do."

"I suppose we could try," Nyx said, shoulders straightening. "We could always stop, if it was too much."

"We could," Azaiah agreed. "And we will."

Nyx nodded, seeming to come to some internal conclusion. "Your storm magic—the lightning you used on me, the first night we were together here. Can I do that?"

Azaiah squinted, considering how that might work. "I don't know if you can pull it from the storm, because I am the storm, but if I channeled it into the knife, then yes, I believe that would work. I think I might be able to share it with you, through a conduit."

Nyx smiled. "Then strip for me, beautiful, and let's see if we can't give me some better dreams."

"Always," Azaiah said, and while he could have simply wished his clothes away, he took his time stripping, slow and careful, enjoying the way Nyx watched him and the appreciation in his gaze as he stood naked before him. "I'm all yours."

* * *

Azaiah lay on the chaise, naked and beautiful and already hard, and Nyx couldn't breathe.

That wasn't unusual, when he was confronted with Azaiah like this. He doubted anyone could see such a sight and keep their breath—that elegant, tall, long-limbed form with the moon-pale skin smooth as marble, hair the color of snow, the soft green eyes and the simple red ribbon of a collar around his neck. But there was something else beneath Nyx's inability to find his breath, and he knew what it was. It was the knife in his hand, the weight of it, sickeningly familiar in a way that he would have thought might have faded by now.

He'd been Glaive two, three, four times as long as he'd been Nyx, and it was hard to come to terms with that, given the life he now led. He wanted to say that being Azaiah's Grief suited him far more than being Death's Glaive, but it was hard to forget all those years of Azaiah's dark mirror laughing softly on those occasions he'd shown up to torment Nyx with what he'd never thought he could have again, whispering you'll never be anything but this, my Butcher. Nyx's hands covered in blood, screams echoing like waves on a shore, a man with Azaiah's face but a cold, black void where a heart should be.

There were no screams, no menacing whispers or dark laughter here, just Azaiah spread out beautiful and waiting, smiling so sweetly in anticipation. When Nyx reached for the red ribbon and pulled it off, Azaiah shivered from the slide of silk against his skin, arching slightly and his cock stirring just from that. Sensation was one of Azaiah's favorite things, and Nyx wasn't sure if Azaiah could go under like a mortal submissive, but he was fairly sure he'd nearly put him there once simply by combing his hair. Astra, who was submissive only during daylight hours and only for Cillian, had once confessed the same. Gods and their hair, who knew?

The knife felt heavy in his hand, and there was a faint electric tingle as Azaiah did whatever strange magic allowed lightning to sink into the blade. Nyx stood over him, breathless and afraid of what would happen when he touched Azaiah with it—would it be worse if he hated every second of this, or if he liked it? What would that say about him, if he enjoyed doing to the man he loved what he'd done to so many others? If he'd ever wanted to use a knife on Azaiah, it hadn't been the Lord of Storms who lay prone and bound for the blade, but the dark mirror who tormented Nyx with what he could no longer have.

"You are thinking too much, my soldier," Azaiah murmured, idly reaching down to play with his cock. "Put the knife away and take me, if you'd rather."

Nyx gave a slight shake of his head. His dominance was a softer thing here, but it was still present, and it rebelled at Azaiah trying to top him from the bottom—though of course he wasn't, he was simply being conscientious about Nyx's internal angst. They had spent far too long caught up in that, hadn't they? If this banished those last vestiges, if Azaiah enjoyed it, there should be no problem. The darkness here was a comfort, not a torment.

"No, I want to do this." For you. And that was the difference, wasn't it? Azaiah wanted this. If he concentrated on that, that the sensation was bringing Azaiah pleasure, it would have to drive the last vestiges of those memories from Nyx's mind. The house must have known. Azaiah must have known somehow, or how would this all have come to pass?

Nyx placed the blade on Azaiah's shoulder, lightly drawing it down over his heart. His own thumped hard in his chest as fear and desire shivered through him at the sound Azaiah made at the touch of the knife on his skin, light with the slight electric spark of magic. Determination urged him onward, tracing the blade over Azaiah's firm stomach and down to his thighs. Azaiah's cock was hard on his stomach, and Nyx said in a gruff voice, "Put your hands above your head, cross them at the wrist." He didn't want to use cuffs or restraints, even though the house had provided them; it seemed a bit too close to what he'd done before.

Azaiah did, almost before the words were out of Nyx's mouth. Heat curled low in Nyx's belly as his dominance rose in response, and he gave a slight nod. "Good. Gods, you're so beautiful, I can't believe you're mine."

"I think the same of you," Azaiah murmured, which seemed impossible to Nyx, battle-scarred in more ways than one. "You can—You needn't be so light with the blade, Nyx."

Nyx raised a brow at him. "When I want your instruction, I'll ask for it."

Azaiah smiled, eyes sliding half-closed. "Of course, yes. Do as you like to me."

He shook his head, amused despite himself. Azaiah's submission was second to his godhood, and as kind-hearted as he was, he still was a god. He wasn't quite as bossy as his brother the Tempest, but perhaps only in a quieter, less chaotic way. Nyx didn't mind. It kept things interesting.

Just for the attempt at domming him, though, Nyx took his time tracing the knife over every inch of Azaiah's gorgeous body. The spark was stronger the more pressure he applied, but he kept it light as he traced the insides of Azaiah's thighs, down his long legs, even up the arches of his feet. The way Azaiah gasped and squirmed without removing his arms from above his head made Nyx's own cock stir, and that helped drive the darker thoughts and memories even further from his mind.

"This was a good idea," Nyx said, as he carefully, carefully, drew the blade up Azaiah's cock. It wouldn't have cut a human, but a human probably would have stayed far more still and not tried to arch up toward the blade. "I think maybe you were a masochist." He gave Azaiah's thigh a light smack with his other hand, and felt a jolt of lightning sing through him and spark, the scent of ozone permeating the air. "I thought that was just the knife."

Azaiah looked up at him through his lashes. "The lightning does what it wants, Nyx."

"Uh-huh. I think, sometimes, in your own special way…" Nyx gently traced Azaiah's full mouth with the blade, "you're as much a brat as your brother Astra, and as greedy for pleasure as your brother Arwyn."

Azaiah licked the knife, and Nyx nearly dropped it in surprise.

And oh, but now—now it felt like a challenge.

Despite feeling far more comfortable, Nyx still avoided tracing the blade over the scar on Azaiah's throat. He wasn't sure if he were avoiding it as a tease or because it made him uncomfortable, and until he knew which, he wouldn't do it. Azaiah could tell him over and over how he'd smiled when he'd bared his throat for the sacrificial blade, but that didn't mean Nyx liked the idea of it. Though he wouldn't have had Azaiah, would he, if that hadn't happened? Or would they have met as mortals reborn, like Ares and their long-lost love?

Thoughts for another time, perhaps, as Nyx was far more interested in the way Azaiah writhed beneath the tip of the blade as Nyx traced his nipples, the corded muscles of Azaiah's abdomen, the soft skin of his balls and sensitive inner thighs. "Widen your legs," he ordered, and there was a rush of relief as he realized he felt more like Nyx the military commander than Glaive the Butcher.

Azaiah did so, and Nyx dared to increase the knife's pressure even more. The spark of electric magic was a violet flash, and this time, Azaiah's skin did break beneath the blade. That gave him a pause, but there was no blood, and the wound vanished almost immediately.

"Ah," Azaiah moaned, head tilting back. "Oh, that— Yes, please, more–"

"You're already begging, are you?" Nyx did the same thing on Azaiah's other thigh, thrilling at the response it earned. "I can feel it, you know, the spark of the storm when the blade goes deeper."

"Do you like it?" Azaiah's voice was breathless and lovely, fingers curling into his palms above his head. "Feeling the storm?"

Nyx leaned down and kissed him, then bit lightly at his lower lip. "You're the storm. When don't I like feeling you?"

"So poetic, who would have known," Azaiah murmured, against his mouth.

Nyx bit him again, a little harder. "No one—just as no one would believe this is your version of backtalk." He leaned back, then used the knife to draw the shape of a flower over Azaiah's heart, similar to the tattoo that had become Nyx's companion bond. He let himself push hard enough to see the skin turn red for just a moment, lightning dancing between them and over Azaiah's skin. Azaiah was breathing fast and loud, and Nyx couldn't remember why he'd been reluctant to try this in the first place.

His eyes flickered to the scar, but he moved the knife down again, alternating lighter touches with deeper cuts. No memories of screams assailed him, no remembered scent of blood, and the only begging happening was Azaiah asking for harder, deeper, please, Nyx, please let me feel it.

My lord of storms, Nyx thought, as he drew the blade hard down Azaiah's inner thigh again so that spots of blood appeared in the wake of the knife before fading completely, chasing away my own dark skies. He felt a rush of sudden emotion, tears pricking the back of his eyes as Azaiah writhed beneath him, lost to pleasure and sensation, the air thick with petrichor and desire.

"Thank you," Nyx said, though it didn't seem like nearly enough. He wasn't a poet, and he didn't think he'd ever find the right words. Instead, he moved to place the tip of the knife under Azaiah's chin, tilting it up as much as he could. "You were right. I needed this. I think we both did."

Azaiah's only answer was a soft moan. Nyx took a long, deep breath, and then placed the tip of the blade on the far edge of the scar on Azaiah's neck. "I see why Death wanted you, if this is how you looked on the altar."

Azaiah's eyes were closed, but white, bright light seeped from beneath his closed lids, spilling like starlight down his pale cheeks. He smiled.

"I love you." Nyx drew the tip of the knife across his throat, hard enough that it would have killed him, were Azaiah mortal, the same way he'd killed people before as Glaive. It was a claiming, this killing blow that wasn't. A promise.

It made Azaiah come.

He cried out, thunder rattling the small house and lightning following after the blade, licking over Azaiah's broken skin as Nyx took his time tracing the scar that had brought Azaiah his scythe and his boat, his little house on the shore of the river of time. It had brought him to Nyx, who might finally believe in the deepest, darkest part of himself that he deserved what he had, who he had.

When Nyx finally drew the knife away, the skin had healed, though Azaiah's scar remained. Azaiah himself was panting, boneless, his stomach sticky as his cock went soft, body twitching while the thunder slowly faded away, taking the scent of the storm with it.

"I feel a bit like a god right now, myself," Nyx said, and put the knife aside. "But you could be in trouble, coming without permission." Though he'd known that would happen, hadn't he? Azaiah liked Nyx to kiss him there, on his throat, through the silk ribbon he wore as a collar. Azaiah had known all along he would like it. He'd just been waiting for Nyx to figure it out.

Death really was patient.

Azaiah opened his eyes, and the bright white had mostly faded, though Nyx could see flickers of light like lightning in his spring-green eyes. He stretched like a contented cat. "That was wonderful. Would you like me to do it to you? You have so many scars, my soldier. I would like to make you feel pleasure for each one of them."

"You've already done that. And yes, you can, but not now." Nyx kissed him, long and sweet. "Now, I want to fuck you, and this time, you'll ask before I let you come."

"As you wish," Azaiah murmured, reaching a hand up to trace the mark on Nyx's chest, and Nyx noticed with pride that Azaiah's fingers were shaking slightly. Who else in the whole of the world could say they'd made the Lord of Storms tremble?

Azaiah reclined again, legs spread wantonly, already growing hard, and Nyx turned to put the knife on the table, at long last served its purpose. He fucked Azaiah there on the chaise, Azaiah's legs tight around his waist and his nails in Nyx's shoulders, reveling in the sensation of being deep inside Azaiah, of having him spread out beneath him, of Azaiah's deep, smooth voice begging please let me come on your cock, my love, Nyx, please, please.

He drew it out as long as he could, enjoying Azaiah's increasingly desperate pleas and maybe in this, he could be a sadist. He gave his permission right when he too was on the edge, and it was Azaiah going tight around his cock that pushed Nyx over it with him.

When the wave had passed, Nyx kissed Azaiah and moved off him, rolling on his back on a chaise that was now somehow, big enough for them both to lie side by side. He caught his breath, one of Azaiah's hands in his, and thought about how different his next dream of a knife would be.

They lay together there in their little house on the river, content and happy, and it would be some time before either of them noticed the mural on the wall—the barren tree now full of leaves and flowers, vibrant and green, alive.