Cole’s hand squeezed the back of his neck in confirmation, and he lingered just long enough to brush lips against Dominicus’ cheek before the feeling of his body’s nearness dissipated in the dark. Dominicus heard only the slightest shuffling as Cole passed on the plan, and finally, a sliver of light let them all find each other long enough to grasp hands, before being closed off again.
Cole was in the lead as they crept up the stony hall, all the way back to where the path split. They curled like a worm around the fork, Odhrán at the end with the lantern backing them into the rightward path, so their line still ‘faced’ the exit path, Dominicus at the head. Shuffling back to be well-hidden by the split, pressed against the wall, Cole broke away for a moment. Dominicus’s heart pounded unusually fast until he returned, hand searching out hand in the dark.
This time, Dominicus pulled Cole in, but for reasons unclear even to himself, instead of explaining his plan, Dominicus kissed him, before pushing him into second place in line.
Well, it was very dark. That was a good moment for it, wasn’t it? Anyway, Cole had kind of kissed him first, earlier, back in the little cavern. And nobody could see.
Each hand’s grip tightened on the others when the faint glow of distant light broke the shadows’ hold.
The Second Years’ were closer than the light made it seem, because the whisper that broke the quiet was as loud as if directed right into to each of their ears.
“Hsst!”
The light bobbed to a stop, then swept, low and slow, over the ground.
“I didn’t see that the first time we went past.”
“Well, it’s hidden, isn’t it? By the wall.”
There was a pause.
“There should be some light – it’s not that far.”
“I fuckin’ hate this place. It’s still creepy.”
“Maybe they’re not that dumb.”
There was an incredulous snort, but another pause.
“They would have signalled, up the other way, if they had caught them.”
Dominicus’ stomach slightly dropped when he heard a third voice break into this whispered conversation between two.
“I hope this isn’t a waste of fucking time. I’ve got a test tomorrow,” it yawned.
Three was a lot. There were six of the First Years, but surely they were expecting no more than five. The way the Second Years spoke suggested more than one waited at the entrance accessible from the Second Year dorms, which meant their numbers were, at the very least, supposed to be evenly matched. But with the differences in experience, in training, between First and Second Years – at even numbers, the Second Years outmatched the First Years considerably. If the odds were any worse than that, the First Years’ situation would be dire.
This made Dominicus very angry – and his hand hurt. Anger had tightened his grip, but that wasn’t why; it hurt because Cole had tightened his.
“We made them scared shitless of being caught. I bet they put out the light before they reached the cavern. It’s a good sign.”
“Dim the light,” came the order, and the rosy glow of the Second Years’ light dimmed. Apparently they hadn’t had time or access to a shuttered lantern, and were relying on some kind of drape, because some light remained, definitely more faint, but like the sun in such pervasive darkness.
Dominicus squeezed then pulled his hand free, crouching low, but soon he felt the hand that had been in his rest on his back, hearing the shuffling as Cole crouched beside him. Together, they snuck towards the break in the passage.
“Bring the torch – ‘my enemies’ gifts’ you know,” said one of the Second Years, followed by a dark laugh and the sound of wood scraping against stone, then lightly smacking skin.
The Second Years passed the break. Galen felt for Cole, then felt past him tugging whichever of the four it was in the lead to pass them both, and head back to the entrance. In a passage so narrow they could feel each other go by, the thought that the Second Years’ must have heard them or felt them too was agonizing, but the rosy light, blocked by shifting bodies, continued to sink further into the left hand passage, towards the little cavern.
Again finding Cole’s neck, Dominicus pulled him close, and since he apparently wasn’t going to leave, shared his plan. He felt Cole’s grin against his cheek.
But they had to move quickly, and quietly.
There was, of course, the opening of the path, just before the little chamber, that had so unnerved them – here, the Second Years, if more familiar, would know to completely shroud their light lest they lose the element of surprise. Dominicus, facing the path towards the exit and relying on the echo, started to whisper indistinct Midraeic, breaking in now and then with his most precisely pronounced Ainjir words.
They heard the shuffle of the Second Years to a halt, but the Second Years didn’t turn back – they resumed heading for the cavern. Creeping up the passage behind them, Dominicus continued his whisper, doing his best to make it sound like more than one voice, aided now and then by Cole matching his tone, slightly farther away. And every second word, Dominicus dropped his volume lower, and grew closer to the edge of their dim circle of light, the twisting passages turning their words into a confusing blanket of near-far echoes.
“…hate this fuckin’ place…” one of the Second Years mumbled, followed by a soft thud.
On cue, the group reached the widening edge of the cavern, and the faint light disappeared into darkness.
And this was stupid – Dominicus knew it, it had been stupid when he planned it – but luckily, Cole was at least as stupid as he was. The moment the light disappeared, a voice boomed through the dark:
“FEALLTÓIR”
Though the startle was enough to draw the shade from the light, it all happened too swiftly to do anything but blind the Second Years, who found themselves barrelled over as something crashed into their knees. The fallen lantern smashed in smothering darkness.
The voice had not stopped, either, but continued, wavering between a growl and a shriek
“DÚNMHARFÓIR DUBH, NA DÍCHREIDMHIGH”
The shouts of surprise from the Second Years first gave way to curses, first on the First Years, then on the caverns, and then to each other, to shut up and stop panicking and find the speaker – it had to be one of those little snot-pebbles, those self-satisfied little pipsqueaks. But by the time they had calmed themselves, and regrouped, and at least one of them had slipped and cracked his tailbone and been persuaded to stop cursing the fact, they found themselves alone, in an increasingly silent, velvety darkness.
Now it was a game of who would blink first – they (the First Years) had to be here, there were only so many ways to go – but as the Second Years stilled after bouncing fruitlessly off the walls and each other looking for their prey it grew increasingly cold, and increasingly, it seemed, lonely.
And it was only after total silence had fallen, and even the injured one had quieted his panting breath that they heard a gentle whisper – not quite low, not quite high, bouncing softly down the passages, as if moving from first this one, then that one…
And it was speaking more Old Ainjir.
Dominicus, shivering uncomfortably in the puddle by the wall, could only understand about every other word or so, but he assumed the Second Years knew more. At any rate, it was a lament, a sad and pleading tale, a searching and loving and losing tale. And in the dark, in the quiet, melding with the voice of the waters that murmured through the tunnels, it was chilling.
And so was the water. He meant to be here, thinking if the stumbling Second Years heard a splash when they stepped, they would move away rather than towards it. But still – it was cold as Hell. So it was mostly because he thought he was otherwise going to die of the cold if he stayed in the puddle that Dominicus slowly stood and tried his best to edge his way out, moving with painful slowness to neither stir the water nor barrel into someone, one hand holding the wall to his back and the other outstretched to at least, perhaps, sense the warmth if he was getting too near to anyone....
But it didn’t work that way. His cold hand could feel nothing – Hell, he could hardly feel he still had a hand – yet by sheer uncontrolled fate, the strange blessings of the Prophet to his faithful – his cold hand caressed the jaw of the injured one, who leaned half-over his own knees to try to ease his bruised back.
The Second Year screamed.
The Second Years all screamed.
And they ran.
It was a miracle Dominicus wasn’t trampled, and Cole wasn’t discovered, for which Dominicus promised to be duly thankful if he ever made it out of this freezing hole. Cole had been hiding just past the break, which all of the Second Years at least had the sense to feel for in their desperate scramble to get out of the caverns, so they could take the branch that would lead them back to the dorms.
Dominicus finding him wasn’t as miraculous; once the Second Years passed, Cole stood in the center of the passage that would lead them back the way they had gotten in until Dominicus, wet and shaking, ran into him.
They dared not speak until they found the others and were out of the blasted passages, but kissing was mostly silent, and, ostensibly, warming, so they did do that. At least a little bit.
They shuffled their way carefully down the passage until the faint promise of light turned into the four cadets, bravely but with utmost reluctance, waiting in the same alcove they had been at the start of the night.
“Yes, they lived, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” Murry intoned as Galen and Cole came around the corner again.
“No!” Glasan said, hand held out imperiously, only shaking a little bit, “You heard the fuckin’ thing – we’ve angered it!”
“Glasan,” Taig sighed, running a hand over his face, “That was obviously them.”
“I don’t fuckin’ believe it,” Odhrán said, chewing his free thumb while clutching the lantern as high to his chest as he conceivably could without burning himself. It was not at all clear to anyone what it was, exactly, he didn’t believe, but he also wasn’t moving towards the exit.
“You said we could ask!” Glasan insisted.
“He doesn’t know Old Ainjir!” Odhrán said, pointing to Galen.
“You don’t know Old Ainjir!” Taig said.
“None of us know Old Ainjir!” Glasan cried, “That’s the fuckin’ point!”
Galen looked at Cole. Cole smiled at him, but said nothing.
“We saw the ghost.” Galen muttered. “You are fine. It is… happy.”
“Didn’t sound happy,” Glasan muttered. The four cadets exchanged glances. Then they looked at Cole.
“Don’t look at him,” Galen snapped. “He is useless. Look at me. It was mad at the Second Years for tricking you. You are fine. Let’s go, you have the only light.”
They didn’t move, but at least switched their staring to Galen.
He sighed. “I have… asked the Prophet to reach the spirit and… touch it back, or whatever.”
“…Are you su—”
But before Odhrán could finish, Galen stepped back from the group, clapped a fist to one side of his chest, and drew a line from one shoulder to the other, then a vertical line in the air, then again, with the other fist, in the other direction. The whole time, he muttered continuously in Midraeic, clearly intoning a reference to each one of the four in a sing-song mess of syllables, indicating with each the vertical line gesture.
“If there is any lingering curse, the Prophet protects you. The ghost is appeased. You have touched the dead. By proxy. And are, uh… cleansed.”
The four again exchanged glances, smiling. Odhrán finally lowered the lantern; Glasan let out a theatrical sigh, and patted Murry on the back. In spite of his protests, Taig seemed relieved.
“And if we do not fuck off out of these tunnels I will ask him to curse you and invite the spirits back.”
Now they moved.
And Dominicus let himself shake again – it was ungodly cold being wet in these tunnels. Cole stayed close – Dominicus saw him fingering his coat buttons, loosening them quite slowly, as if contemplating offering it to replace Dominicus’ soaking one – but, of course, that would be a step too far. How? Dominicus wasn’t sure, but was in equal measure sure he would have to refuse it, or possibly insult him, or start a fight. Why?
…There were witnesses. That would be… tender. And all of the sudden, Dominicus shivered violently. Cole grabbed his hands and started to rub them between his own, bringing them up to breathe on them as they slid through the dark after the pathetic gaggle of other cadets.
Once again on the surface, they had to stagger their leaving, so as not create too big a target for any eye that happened to catch them – after all, unlike trespass into forbidden areas, cadets sneaking off into bushes after hours was something only the most hardened officers cared about. They had all been young once, after all, and most of the First Years were still four to a room. It was certainly better for morale not to keep one’s roommates awake.
Galen and Cole, of course, were the last to go.
“I think he was trying to thank you,” Cole said, watching Taig crouch-run (totally unnecessarily) off into the dark towards the First Year dormitories.
“What the fuck kind of thank you is that? He just mumbled about it being a nice night,” Galen said, unable to keep the slight chatter of his teeth down.
“Tits, you’re ashen.”
“Eha! Fuck! What are you doing?” Galen slapped Cole’s hands away from the buttons of his coat.
“You have got to get rid of at least some of those wet clothes – cut it out, you madman. This wool will dry fast if only you get the water out of it, just give me a moment. If you don’t, it’ll be wet all tomorrow, too.”
And, of course, Cole had Galen’s jacket unbuttoned almost the moment Galen stopped getting in his way – he did, after all, have a lot of practice. Galen looked ready to fight about his shirt, but Cole sighed at him – sighed! Like that! At him! Like his mother! – and he got that off, too.
It was, Dominicus had to admit, much warmer under Cole’s jacket.
“Don’t touch my pants,” Dominicus said, watching Cole twist his jacket as if trying to break it. “Be careful with that.”
“I do have other interests, you know. Your pants are your own trouble,” Cole said, “and if anything this will make it more pliable and less scratchy, and you’ll owe me thanks. They make these pieces of shit out the cloth cows wouldn’t tolerate. If I can do the work to break the cloth without pilling you might actually want to thank me, even.”
That was a ridiculous assertion – imagine, him thanking Esras Cole for anything, but still.
Dominicus sat and watched him; above ground it was actually fairly warm, despite nightfall, especially sheltered from the wind. Of course, Cole’s jacket – definitely too big for Galen – was warm from his body, too, and that was a warmth Dominicus had learned to appreciate, even if he wasn’t particularly happy about it. But it wasn’t the warmth that was making him sleepy – not sleepy, perhaps content? It made him sink his back into a deeper curve, let more of the bushes support him despite their poking branches, so he could watch Cole bent over his task, hair shining in the moonlight, sleeves pushed up so every twist of the fabric brought cords of muscle out in his forearms like it forced silver streams of water from the cloth. Absent everything else – absent the Academy, absent their contest, absent the pressure of his faith and the strangeness of the Ainjir – he could watch that for a long time.
But thanking Esras Cole?
“I didn’t know you knew Old Ainjir,” Galen said. It had been clever; he could admit Cole could be clever.
But Cole smiled and it was fake. “I don’t. I know some poetry – some poetry knowing requires some Old Ainjir – and it seemed appropriate.”
Galen wished he had said nothing, or Cole had ignored him and not replied at all, but he didn’t know what to do with that wish. It just sat on him, like a walnut too big for a squirrel’s mouth, and he was the stupid squirrel that wouldn’t let it go.
“I didn’t know you knew how to dispel ghosts,” Cole said, holding up the coat to see his work – thank fuck, Dominicus thought, a little more squeezing to do. “Your Prophet doesn’t do such things.”
“What do you know about it?” Dominicus snapped, and while it was infuriating, at least this time the smile was real. The stupid bastard must have done some reading. Or… listened to him. Possibly.
“What did you say over them?” Cole asked, this time ignoring Dominicus, as he occasionally (very occasionally) should.
“Bread recipe.”
Cole stopped his work and looked at him.
Dominicus shrugged. “Bread recipe. Bonum panem fert. Panis plana allium…”
Cole laughed – loud enough to cause Dominicus to start, but really, what if they got caught? Who cared? He was comfortable. All the leaves were falling in Cole’s jacket, which was warm, and not his, and would fall all over Cole’s floor when he shook it out. It almost made up for the fake smile, that laugh.
It almost made him want the leaves to fall on his floor.
And maybe they would.
At some point, anyway.
“Thank you for coming,” Dominicus said, surprising himself with how painless it was. That had nothing to do with anything. It was only proper, the little Catillia-voice in his head agreed, probably insincerely.
Cole paused his squeezing a second time, a smile that seemed just as surprising passing quickly over his face before he buried it – he buried it so very deep. “You pursue interesting entertainments.”
“Can’t fuck all the time,” Dominicus said.
Cole lost it, this time struggling to smother it. He fell back on his butt, chucking the jacket at Dominicus. “Virtue’s Tits, Galen – how they would love you, if they weren’t so scared of you.”
“What is scary?” Dominicus scowled.
“That face, for one. It was remarkably brave of your little tentmate to get up the balls to ask for your help.”
“Then he is at least as stupid as he is smart.”
“If you say so,” Cole replied.
“I do,” Galen snapped, infuriated to find himself doubling back to defend his idiot tentmate to his idiot… “Why are you so…?”
But he couldn’t finish that thought either, instead just fiercely bundling his damp jacket in his fists and holding it out in Cole’s direction.
Cole, the absolute bastard, said, “Be careful with that.”
Dominicus flung the bundle aside, shrugged himself out of Cole’s coat, crawled the short distance between him and flung himself into Cole’s lap. Straddling him, Dominicus seized Cole’s shirt and kissed him ferociously. Cole’s hands first found his back, then butt, then hips, drawing him closer.
Just when Cole thought he might drown, Dominicus let the kiss go, yet Cole dragged after him, desperate to drown. “Shit – Galen–”
“Shut up,” Galen said. “You have nothing good to say. Nothing good will come of this.”
Then, completely bafflingly, he kissed Cole again, though more gently, every bit as hungry. This time, he released Cole and stayed close, forehead pressed to forehead, hands cradling Cole’s jaw to keep his face turned up towards him. Cole, who had closed his eyes – like a normal person – was as he found himself so often when they kissed, forced to confront Galen’s gaze fixed on his face, inches away, seeing everything, always seeing everything, probably seeing more than Cole ever wanted anyone to see. It made his chest burn, and he wasn’t sure whether that was good or not but he knew he hated it, and never wanted it to go away.
It was terrifying. Why was it always terrifying and exhilarating and…
“I have made my pants your trouble,” Galen said softly – and indeed, wet as he had been, sitting on Cole like he was, soaked a very warm area in shivery cold. “Now tell me of your other interests, Esras Cole.”
Cole had never been as good a talker, once certain other things were in play, but, if only to defend his own honor, and because it didn’t require much thought, he repeated a few lines of the poem he had used earlier, to help chase their enemies away.
He wanted desperately for Galen to start kissing him again, but instead Galen said, “Tell me what it means.”
For many reasons, not least of which he was very ready to be fucked, thank you, Cole had difficulty bringing up the right words. “It was what it sounded like. Like the story. The lovers parted, unable to find one another, in danger apart.”
“Eha,” Galen smiled, “you do know Old Ainjir.”
“I know poems,” Cole said, quite against his will. “Just enough Old Ainjir to get by with them.”
“Then say more poems,” Galen replied, “and less stupid shit, and you will be easier to like, too.”
Cole might have liked to fight back – or at least defend himself – but Galen was kissing him again. And he would say all the poems he liked, as long as Galen kept kissing him.