It was a desolate land, dead bodies were everywhere. Swords and shields were on the floor as witnesses of the terrible carnage that happened. They searched between the cadavers with a stomach ache when they heard a cough. Zarkhaïm has been the first one to find him.
Jäwell was heavily wounded, lying under a dead soldier that he had no forces to push to free himself. A spear was piercing his chest, and he laughed out loud when he saw his brother joining Zarkhaïm.
"I almost had to wait for you, Miro. What took you so long?"
Miroïr was relieved. His brother was wounded but alive and that was the most important thing to him at the moment. Zarkhaïm placed a hand on Miroïr's shoulder.
"I see someone is alive and feeling well enough to tell stupid jokes," Zarkhaïm commented while smiling, relieved after thinking his friend had died.
They all released the pressure and laughed nervously. Zarkhaïm showed incredible strength, with one hand, he took out the dead body that was blocking Jäwell before carrying him on his shoulder. Miroïr was impressed, he never saw Zarkhaïm using his pure force. They returned to the camp in no time. Zarkhaïm placed Jäwell in his bed in his usual delicateness, almost throwing him. He took out the spear and a tear fell from Jäwell's eyes with the pain. Jäwell commented before bursting out laughing with the hole in his chest.
"Ooh, the big splinter!"
"Shut up, you're almost dead," answered Zarkhaïm with a grin.
Miroïr had never been on the battlefield with them and he was surprised to see that Jäwell was serene although his wound was imposing and would not allow him to return to combat for several months. The mage did not understand why his brother was smiling and joking around. He knew Jäwell well, and he was impulsive and impatient. Jäwell liked to live dangerously, and Miroïr had always thought that his brother never came back wounded because he was lucky, but he understood that it was something else entirely when he saw Zarkhaïm piercing his own wrist with two powerful canines that suddenly appeared from nowhere into his mouth.
Zarkhaïm's blood flowed into Jäwell's mouth. It was so natural for them that it was easy to understand that they had already done this more than once.
Miroïr watched the scene with wonderment, he specialized in magic and forgotten creatures and even if he knew Zarkhaïm was not human, he would never have imagined this. In a few seconds, Jäwell's wound was healed and he didn't even have a scar. Jäwell fell asleep without saying another word, acting no more than if he was intoxicated with alcohol.
Zarkhaïm covered his arm, turned himself, and left the tent like thunder. As he passed next to Miroïr he barely took the time to explain with a hoarse voice, "He will awake tomorrow as if nothing happened. He is safe now."
Miroïr looked at him leaving without adding a word, he checked his brother and he could see that he was only asleep. His temperature, chest, and colors were normal, everything was fine. Miroïr was relieved, but the situation was way too odd. He decided to hurry up outside, and as saw the royal tent, he rushed inside. Zarkhaïm was in a terrible condition. His hair covered his face, his breathing was heavy and he was panting, standing in the middle of the room. Miroïr didn't know what happened, as he tried to talk, he realized his voice was trembling, and he thought that he probably did something wrong. Miroïr was eaten by guilt and concern.
"I am sorry Zarkhaïm. Thank you for your help," he barely managed to say.
Zarkhaïm took care to turn his face in the direction opposite of the entrance, hiding behind his hair, but Miroïr came closer. The mage just took his shoulder and turned him with great care.
Miroïr discovered his true nature at this moment. The charming man was looking like a beast. His eyes transformed from a beautiful dark deep color to a sparkling bloody red. Wrinkles were present all around his face, he was marked by the years, the sadness, and the many wars he witnessed, but the most impressive were these two enormous fangs worthy of the greatest predators. Zarkhaïm's hands were also different. Miroïr noticed that his nails had become extremely sharp silver claws.
The mage raised his hand slowly and caressed Zarkhaïm's face tenderly. He couldn't hide the fact that he was surprised but, unlike the king had thought, Miroïr was not scared or disgusted by him, he was admiring him. Never, in the world, he had imagined a being like him. Miroïr touched his face with the tip of his fingers, exploring every wrinkle of Zarkhaïm's face, wandering on his skin and discovering the cold sensation of death. He was in awe in front of Zarkhaïm and his true self.
.
"Why do you hide?" Miroïr whispered in a deep breath.
Zarkhaïm swallowed, he had a severe expression, watching everywhere else trying to avoid Miroïr's glare. The mage smiled at him, bringing his face closer gently until his lips were brought to his ear.
"Thank you for saving my brother."
At this moment, Miroïr could understand Zarkhaïm better than anybody else. He was an albino in a world where differences were rejected. He was ill and weak all his life in a place where only the strongest survive. He had philosophy and thoughts when only the physical force mattered. He was a mage when the population didn't believe in magic, he was hunted for being different and his mother died defending him. Without his brother, Miroïr would have never kept for so long.
Miroïr didn't insist and was about to leave the king alone as he wanted when Zarkhaïm caught him and embraced him strongly while whispering.
"Don't leave me."
Miroïr found himself in Zarkhaïm's arms in the blink of an eye once again. He couldn't help but admire him, his heart beating faster and faster as he felt Zarkhaïm's cold arms around him. The king stepped forward and delicately kissed his lips. Miroïr had been waiting for this for a very long time without knowing it. It was a revelation of what he needed in his life, a sensation like none else. He pressed himself against Zarkhaïm, feeling his powerful fangs behind his skin.
This was the true nature of Zarkhaïm, the creature of the night hidden behind the handsome ruler. Wounded and bruised by the centuries. The mage saw him as he was, honest and without artifice.
Miroïr let himself go completely into Zarkhaïm's arms, tightening the embrace they shared. The world around them no longer existed and they were lost in this moment of intimacy.
He ran his hand over Zarkhaïm's cheek and gently caressed his skin, while Zarkhaïm's grip strengthened behind Miroïr's back, pulling their bodies ever tighter. Their kiss lasted just a few minutes but seemed like an eternity.
Zarkhaïm snuggled into Miroïr's neck. These were the most important minutes of his long life. There were no barriers anymore, and they exchanged gentle caresses while exploring their bodies without any restraint dictated by social conventions. Zarkhaïm lifted Miroïr and carried him to the bed beside them before slowly helping him undress.
Miroïr had never dared to show his pale fragile body to anyone, not even Jäwell, and Zarkhaïm sensed it. The king stopped what he was doing and tenderly ran his fingers through Miroïr's long white hair.
Zarkhaïm's trembling voice echoed in Miroïr's mind and his breath was deep.
"I've already waited for you so long, I'll wait until you're ready."
Miroïr looked up at him, his eyes full of awe for his king. As Zarkhaïm took a bit of distance to let Miroïr breathe, the mage was seized by an impulse. If they didn't dare admit their feelings to each other out of prudery, that didn't make them any less powerful.
Miroïr began to caress Zarkhaïm in a much more intimate way, reinforcing an erection that was already difficult to contain.
Miroïr smiled at him, maintaining his gaze, and his lips formed the words Zarkhaïm didn't dare to dream.
"I am ready."