A few days after Milot's 18th birthday, Dorian realized he was getting sick. It wasn't an ordinary cold or flu he was having, but something else, like the pounding headache one usually suffered with migraines. He knew the symptoms of this sickness and was able to take precautions. As soon as the cold sweat began to gather on his forehead and his muscles began to ache, he closed the curtains and dragged himself to bed. He switched off most of the lights because they hurt his eyes. The only light that illuminated the room was a small, dim yellow lamp on the furthest corner of his room.
When the muscle cramps began, he groaned and bit the corner of his pillow. It had been a while, a long, long while since this pain last tormented his body. He didn't know the reason why he sometimes got so sick and so suddenly. There was no doctor on this planet that could diagnose his illness. He visited a specialist after another but no one found anything wrong with his body, physically he was very healthy and strong. When one of the doctors suggested it might be psychosomatic, he went to see a psychiatrist. Eventually, he visited five different doctors, in five different continents, specialized in five different fields. None of them offered him a solution and finally, he accepted that these "phases" were part of his life and he just had to live through them somehow.
But living through them was pure agony.
If he'd remember his past like should have, he would know what this intense pain and the agonizing torment were signs of. The demon, that he had willingly given his body to, was feeding on him. It drew energy from his soul, draining his strength and his health temporarily to the verge of death. It was almost always careful because it knew that the death of this man also meant its own demise, but the longer it remained on the Plains, the more frequently it needed to feed and the greedier it became. It had been here seven hundred years already and the demon was starting to lose its patience. It would have gladly returned to its own world, but it could not do that on its own. For that, it needed two people. The boy who had just turned eighteen a couple of days ago. And this sick, weak man who was now lying on his bed, trashing from side to side and trying to keep his pain at bay by any means possible.
As the demon materialized from the black, thick fog into a shape of a man, Dorian, who was now nearly unconscious, had a sudden moment of recognition. But he was barely able to keep his eyes open and as the pain once again ravaged him, his body tensed and stretched up like an arc. He tore at the sheets, his fingers pale and hands trembling. Sweat was pouring down his face, his neck, his back.
(Breathe. Just try to breathe. That's all, that's all you can do right now.)
He passed out three or four hours later. His lips were chapped and his eyes drawn deep into his skull, enveloped in dark, deep circles. His ribcage shone through the thin, sweaty shirt and the veins and the bones protruded from his body like grotesque pieces of artwork. As he finally had a chance to rest, the demon pulled out a white handkerchief and theatrically wiped its lips. The meal wasn't spectacular and it greatly missed the banquets of its realm. But it kept the hunger away for a decade or so. It wasn't fully satiated, but it gave its victim some mercy and allowed him to rest. It knew if it feasted too eagerly on him, he might die and that would not go well with its plans. Being erased completely wasn't something it was looking forward to.
It turned its head when it heard footsteps. That was a completely unnecessary move because it didn't need to see or hear this person in order to know he had arrived. It smiled and it was a polite, welcoming smile like it saw someone it had longed to see all these years. The young man who had just turned eighteen and lost his parent's couple of days ago stood at the far end of the bed and looked at the weak, fragile man laying on it. The boy's eyes were filled with sadness and regret, determination and strength. Anger. He walked to the side of the bed, covered Dorian's exhausted body with warm blankets, sat down, and gently wiped the sweat off of the man's forehead. He sighed and placed Dorian's pale, cold hand under it.
"Hello to you too," the demon sitting in the armchair greeted.
"I know you have to feed, but don't kill him," Milot said. His voice was calm but commanding and the demon immediately recognized the tone. How often had he heard it during their negotiations? How often had it heard it nagging at him? Lecturing him? Hundreds of times? Thousands probably.
"Why would I kill my only way to get out of here?" the demon answered. Its voice was now also very low, very smooth and kind. Like molten butter on a warm toast.
"You're a demon, Roman," Milot frowned. "A death god. Do you think I forgot that? You are not stupid, but you are greedy and selfish."
"The pot calling the kettle black," Roman chuckled. "You don't have to be so hostile towards me. I'm not the bad guy here. I've been keeping him alive all this time as I promised, haven't I?"
"I know we agreed to this," Milot growled. "But if he dies, we will both be erased."
"I am aware of that," Roman said. "That's why he's alive."
"Barely," Milot sighed.
"Alive," Roman repeated. "If you'd just return his memories, he could take us back. I miss my home, Milot. I miss my cook. I want to eat something better. Why are you stalling?"
"I...I'm not," Milot stuttered and the lie slipped from his lips a little too easily. Roman knew it was a lie, but he loved this boy too much to cling on to such small details. He was a patient older brother after all who doted on his family. "It's not the right time. I have to wait. This body is still too young," Milot faded out.
"It's been seven hundred years," Roman said. "The longer we wait, the harder it is to get back. But I guess that doesn't matter to you, does it? As long as you get to be by his side, this is like a paradise to you." Roman chuckled. "Well, don't blame me if we dawdle too long."
"Don't act like you had no part in this!" Milot's eyes flashed with anger. "You lured Matilda with power and lust. Things would have ended differently if you'd left her alone."
"That little twerp is not as innocent as you think!" Roman said. "You always saw her as sweet and kind, the kind of a woman who'd never hurt anyone. But jealousy can be as poisonous as any venom. She was the one who reached out to me. Corrupted the whole tribe. Her own family. Because of her, you killed them all. If anything, you should have kept a closer eye on her."
"Yes, yes and you had nothing to do with it as always," Milot whispered.
"She surprised me," Roman muttered but refused to look at him. "She was too desperate to ignore. The wife of the Shaman, easily molded and shaped."
"We are both to blame" Milot lifted his eyes. "And since we made a deal, remember your part in it. When we get back, you leave him alone. I gave the rest of our tribe to you. Even Matilda. I allowed her into my realm and she's there right now, gathering more power for you. You get all that, more than you could ever hope for. But you're not allowed to have him."
"As if I'd even want him," Roman smiled. "It's interesting, isn't it? How even you and I, who have existed for over millennia, can still be fooled by a couple of mortals."
They were quiet for a while, both looking at the sleeping, pale man who moaned and restlessly tossed around. Milot placed his hand on top of his forehead and as he calmed down the rapid movements behind his eyelids ceased.
"One other thing. Stop calling him to your side," Roman ordered. "I know you miss him, I know you want him, but seriously, stop it. I need the energy to transport him back and forth like that and every time you do this, my hunger gets worse. And when it gets worse, this is where it leads to."
"I can't control it yet," Milot replied.
"You are a good liar, but not that good," Roman rolled his eyes. "Don't expect me to believe everything you say. And now that you have no one to hold you back, move somewhere close."
"They were my family!" Milot interrupted him. "My parents. Show some respect!"
"I'm your family," Roman reminded him. "Just because you were reborn as a mortal, don't forget what and who you really are. A Protector who abandoned his duties for something as fleeting as love. An emotion reserved for humans. You of all should be above such things."
"They were my family, more so than you ever were," Milot said and refused to look at him.
"I'm going to ignore that since you are still an emotional teenager," Roman smiled like an understanding father. "But I won't let you forget or discount me that easily."
"I figured as much," Milot sighed. He looked at the sleeping man for a moment longer, then stood up and stared straight at the demon who was still sitting casually in the cozy armchair. "We will still have to wait. I'll try to get here as soon as I can. You are...doing me a big favor, after all. In the meantime, I hope I can trust you enough so that you won't kill him in your greed."
"Of course you can trust me," Roman stood up and placed his hand softly on Milot's shoulder. "You might not like me, you may even deny my existence, but I'm here for you. I'm always your brother, whether we ever get back or be erased together."
"If that were to happen, you would just throw me under the bus and make a run for it," Milot pushed his hand away. "You don't have to act so virtuously in front of me. I know you, remember? You are a trickster, a demon despite your glorious outer appearance. You lure others and then stab them in their backs."
"And of course you never lured anyone in your life," Roman chuckled. "It's amusing how similar we really are. Matilda was chosen for him but before they even had a chance to fall in love, you already claimed his heart as your own."
"Just keep him alive and you will see your realm one day," Milot glanced at him. He could not look his dark brother straight in the eyes, because his words were true and right. And although he was willing to admit his greed to himself, admitting it to Roman was somehow much, much worse.
"I can hardly wait," Roman patted his back.