It’s night in the camp of The Friends of Orthos.
After a defeat from the vampire baron Cortier, the Friends retreat into the misty woods of the barony. Here they rest and lick their wounds.
Siriel, Monkey and Talari rest uneasy in their bedrolls on the floor. Siriel, who suffered a nasty bite, fades in and out of feverish conscioussness. Talari nurses his sore head, having strained himself harnessing his ability to teleport. Monkey, who barely escaped Rykus’ rapier, has finally dozed off.
Balthazar and Icoriol sit together as one lump, the elf being cradled by the divines strong arms. Blood gushes from a two pinpricks in Icoriols neck that keep reopening, even after the supple touch of Balthazars healing hands.
He inspects the wound closer, Icoriols breath hitting the side of his face in great hot gasps.
“I see whats wrong with the wound.” he says with a voice as strong as the divine, sitting up to look the elf in the face. “Unholy magic. The vampires fangs must have infected your blood. You… only have a few minutes to live.” Icoriol looks at Balthazar with sorrow and fear. Baltahzar returns his look with one of grief and compassion. Despite the fact these friends are mere playthings, tools of the gods, he can’t help but feel something when he looks at the elf. He becomes keenly aware of his heart beating in his chest. He feels a valorous feeling, like he needs to do right, but also a nervous one.
“Wait.” he says. “My soul… it has energies of the divine… if I were to…” The angel leans down, like a doe taking a graceful sip from a pond, and places his mouth firmly on the elfs collar. He begins sucking, softly at first so not to cause undue pain, but as he feels the curse leave the elfs blood he begins extracting it with more force and fervor.
Balthazars divine soul shreds the curse to pieces. After a minute, the curse is removed. He sits up and looks at color returning to the elves face. Icoriol, panting, looks up at Balthazar. The full moon behind him creates an elegant glow around his cheeks. As an artisan, Icoriol can admire the perfection of his strong face. Each feature hand crafted by a master sculptor.
“Balthazar.” he says, in his low voice. “I thank you.” The two stare at each other, the elf cradled in the divines strong arms. “That… that felt…”
Balthazar nods, looking at the elf. He feels that human spark again. A connection forming. He notices, not for the first time, the elfs lips. His soft cheeks framed by a trimmed beard. The warm blood in his cheeks, an uncommon sight in the faewyld denizen. He feels himself begin to lean forward, ever so slightly, to move his face closer to the elf. But Icoriol leaps out of his lap and stands up, striding across the camp with a soft “No!”
Balthazar, too, stands up, following the elf with his eyes. Icoriol turns his body toward him, longing in his eyes.
“We mustn’t… the other would never understand. For the sake of the balance of The Friends of Orthos, we must… stop.” he casts his gaze toward the ground. His dissapointment is evident.
“Icoriol.” Balthazar says quietly. “𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖.”
Unable to ignore an order of the divine voice, Icoriol takes a few steps toward Balthazar. He does not stop momentum from carrying him the rest of the way. He stops just before the divines chest, looking up at him.
“Balthazar…”
“Shhh.” the divine whispers, “Icoriol… 𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕕 𝕞𝕖.”
The elf obeys, embracing the angel in a deep hug. His arms stretch around Balthazars broad shoulders, he feels his strong back, toned by battle.
“Icoriol.” Balthazar breathes. Icoriol looks up at the angel. This time Balthazar does not need to use the voice.
“Kiss me.”