#anyway taking bets on the next installment which will involve either crying or fluff or both

[whimperwoods]

Arms of the Enemy (D&D Whump)

This is part 4.

Here are part 1, part 2 , and part 3.

Castor is a warlock, in service to the Great Old One and the Dark Emperor, in that order. Ed is a fighter, a knight and battle master in the service of the True King of Lumenea. They have always been enemies. In the space between the Old One and the Emperor, they might be able to become something else.

(Also, Castor is winging it and Ed is, as usual, recalcitrant. And emotional. It’s been a long day for both of them.)

tw: Gosh, probably something. Aftermath of torture. Mental mess. Ed is easily triggered and maybe paranoid and definitely having a traumatic experience. Physical anxiety symptoms? Yeah we’ll go with that. Physical symptoms of anxiety/trauma.

taglist: @redwingedwhump, @fanastywhump, @insanitywishes @bluebadgerwhump

***************

Ed was deeply, horrifyingly present in his own body, the last place in the world he wanted to be. His body was all he had left to him, the only thing he controlled at all, and he had to keep it breathing, had to keep it conscious, had to keep himself from crying, even as the pain and shame rolled through him in deep, unstoppable waves.

Castor the Black was talking, but the words came to him like he was underwater, like the mage was miles away, and they meant nothing. The mage’s hand carded softly through his hair, and Ed squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about that.

The touch felt good. Comforting. His attention kept falling back toward it, to get away from the pain, and he hated it. Hated it. Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t cry.

He was ashamed of himself, ashamed of lying here, ashamed of letting one of the enemy’s battle mages touch him like this. He should shrug away. Should fight back. The hand in his hair was the only good thing in his world, and he hated it, because it couldn’t be good at all. It wasn’t allowed to be, and he wasn’t allowed to like it.

Heat and cold swirled through him, shame and pain and, when he couldn’t bear to shut it out, comfort.

He had cried, already. He had cried until his body gave out, exhausted by the sobs, and part of him wanted to let go and allow it to happen again. Instead, he breathed, and breathed, and breathed, and kept his breaths steady even as his eyes began to leak tears, hoping that it meant something that he was quiet, this time.

*****

Sir Edmond’s breathing slowly settled, and Castor knew they should move, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he kept rambling softly, explaining his plan, such as it was, and hoping it was comforting.

“Don’t worry about the change in plans. My master said it would protect us, and like I said, I don’t think the healer’s kit will be missed, or even remembered. There’s no reason for them to look in the stables, not with all the horses accounted for. Not that you’d have been able to ride off on your own, but then, you couldn’t have gotten out on your own, so that hardly matters, either.”

He sighed. “I should move us. Better to hide, protection or not.”

Sir Edmond didn’t respond, still lying listless on the ground beside Castor.

Castor stopped stroking Sir Edmond’s hair and found as whole a patch of shoulder as he could to shake. “Did you hear me, Sir Edmond? I need to know you’re alright with moving. I need to know you won’t try to wriggle away from me. I don’t want to drop you.”

The knight hissed, though Castor couldn’t be sure if it was in pain or anger. He reached down and scooped up Sir Edmond’s hand, holding it in a way he hoped was reassuring. “Hey. I’m not - I know you don’t trust me. I know you have reasons not to. But I have to move you.”

For a moment, he considered thinking to Sir Edmond again, since at least when they spoke telepathically, they could both manage full sentences, but then he thought of the pain of being driven out and he didn’t.

“Just - squeeze my hand if it’s ok to move you. If you won’t try to hurt me or get me to drop you.”

*****

Ed held himself stiff. even as the tension of it hurt and tired him. He couldn’t let Castor the Black think he liked having his hand held, couldn’t let him think he wanted the comfort of that any more than he could let him think he liked having his hair combed through.

He was forcing himself to listen, now, everything the mage said clicking into place and becoming understandable only with a moment’s delay.

He didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t squeeze the mage’s hand. Would they just stay here? There was only so long they could be outside in the open, but he didn’t know where he would be agreeing to go. He focused on breathing, on staying calm, on seeming to be in control of himself.

If they stayed here, they’d be caught eventually. If they were caught, he’d be back in the dungeon, where his captors hadn’t shown any more inclination toward a quick death than the mage had. He had already told them what they wanted to know, betrayed his comrades and his king in a moment of weakness, and whatever awaited him in the dungeon at least couldn’t make that any worse. But he hadn’t been strong enough to hold out, and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to go back there, to take the pain again, even if it meant getting away from Castor the Black’s sinister games.

His face grew hot. He could give himself over to the man holding his hand, or he could put himself back in the dungeons. To go back - to refuse to cooperate - it seemed more honorable. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. The thought of the dungeons made his breathing speed up, his heart pound, even as his mind skated instinctively away from it.

He couldn’t go back to the dungeon. He didn’t have a choice.

He closed his eyes and squeezed Castor the Black’s hand, knowing he was making a deal with the devil.

*****

Castor relaxed as soon as he felt Sir Edmond’s hand squeeze his, and squeezed gently back, acknowledging the answer. Good. Good. They were on the same page, as impossible as that still seemed if he thought about it too hard.

He let go of Sir Edmond’s hand and brushed the man’s hair off his forehead before getting to his feet to get a good look around them in the dark.

No one seemed to be coming, which was good. He’d been careful when he’d charmed the guards, been careful not to push too hard, not to say anything that would tell them definitively that he planned to take Sir Edmond with him, rather than just paying his old enemy an unsupervised visit. Maybe they wouldn’t look into the cell. Maybe they’d just return to their posts, assuming he’d roughed the knight up and left. But no, they would at least check to make sure he was gone. And then they’d find out that Sir Edmond was, too.

He closed his eyes and reached outward with his awareness, feeling for other minds and finding none within the admittedly limited range of his telepathy.

He squatted back down beside Sir Edmond and started packing up the little he’d taken out of the healer’s kit. “Alright,” he said quietly, “I can’t sense anyone coming. If we’re lucky, the guards will spend some time looking for you before they sound the alarm. They’re human, so until they call in someone else, their vision will be limited in the dark.”

Sir Edmond didn’t answer, but the knight’s half-dazed eyes met his, and that was good enough for the moment. Castor collected the healer’s kit, straightened up for one more glance toward the castle, and then scooped Sir Edmond up into his arms and tucked the hanging chain from Sir Edmond’s ankle out of the way so he couldn’t trip on it.

*****

Ed wrapped his arms around Castor the Black’s neck, clinging to him with what strength he had left, only to find that the man’s grip on him was surprisingly solid.

He tried to think about that, instead of the pain that jolted through him with every one of the mage’s steps, or the fact that he was being carried like a bride crossing her threshold, curling willingly into the man’s chest where he felt more secure.

Castor the Black was strong for a mage.

That was a problem. Or it could be, at any rate.

They moved more quickly than he’d expected, though the jolts meant he couldn’t focus on where they were going without also focusing on the pain, and he was surprised when they reached a building and Castor the Black carried him inside without hesitation.

He found himself inside a stable, one that looked shockingly normal, and whose horses were apparently unbothered by their presence.

Castor the Black carried him to the ladder that led to the hayloft, then stopped and looked up toward the loft itself. “Shit.”

Ed started shaking, his body responding to the sense that something was wrong even as his brain was still trying to make sense of being inside a place that felt so familiar. Things were falling into place, but it was hard to make sense of it, hard when his body hurt so badly, hard when he kept having emotions that muddied the water.

He shook, and clung tighter to Castor the Black, and hated it.

*****

Castor stared up at the hayloft, the weight of Sir Edmond pulling at his arms. “Ok,” he said softly, “Ok, so we’re not gonna make it up there. There’s an empty stall and we’ll just have to -”

He looked sideways. The block and tackle for hauling the hay up there would never do for getting Sir Edmond up there, and they’d never make it up the ladder if he tried to carry him.

“Yeah, we’ll just have to stay down here.”

Sir Edmond was shaking in his arms. Castor’s brow furrowed. He needed to move. He needed to get Sir Edmond somewhere safe and hidden, so he didn’t have to move him again.

He bit his lip, thinking for a moment, and then moved quickly toward the empty stall farthest back, toward the storeroom. It was a risk being closer to where the horsemaster slept, but he’d risked that once, and it was still less dangerous than someone coming in and happening on them before he could adjust to their entrance.

Setting the knight down was a relief, but instead of turning his face away, Sir Edmond stared back at him, his eyes confused, half-dazed, and locked intently into Castor’s. A shiver ran down Castor’s spine, and he knelt down, laying a hand on Sir Edmond’s forehead. He still didn’t seem feverish, and that still didn’t make sense, and Sir Edmond was still shaking.

“It’s ok,” he said, forcing himself not to break eye contact until the knight did. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be ok.”

*****

Castor the Black stared into Ed’s eyes, and Ed stared back. He hadn’t gotten an answer to why. Not really. He hadn’t even gotten an answer to what, not that he’d asked. And yet - they held eye contact, the mage staring back at him deeply, intently. Ed’s heart raced and his body shook, every part of him buzzing with the knowledge that something had gone wrong, that something had made the mage swear and change his mind, that whatever this was that he’d just given himself over to was every bit as dangerous as he’d feared.

“You’re gonna be ok,” the man whispered again.

Ed’s head spun. The eyes looking into his were an icy blue in color, but where he expected something cold and hard behind them, he found a soft, open gaze with something warm behind it. He hated it. It had to be a lie. And he’d fallen for it. He’d agreed.

He reached out and grabbed the mage’s sleeve to keep him from pulling away. Finally, the eye contact ended as the other man looked down at his wrist and Ed’s hand wrapped around it.

Ed couldn’t talk. Not the way he wanted to - the way he needed to. He gathered his strength, took a deep breath, and wheezed, “head.”

The ice-blue eyes looked confused, the eyebrows over them contracting. “Does your head hurt? I mean more than the rest?”

Ed grunted in frustration and tugged at the mage’s sleeve, pulling it toward the ground. “Talk,” he managed.

The eyes widened in comprehension and Ed relaxed, letting go of the bloody sweater sleeve.

Then Castor the Black was speaking in Ed’s head again, still half hunched over him, and Ed not to let his revulsion show.

“Is this what you meant?”

Ed fought not to insult the man and managed, narrowly. “Why are you so strong?” he asked, “I don’t understand. What are you doing with me?”

“Oh!” the mage answered, aloud. “Yeah, I’m not -” His voice showed up in Ed’s head again. “I’m a battlemage, but I’m not actually a wizard. It’s - people aren’t supposed to know, because they’re supposed to think my magic’s wide open and limitless and all that but - nobody’s is.”

Ed grunted, impatient.

“I’m not a wizard. What I am has its upsides and its downsides but it mostly just means I - uh - well, I don’t exactly hang out in the library. I train with everybody else.“

That made sense. It mostly made sense. It wasn’t the important part. “Why are we here?” he asked again, “What are you planning to do with me?”

The mage’s eyes were locked into his again, just as intent, and still softly, bewilderingly kind. “I don’t know,” he answered aloud, his voice soft. “I know that’s not the answer you want, but I don’t.”

*****

Castor’s heart raced as he made his admission, looking into Sir Edmond’s dark brown eyes as they started to clear, or at least to focus on his own better than they had before. “What now?” the knight asked, reaching up and grabbing his sleeve again.

Castor sighed. “Now we hunker down for the night and hope nobody finds us.”

Sir Edmond grunted, still displeased.

Castor closed his eyes, sighing. “I offered a look into my head before,” he said. “You won’t find a better answer. I saw what they were doing to you and I acted. I don’t have an answer for that. I can put you back, if you want. I can just let the guards think I wanted to hurt you, too, and pretend I did. Or you can trust me, and we can hide. That’s what now.“

Sir Edmond whined, an unexpected noise of distress, his hand squeezing tighter at Castor’s wrist.

Castor slid down onto his knees, giving up on this being a short conversation.

“I don’t understand,” Sir Edmond said into his mind, pushing again, not as sharply this time, and Castor could feel a deep anguish under the words, an anguish the knight was pushing at him just as hard as the words. “Something’s wrong. What aren’t you telling me?”

A lot of things were wrong. What had happened to Sir Edmond was wrong. Breaking out one of his biggest enemies on an impulse was wrong. Being out here instead of safe in his room. Not having the time he needed to properly clean the man’s wounds while they were next to fresh water. Sir Edmond’s persistent, infuriating stubbornness, and his own inability to be angry about it, to blame the man for putting every ounce of strength he could muster between the two of them and Castor’s goals.

He sighed. “I know. But I’m not - there’s not that much not to tell. We’re here. I can’t get you into the hayloft to hide, so we’re gonna have to make the best of it down here.”

There was another shove against his mind, just the anguish and confusion, without any words, and he wasn’t even sure Sir Edmond knew he was doing it.

He shoved back, trying to focus on the way he’d felt deciding he had to rescue the knight, the way he’d felt when Sir Edmond was unconscious and he could see the wounds he was cleaning in their full horror, the way he’d felt watching the knight grow calmer under his fingertips the way he’d calmed down himself as a boy, having his hair stroked.

“No.” The anguish was still there under Sir Edmond’s words, “I don’t understand. Why are you lying to me? I don’t have anything left. I know something is wrong. I feel it. Why are you making me feel like it’s not? Why are you trying to trick me? I don’t understand.”

Castor didn’t know how to answer. He pulled his wrist out of Sir Edmond’s hands. “I - I’ll explain tomorrow.” He should use his telepathy again, should try to push his honesty at Sir Edmond like the other man was pushing his anguish, but he couldn’t take it, and he stayed away from the knight’s mind, giving in to his own frustration. “We have to hide. And I need rest so I can hide us better tomorrow. Let me finish saving you, and I’ll explain tomorrow.”

The knight’s fingers scrabbled desperately at Castor’s ankles as he stepped away, but he didn’t stop - couldn’t stop. He had no answers. He had no answers and that was hardly something new, but right now - he scrubbed a hand over his face. Right now, it was late. Right now, he was tired. Right now, he couldn’t do anything but try to make the stall as comfortable as he could, and trust that his master meant it when it said it was protecting them.