The rays caught the silver in his lashes, turning them to threads of starlight against his cheeks. His lips, slightly parted, held the softness of a man unburdened, and his hair, tousled from sleep, curled in wayward strands that clung to his temples and the slope of his nose.
For a breathless moment, he could have sworn the boy was carved from something divine; some fey-touched creature spun from moonlit myth. [...]
Bane’s teachings droned in his memory; [...] Dominion thrives in detachment. To crave is to cede control.
Yet here he lay, enamored and undone, by the rise and fall of a sleeping boy’s chest.
-- A Defiant Garden, Chapter 14
I finished it! Perhaps I'll color it later but I want to get it posted and I really like the lineart. This scene has been in my head for a long time so I'm v glad I got to do it for Gortash Week! This is the first time I've gotten to participate in a themed week and it was a lot of fun and so cool to see the community's work and have my dash flooded by my obsession favorite tyrant.
I hope I got across the very abundant amount of conflicted feelings Gortash is feeling right in this moment fufu
I decided to dedicate this day to my longest running fic which happens to be one about Gortash actually being presented with a choice between love and tyranny (but whether he actually decides to choose...that's still to be seen)
In Your Arms
Kade'solyn (he/him) and Gortash
It's been one year since I began A Defiant Garden btw (I actually missed the anniversary in June lol) and Gortashweek has got me thinking about Them again
I know the fic has been so slow but I promise I am going to keep it going. I do want to finish it. Their story deserves it! I have so many Plans. I hope everyone that's enjoyed them will come along this ride with me but I appreciate each and every one that has said they've enjoyed what I've written. It's meant so much <3
Tumblr ate this when I first tried it so 2nd attempt! Looked like fun so wanted to give it a go ~ Big thanks to @scoldingdarjeeling for the tag! Always appreciate it when you do. Everyone go read Instinct ! Tempest is one of my absolute fave Halsinmancer OCs
here's the template if anybody wants to join in!
A Defiant Garden (link)
Rating: 18+
Pairing: Gortash x OC (not Durgetash)
Word count: 75k (!!!)
Completion status: about 45%
Plot Summary:
When Lord Enver Gortash claims a bastard-born nobleman's son (Kade'solyn Southersby) as payment for his father's debts, he expects a pliant pawn: in public, a pretty face for a loveless marriage to improve his image, in private, his own personal political weapon to wield. A protege forged by his own hands.
But Kade is not at all what Enver expects: half-drow outcast, idealistic revolutionary, scarred by years of neglect, he carries a spark of fragile defiance Gortash can't seem to drown -- nor resist.
Their relationship becomes a battle of wills and reluctant fascination as Kade learns to navigate the manipulative world of Baldurian politics under Gortash's cruel tutelage.
Yet even as he's forced to play the game, he refuses to surrender his conscience -- or his belief that the man who once saved him might be worth saving, himself.
The ✨viibees✨
You a fan of Gothic romances? May/December relationships? Virtue corrupted? Trauma and pain? Angst and drama? Complicated relationships? Villains tormented by their own emotions? Redemption that teeters on the edge of disaster? Gortash getting dunked on? Have I got a fic for you.
Short snippet:
this is one of my favorite parts I've written
“Did you think I wouldn't notice this little redemption tour?” His voice was low, edged with something between amusement and menace.
Kade set the brush down carefully. The garden around them—moonlace trembling on its stems, the newly planted roses with their thorns tucked beneath silk-soft petals—seemed to hold its breath. His thorns, not Gortash's. He raised his head.
“I didn't hide it,” he said simply.
Their eyes locked. Somewhere beyond the manor walls, the distant clang of a Steel Watch patrol echoed like a taunt.
“No, you didn’t,” Gortash growled. “You paraded through the Lower City like some blushing saint, doling out alms and smiles as if you weren’t draped in my silks, spending my gold. Do you know what they’re calling you, in the poorer districts?”
Kade’s smile was a shadow, brief and flickering. “I know.”
Gortash took a step closer, crushing a fallen moonlace bloom beneath his boot. “Tell me, rabbit,” he murmured, “do your orphans know their ‘Bastard Saint’ is the same creature who coerced Ravengard into signing away their futures in the workhouses?”
Kade didn’t answer, couldn’t, as his fingers twitched toward the ruined flower. See? he wanted to snarl. This is what you do to fragile things.
He exhaled through his nose and picked up the brush, swirling it in a dish of water to rinse it clean. The pigment bled into the liquid, twisting like smoke. He left it in the water, watching it dissipate.
"I’m not seeking absolution."
Gortash’s jaw tightened. "Do you seek to undermine me? While I’m drafting eviction orders, you’re handing out bread like some—"
“Undermine you?” Kade snapped and rose, sudden anger flushing his cheeks. “I’m doing what you claimed to stand for! Claimed to want. I’m spending gold to keep children from starving.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Unless you truly do prefer they die to prove a point?”
For a heartbeat, Gortash looked pained—as if Kade had slipped a blade between ribs he hadn’t known were exposed. Then his expression hardened and he barked a laugh, low and derisive.
“Spoken like a true idealist. Tell me, when the lords you’ve charmed to fund your charity discover you’re also the one who blackmailed their secrets, will your orphans shield you? You’ll be torn apart like the pack of wolves they are, your noble intentions a waste of gold and time. Your kindness is a weapon they’ll use to ruin you.”
Kade lifted his chin. “Will they? Or will you?”
Silence held for a heartbeat.
Gortash’s breath stuttered—just once, barely there—before he seized Kade’s wrist, yanking him in. “Do you want me to?” His voice was raw, furious. “To prove you right? To break you like I’ve broken every other pretty thing that dared defy me?”
Kade’s throat bobbed. Gortash’s proximity was infuriating—intoxicating. He was close enough to smell the wine on his breath, the faint tang of sweat beneath the cologne. He stayed still, refusing to wrench his arm away.
“You won’t.”
“And why is that?”
“You know why.” His eyes flicked up to meet the man’s glare; Gortash’s pupils were just pinpricks, nearly swallowed by the burnished copper of his eyes. “You need me here. I’m your whetstone, aren’t I? But I still choose mercy, and will. Regardless of how you howl.”
Gortash’s grip tightened—then faltered. His thumb brushed the pulse point at Kade’s wrist, a traitorous caress, their faces inches apart.
A new duskthistle bloomed open, its petals sighing in the dark.
Gortash exhaled slowly, his breath warm against Kade's lips. “You’re a fool,” he said, but the venom had bled out of his voice, leaving only a weary rasp. “Mercy is a word spoken by those who’ve never had their bones snapped for daring to want more. Do you think the world will reward you for it?” The accusation hung in the air, thick with history.
Kade swallowed, looked into the hollow depths of his eyes. The man looked exhausted—dark circles like bruises, his hair lank, eyes bloodshot. His bare fingers flexed, grease-stained and restless, scars on full display. Kade breathed out slowly and leaned closer; a hesitant hand lifting to brush a stray strand of hair behind Gortash’s ear. He didn’t pull away.
“I think,” he said carefully, “that power shouldn’t only break things. It should mend them, too.”
What other media inspired this fic?
Honestly? Gothic novels, period pieces and Shakespeare plays lmao. I want it to feel intricate and intense and also sweeping and dramatic, with the political and especially social intrigue of a Regency-era novel. (Gortash ain't no Mr. Darcy tho lmao)
What character trait did you amplify or minimise to make your version of a character work for your story?
I absolutely ratcheted up how much Gortash's time with Raphael and in the hells affected him. I think it's way both underutilized and underwritten in the actual game. I also made him actually believe--in an honest way--in the 'revolution' when he was younger, but then got disillusioned and quickly fell back on Raphael's teachings. (I also made Raphael a bigger influence I think than the game alludes to.) I also gave him way more trauma/pain but don't we all~?
How did your understanding of the characters change while writing this?
Honestly it just made me fall in love with Gortash more. He's such a fascinating character and can be written so many different ways. He's definitely become an obsession lol.
What’s one thing you put in—trope, character beat, scene—that was just extra shamelessly self-indulgent?
Gortash actually has a heart/conscience that can be pricked and poked at (maybe it's OOC but I think it'd exist) and Kade might be a bit Mary Sue tbh, he's real pretty and (mostly) everybody likes him lol and he's good at things. I mean, I named him the Bastard Saint lawl. BUT he isn't perfect! He's flawed and he's actually done pretty awful things of his own free will. I tried to make both the main characters complex people.
What’s the structural choice you made on purpose—POV, timeline, chaptering—that most shaped the story?
Probably (intially) writing it week to week -- it made me write ahead and try not to be precious with the story. I didn't hoard it and edit it to an inch of its life (or edit it at all lol) and just GOT IT OUT THERE. I want to try that again so I'm writing it all the way to the end (or as close as I can) and then I'm going to publish. I liked releasing it as a little celebration each week.
Which theme emerged accidentally, and which one did you pursue deliberately?
Hope versus cynicism and the redemptive power of love was always a theme but the themes that just kind of evolved on their own are the absolute dichotomies between the two main characters.
- Their traumatic childhoods are practically mirrors: Kade locked high in an attic, abandoned and forgotten; Gortash sold to the Hells/Raphael & kept close as a protege
- silver and moonlight; gold and forge fire
- Mercy versus Control, Love versus Power, etc etc.
- Kade worships Ilmater even!
- Gortash likes savory dishes and Kade has a sweet tooth lol
It completely happened organically but I love it!
What was the biggest risk you took with this fic?
Writing it, most definitely. It's scary! People will read it! I'm starting to enjoy that though, terrifyingly enough~
In a hypothetical scenario where you are forced to rewrite the whole story from scratch, what would you do differently?
They would definitely bone way earlier in the story. Like chapter one.
tagging some awesome authors that I admire & adore, no pressure tho a course! - @moonmaiden86 , @flipcitrus , @autistichalsin , @akelan , @kawareo & anybody else that wants to!
Overview:
When Lord Enver Gortash claims a bastard-born nobleman’s son (Kade'solyn Southersby) as payment for his father’s debts, he expects a pliant pawn: in public, a pretty face for a loveless marriage to improve his image, in private, his own personal political weapon to wield. A protege forged by his own hands.
But Kade is not at all what Enver expects: half-drow outcast, idealistic revolutionary, scarred by years of neglect, he carries a spark of fragile defiance Gortash can’t seem to drown – nor resist.
Their relationship becomes a battle of wills and reluctant fascination as Kade learns to navigate the manipulative world of Baldurian politics under Gortash’s cruel tutelage.
Yet even as he’s forced to play the game, he refuses to surrender his conscience – or his belief that the man who once saved him might be worth saving, himself.
Pairing: Gortash x Male half-drow OC (Kade'soyln Southersby) Genre: slow-burn Gothic Romance pre-canon AU
CW: May/December relationship, major character death, referenced child abuse/neglect, dub-con, non-con
In this chapter:
After fleeing the bedroom at dawn, Gortash returns to his chambers expecting to see Kade gone, only to discover a lavish breakfast waiting for him in the sunroom he's never used--along with Kade, himself.
It seems Kade arranged this ambush, refusing to let Gortash's fear reject the beginning of something between them. In the end they reconnect and decide to keep trying, together.
The peace and playful banter is broken when Jhorin reluctantly interrupts and announces Duke Ravensgard's arrival--in his duty as Lord Marshal of the Flaming Fist, there to discuss the "incident" after the gala.
Author notes: Hey all! Been a long time coming, this chapter. Been dealing with life things but the interruptions are hopefully over! This chapter is setting up a lil mini arc I'm super excited to share with everyone. I'm trying something new for the header of these chapter releases, let me know if it's too obnoxious or anything.
Read on Ao3! or Start at the beginning!
< chapter 13
Chapter 14: A Vulgar Amount of Sunshine
The workshop had given him nothing.
An hour of pacing between the forge’s hum and the Netherstone’s pulse, and all Gortash had to show for it was a crack on the worktable where his fist had landed and faded bruises on his knuckles. The stone still whispered—ascend, ascend—but the words felt thin now, threadbare. He kept seeing the golden bloom of dawn on Kade’s face, kept seeing him burrow into the pillow like a creature who’d finally found safe cover.
He had fled from it. Fled from himself.
Pathetic.
Gortash’s boots echoed too loudly in the stone corridor’s oppressive silence, each lonely step a reprimand, a reminder he’d surely ruined whatever fragile beginning dawn had offered them. Kade would almost certainly be gone, retreated back to the east wing.
Back to the fiction that they were simply lord and protégé, nothing more.
He almost turned around twice. Better to escape to the study and his shame, send for reports, to let the day’s churning machinery swallow the awkwardness. To eventually forget.
Instead, Gortash kept walking, jaw set, rehearsing curt apologies that tasted bitter as dust. You deserve better than a man who flees at vulnerability. Next time I will stay until you wake.
Hollow, every one.
He climbed the final flight of stairs and paused outside his chambers, ears briefly straining for any whisper, any sign the room was still occupied. Hearing nothing, he cursed himself for his foolish heart and threw open the door, expecting the hush of an abandoned suite; instead he was met with light and sound.
Sunlight—reckless, indolent amounts of it—spilled through the double doors of the sunroom he never used, to pool on the black-and-gold mosaic floor like molten brass. The air smelled of warm brioche, lemon zest, burnt butter, and beneath those something greener and sweeter, like crushed orange-blossom left to bleed syrup in the sun. The corridor behind him was still dim, all dust and shadows clinging to velvet drapery, but here the morning had been captured, decanted, and set alight.
It was then Gortash heard voices, both familiar. His heart jolted in his chest.
“…and if you drizzle the honey first, the cream won’t sink straight through,” said the first, elderly and genteel and warmer than he usually heard it.
“But then the berries roll everywhere,” replied the second, laughing, the sound making Gortash’s breath hitch in his throat. “Just as well! Let them riot.”
He crossed the antechamber of his suite in five hurried steps—heart racing, boots muffled by rugs thick as winter moss—and paused beneath the arch of sunlight created by the double doors.
The sun-room—an octagonal chamber of glass and gold trim he had not purposefully entered in half a decade—glowed like the inside of a reliquary. Dust motes drifted in the slanted spears of light, each a fleck of gilt suspended in incense-thick air. The tiny glass-inlaid table that usually sat on the balcony had been dragged into the center of the alcove, one of the cushioned, wrought-iron chairs joining it.
Kade himself was curled on the window-seat, swathed in Gortash’s own robe: black silk so matte it drank the dawn, embroidered along the cuffs with the sable fist of Bane in fine thread, the pattern glinting with every subtle shift. The garment hung loose off one narrow shoulder, collar gaping to expose the long, elegant stem of Kade’s throat and the sleeves pushed back to reveal his slender wrists. Every time he breathed the silk slid an inch, whispering against flesh like a secret confession.
His skin was clean and washed but still scraped raw and mottled across his forearms and palms from his impact with the cobblestones last night. The bruise over his shoulder had turned an angry purple and green and his left foot, folded under him and peeking from beneath the robe, was neatly bandaged at the ankle.
But none of that changed the breathtaking vision he was, sitting there primly, teacup in hand. The golden light poured across him from the tempered windows, glittering like sunlight sparkling on the Chionthar. His smoke-colored skin almost glowed, liquid pearl against the coal-dark silk and each strand of moon-white hair became a filament of silvered glass; even his pale lashes caught prismatic fire.
Gortash swallowed deliberately, throat bobbing.
Those amethyst eyes lifted, luminous, amused. A subtle tilt of the neck delivered the unhurried smirk of a boy who had laid an ambush and knew it had sprung true.
Across from him, pouring tea with the gravity of a state ceremony was Jhorin. Sitting. Actually sitting, spine bent like an old willow, the silver pot steady in his weathered hands. Before him the small dinette groaned under clashing displays of appetite: fresh, plump split figs, smoked kippers on rye, and a poached duck-egg omelette stuffed thick with cheese warred with almond pastries oozing marzipan, a bowl of berries drowning in clotted cream, and a plate of plump chocolate scones.
The scrape of Gortash’s boots cracked the moment like glass. The old man’s head rose and suddenly the pot in his hand wobbled; a hot splash hissed on the plate.
“Lord Gortash—!” Jhorin shot up so fast his knee clipped the table. A pastry leapt in protest. “I—beg pardon, my lord, I was—I only—”
“Don’t you dare apologize, Jhorin. You’re the only reason I didn’t eat all the honey-cakes and pass out face-first into the berries and cream.” Kade’s smile was immediate, bright as the glare outside as he turned towards Gortash, shifting his weight with a slight, careful wince as he set the now-empty teacup down with a clink. “You’re late. Your kippers are congealing and your omelet is mortally wounded—see?” He lifted a corner with a silver fork. “Edges curling like a dead leaf. Another minute and I’d have been forced to give it last rites.”
The steward’s ears flushed pink. He hovered, caught in the cross-fire of duty and affection, visibly calculating the shortest route to the door. Gortash felt the familiar twitch of command—dismiss him, restore order—but the words came out softer than intended.
“No harm done, Jhorin. See to the noon correspondence when you’re ready. And take one of those pastries with you.”
Jhorin relaxed, visibly relieved and nodded. “Yes, Lord Gortash. I shall see to it now.” His eyes softened on Kade for a moment, grandfatherly warmth cracking through protocol. He bowed, squeezed Kade’s uninjured shoulder once, and retreated with an almond crown clutched in his thin fingers like contraband.
The latch clicked behind him and silence pooled, thick as the citrus-perfumed air. The sunlight kept pouring in, merciless. It was a light that had no respect for shadows, and it found a willing accomplice in the figure curled on the window seat.
“Almost missed breakfast,” Kade murmured as he gingerly unwound his legs to sit properly and reached for the silver teapot, his movements deliberate, favoring his bruised side. He let out a soft, controlled breath as he settled. “I was beginning to think you’d fled the city.”
The jab slid in under the ribs, neat as a stiletto. Gortash felt heat crawl up his neck but he took the deserved cut, biting his tongue against retort. He shuffled slightly from foot to foot, unsure if he should sit or wait to be invited. Unsure if he was making their relationship too complicated or not complicated enough.
“You needn’t have arranged all this,” Gortash said at last, voice low.
“I wanted to.” Kade’s smile widened. “Portia let me fold the pastries. I burned your eggs myself—consider it retribution, lightly charred.” He poured himself another cup of golden tea, the orange-blossom and vanilla scent wafting up like perfume along the curl of steam. He plucked up four cubes of sugar with small silver tongs and plashed them into the cup—one by one—then slid the cup aside. He liked the sugar to melt before he stirred.
He then reached for the porcelain teapot—Gortash’s own, celadon glaze, usually kept on the highest shelf—and began to prepare his tea. Gortash watched the flawless choreography: Yunnan leaves measured by eye, water just below boil, steeped through a strainer of beaten silver. Steam curled in a perfect question-mark as Kade tilted it over Gortash’s favorite cup, the one with the chip on the rim and the slightly off-center handle. The stream of tea was perfect, dark silk meeting porcelain without a splash above the rim. Then a whisper of milk, no sugar, one languid stir.
Gortash felt his breath hitch; he didn’t know if anyone had ever memorized something so mundane that was such an important part of his daily life. It felt…attentive. Thoughtful.
“Dragon’s Eye,” Kade said without looking up. He tapped the spoon on the rim of the cup to shake off the last drop of tea, and sat it down on a folded napkin. “Four minutes, splash of milk, no sugar, one stir clockwise because you think counter-clockwise is for anarchists. Stop hovering and sit, Enver.” The boy looked up at him then; eyes calm with a patience for his dithering Gortash felt was wholly undeserved. “Do you really think I made the kippers for myself?
Gortash exhaled a breath through his nose and slowly lowered himself opposite. He felt oversized, all angles. “I thought you’d be gone.”
Kade’s hand, elegant and poised, rested lightly on the teapot’s lid. “I considered it,” he admitted, then lifted his head, his eyes holding that spark of defiance Gortash knew so well. “Then I remembered I’m stubborn.”
He slid Gortash’s cup and saucer across the table. “I haven’t the faintest idea how to do this either, you know,” he admitted, voice softer now, the teasing edge replaced by something steadier. “Whatever this is. But I do know sprinting out of bed at sunrise to escape someone whose hair you were tangling in your fingers the night before, might be considered discourteous. In some circles.”
A flush, unwelcome and undeniable, warmed Gortash’s ears. He reached for the teacup, pulled it close and curled his fingers around it. Heat bled through porcelain into his palm—precise, exact, and terrifyingly familiar.
“I—” He tasted metal, swallowed. The old reflex snarled: deflect, dissect, dominate. He throttled it.
The words came finally, awkward and stuttering, but true. “I didn’t know how to...start a new day. Like that. With you.”
Kade leaned back, robe slipping just enough to reveal the hollow of his breastbone, the soft gentle curve of his chest. He adjusted his posture subtly, a hint of discomfort crossing his features as his bruised hip twinged. “One generally begins by staying in the same room.”
A startled huff escaped Gortash—half-laugh, half-surrender. “I cannot deny that. I was…ungracious.”
“Terrified,” Kade corrected gently.
“Terrified,” Gortash allowed, the admission scraping like rough metal. “I am…trying…to learn new steps. They feel clumsy.”
Kade’s lashes dipped; a faint blush crept across his cheekbones, roses tossed against a stormy sky. “They look honest. That’s worth any stumble.”
Gortash couldn’t respond but his own ear-tips burned. He wrapped his hands around the cup—warm, steadying—and raised it to his lips; blew once, twice. Steam carried tannin and sungrass into his lungs. The first sip was earth and brightness and the faint sweet tang that came only from perfect timing. It was hot but not searing, the precise temperature at which pain and pleasure might coexist on the tongue.
Kade watched, lower lip caught between white teeth.
“It’s…impeccable,” Gortash murmured, studying the teacup. “Absolutely impeccable, just how I make it myself.”
Kade shifted with a bashful grin, hair sliding to cover the flush that curled up over his ears and down his cheeks, pride and pleasure mingled. He nudged the plate of kippers closer. “Eat. Protein helps you think before you speak.”
Gortash forked a piece of herring, found it still warm, the flesh flaking pleasantly. He ate, deliberate, the texture and taste perfection. The underside of his omelet was indeed singed, yet the interior melted—salty cheese, meadow mushrooms, the bite of spicy peppers. He chewed, swallowed, felt something inside his chest unknot.
“Delicious,” he said, and meant it. “It’s absolutely delicious.”
He looked around at the table laden with food that suited the both of them: savory for his taste, sweet for Kade’s. It was too perfect to be accidental; Kade had to have rushed to the kitchens right after waking in an empty bed. “You planned this ambush.”
Across the table Kade smiled brighter than the sunshine tracing his silver hair in gold. “Planned breakfast,” he corrected, leaning forward with a slight, careful movement. “Ambush is merely the garnish.”
Outside, a clock-spire struck eight. The world began to wake, to return to routine and daily life. Inside, dust drifted through sun-shafts, each speck a minute ember glittering between them. They breathed the same steam, the same scent of bergamot and bacon and sugar.
Gortash lifted his cup. “To beginning,” he said, the words clumsy but audible.
Kade held his own teacup up and smiled, small and crooked and real.
“To stumbling forward, together,” he said softly. They clinked their cups together, the sound bright and cheerful in the haze of morning light. Gortash cut another wedge of his perfect, slightly scorched omelet. Kade leaned forward to reach for the cream, the robe sliding dangerously further; the rebel swathed, unrepentant, in tyrant’s silk.
Dawn caressed her sunlit fingers over him in blessing, painting his skin in shades of gold and pearl and bathing him in light that felt almost holy. He lifted a sliver of sugared apricot to his lips and bit, flecks of crystalline sweetness left behind as he chewed—an accidental ornament, sparkling bright as heresy. Beautiful as sacrilege.
Gortash watched, breath caught in his throat; an unwitting disciple at this blasphemous alter.
And in that moment he knew peril had never worn so gentle a face.
The silence that followed was a new and fragile creature, woven with the scent of citrus and herring and the whisper of cheekily-stolen silk.
Gortash was much more relaxed than when he first arrived, unused to sitting for breakfast when a strong cup of black coffee—briefly held and then forgotten on the sideboard—was his usual fare. Still though, the meal was proving itself an agreeable interruption to his normal routine. He took another bite of omelet, the char at the edges a surprisingly pleasant counterpoint to the rich, molten cheese.
His gaze, which had been fixed on the steam rising from his tea, lifted and traveled over Kade, who was now happily attacking a buttery pastry. The boy moved with less stiffness than last night, but a faint, deliberate care lingered in his posture. The memory—the limping walk, the bruised aching side, his scraped-raw hands and arms—returned with a sharp, unwelcome clarity.
“Your injuries,” Gortash said, his voice losing its tentative softness, returning to its usual, brusque timbre. He gestured vaguely with his knife. “How are they?”
Kade paused, a crumb on his lower lip. He brushed it away, his smile softening from one of pure enjoyment to something more complicated. “Better. Much better, actually.”
“Good,” Gortash said, the word short. He picked up his fork, pushing a piece of kipper around his plate. “The salve last night was effective, then?”
Kade exhaled a puff of breath, the ghost of a knowing laugh. “The salve was fine. But it was the vial Jhorin brought me that did the real work.”
Gortash frowned. “Vial?”
Kade nodded, his lips curling in a small, self-deprecating smile. “I was hobbling rather pathetically around the kitchens this morning like a wounded deer, trying to find the marmalade before you returned. My ankle was…protesting. I thought I’d have to crawl back upstairs.”
He took a careful sip of tea and continued. “Jhorin found me. Took one look, muttered something in Elvish that I’m fairly sure translates to ‘foolish boy’, and vanished. Came back with a little blue vial he said came from your private stores and told me to drink it all.” He made a face. “It tasted like crushed mint and regret, but it did the trick. The swelling’s gone down.”
Gortash’s expression darkened, his brows drawing together as his half-raised fork lowered to the plate again. A flicker of something sharp and unpleasant crossed his face.
He’d left Kade in pain. He’d fled the room and his own cowardice and left him to wake alone and hurting. His servant had done what he, in his panic and self-absorption, had not. A hot pang lanced his chest. It wasn’t anger at the supposed theft—the potions were trivial. It was a lurch of guilt so acute it was nauseating.
As always, he covered the unwelcome feeling with a spike of gruff authority. “I didn’t authorize that,” he grumbled, the defensive reaction—chafing at breach in his control—surfacing to mask the sharper sting of shame.
“I’d thought as much,” Kade said, his tone light; but his eyes flicked to Gortash with a knowing look. He took a delicate bite of pastry. “I assume Jhorin made the choice of his own free will—which, despite being employed by you, I believe he still possesses.” He dabbed his lips with a napkin, a playful glint entering his eyes.
“Shall I pay you back for it, my lord? I’m afraid I’m a bit short on gold at the moment, but I could work it off. Scrub a floor? Mend a sock? I’m not sure what the going rate is for a healing potion and a steward’s unsanctioned act of mercy.”
A flush crept up Gortash’s neck. “Don’t be absurd. Of course not.”
The annoyance was reflexive, but seeing Kade’s easy, unbothered expression, the irritation deflated; the guilt settled and was still, quiet and acknowledged. “I’m glad it helped,” he added, the words rough but sincere. He looked down at his plate, then towards the sun-drenched windows, wrestling with a sudden impulse.
Kade remained silent, giving him space. The moment stretched, filled only by the distant cry of a gull.
Finally, Gortash reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a plain, unadorned iron key on a thin chain, placing it on the table between them with a soft click. It gleamed dully in the lavish sunlight.
“There is a small, lacquered cabinet in my dressing room,” he said, not meeting Kade’s eyes, his focus on the key. “Ebony and silver inlay, with a lock in the shape of a fist. It’s…my personal supply. There are tinctures for pain. For sleep, when it…won’t come. Draughts for nerves. Things that help.”
He cleared his throat, feeling strangely vulnerable. It was like handing over a piece of his own armor, leaving something soft and vital revealed for the knife. “You can keep the key. I have a duplicate.”
The offering was monumental. It was a listing of what Kade knew Gortash considered his hidden weaknesses: the chronic pain from age and old torments (Bane had healed his crippled leg and made him stronger, but daily aches were beneath the god’s gifts), the sleepless nights haunted by Avernus and ambition, the nerve-fraying stress he never showed the world. And he was sharing it with Kade.
Kade looked from the unobtrusive iron key to Gortash’s averted profile, his expression softening into one of profound, quiet gratitude. He understood the weight of what was being offered. He didn’t remark on the significance; he simply reached out, his fingers brushing Gortash’s hand on the table as he took the key.
“Thank you, Enver,” he said, his voice low and sincere. He drew the key and its chain beside his plate, between the teacup and the butter knife. It was an acceptance, a promise to guard the deep trust given.
Gortash finally looked up, meeting Kade’s gaze. The shame had receded, replaced by a grateful weariness. He gave a single, slight nod as his only answer.
A comfortable, if expectant, quiet descended then, as they ate together in the sunlight. Kade plucked a single, perfect blackberry from the bowl, bringing it to his lips with a ceremonial slowness. He bit down, and a single drop of purple juice escaped, hovering briefly at the edge of his lip before being swept away with a swift, precise flick of his tongue.
Gortash stared, and felt himself tremble along with that sparkling drop—and caught just as deftly.
With the focus of an alchemist, Kade then constructed himself a treat: a torn chunk of chocolate scone, a dollop of cream, a single fat strawberry. He ate it, his eyes closing in a moment of pure, unguarded bliss. When they opened again, it was right on Gortash's own dark unblinking gaze.
“You’re staring,” he murmured at Gortash, utterly unbothered as he licked his sticky fingers. “Is my technique that appalling?”
“I’m trying to ascertain if you’re building a meal or some abomination of a shrine to the goddess of sugar,” Gortash retorted, but the pretense was ruined by the attentive way he watched the simple pleasure flush Kade’s cheeks—and his tongue dart around those graceful digits.
Kade grinned. "Why not both?" He pushed the plate of pastries closer with a finger. “Your turn to worship at the altar. One bite. A tiny heresy against your solemn, savory sensibilities.”
The challenge glinted in his eyes—an invitation and temptation all at once. Gortash felt the iron resistance inside him crumble. With a performative sigh, he broke off a piece of an almond crown drenched in transparent, shimmering glaze, and ate it warily, like a rogue checking for traps. The sweetness was a velvety hammer, thick and overwhelming. His lips pursed and he took a bracing sip of bitter tea.
“Well?” Kade prompted, leaning forward, a hand drifting to his side to soothe the twinge of pain.
“Aggressive and cloying,” Gortash pronounced. “Like being accosted by a choir of overly cheerful pixies.”
Kade’s laugh was a bright, unfettered thing. “That's when it's perfect!” Emboldened, he speared a strawberry that had been half-drowned in the bowl of clotted cream and held it out on his fork like an offering. Thick pink droplets plunked onto his plate. “Now try it with the forbidden fruit. Sunshine on a fork—the final corruption.”
This was too much. Too intimate, too silly. Yet Gortash found himself leaning forward, parting his lips to take the berry from the proffered fork. His teeth closed over the cool metal tines and he slid the yielding fruit into his mouth, flooding his tongue with a sweet-tart burst.
“There,” Kade whispered, his eyes locked on Gortash’s mouth without realizing. “Now you’ve properly sinned.”
Gortash exhaled through his nose. The flavor was a shock—a floral, tart sweetness that obliterated every nuanced note of his Dragon’s Eye. It was pure hedonism.
Without thinking, he captured Kade’s wrist, his grip gentle and careful of his injury—just holding him there for a breath. His dark eyes locked on Kade’s widening ones. Slowly, deliberately, he licked the remaining sweetness from the fork.
“Cloying,” Gortash repeated, his voice a rasp. He released the wrist. “But…persistent.”
A furious blush stained Kade from throat to hairline. He retreated, flustered. “Sunshine,” he mumbled as he fussed with the napkin in his lap, a victorious, embarrassed grin playing on his lips.
Gortash sat back then, the sweet of sugar still on his tongue. “You are a terrible influence.”
“I’m an excellent influence,” Kade countered, his grin softening. “You’re not glaring at the sunlight anymore…you’re just sitting in it.” He took a bite of his pancake and gestured with his fork. “And you’re smiling.”
And he was. A genuine, unpracticed smile touched Gortash’s lips. He looked around. The light was still vulgar and decadent, illuminating every frayed thread in the rug, every faint scratch on the seldom-used table, exposing every hidden flaw.
But it also gilded the curve of Kade’s cheek and made the simple china gleam. It was messy, and bright, and alive.
“It’s tolerable,” he conceded, his voice a low rumble. “From the correct perspective.”
Kade’s answering smile was like the dawn outside—inevitable, and breathtaking. He didn’t push further. He simply passed the pot of lemon curd, their fingers brushing briefly, and returned to his own breakfast, allowing the quiet to settle once more.
They lingered in that sun-warmed peace, bodies relaxing as the conversation did, banter growing playful. Gortash watched Kade—fork precise and careful—pluck and eat every blueberry from his oatmeal, one by one, from over the rim of his chipped teacup, his gaze analytical yet softer than it had been in weeks.
“You eat like a sparrow,” he remarked, the criticism devoid of its usual bite, a smirk ghosting the edge of his lip. “Picking at one thing for an hour. It’s a wonder you have the energy to be so vexing.”
Kade’s amethyst eyes lifted, glinting. “And you eat like a prisoner anticipating a shove from the tray.” He gestured with his fork, pointing at Gortash’s plate. “You’ve demolished that omelet in six bites. You didn’t even taste the mushrooms.”
“I tasted them,” Gortash countered, defensive for a heartbeat before he caught himself. He set his fork down with a soft clink. “They were earthy. From the market by the Basilisk Gate, I’d wager.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across Kade’s face. “See? You catalog the origin of your food even while you inhale it. It’s fascinating.”
“Efficiency is a virtue,” Gortash retorted, though a corner of his mouth twitched.
For a single, suspended moment, it was just them. Two people sharing a meal, trading gentle barbs in the morning light.
Then, the door opened without a knock.
Jhorin stood on the threshold, his posture rigid, his elderly face etched with tension. “My lord, forgive the interruption—”
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” Gortash said, the softness leaching from his voice, replaced by the familiar, imperious chill. He did not look away from Kade. “I am occupied.”
Jhorin did not retreat. “My lord, you have a visitor.”
“I said I am not to be disturbed.”
“It is Duke Ulder Ravengard,” Jhorin pressed, his voice dropping to a grave murmur. “He is not here in his capacity as a Councillor.”
The air in the sunroom solidified, the golden light suddenly feeling cold and exposing. Gortash turned his head slowly, a predator sensing a shift in the wind. “Then why is he here?”
Jhorin’s eyes flickered to Kade, a fleeting glance heavy with unspoken warning. “He is here as the Lord Marshal of the Flaming Fist. He wishes to speak with you regarding an…incident following the Hempstock gala last night.”
The transformation was instantaneous and absolute. The relaxed set of Gortash’s shoulders vanished, replaced by a ramrod-straight posture. The thoughtful, almost soft expression he’d worn moments before solidified into the mask of cold, polished granite that was the Lord of Steel. The walls were not just up—they were fortified, bristling with invisible artillery.
“I see,” Gortash said, the words flat and lethal, devoid of all warmth. He set his cup down with a precise, final click. “Show him to my study. I will be there directly.”
Jhorin bowed and melted away, sealing them once more in silence—a silence now thick and heavy as a shroud.
The warmth of their teasing conversation evaporated like mist. Kade had frozen, a half-eaten berry forgotten in his fingers. The color drained from his face, leaving him pale as milk. The specters of the past night—Cassian’s grasping hands, the tearing silk, the cold cobblestones—crashed back into the sunlit room. He unconsciously curled his bandaged hand against his bruised side, where he’d landed after leaping from the carriage.
“Enver…” The name was a whisper, ragged with fear.
Gortash stood, straightening the lines of his overcoat with a sharp, efficient tug. “It’s nothing. A formality. I will handle it.” The words were armor, each one riveted into place.
“A formality?” Kade’s voice strained against the dread thickening his throat. “The Lord Marshal doesn’t make house calls for formalities. Cassian…his family…”
“I said I will handle it.” The tone brooked no argument, the warmth of moments ago a distant memory. He moved around the table, his presence once again dominating the space, casting a long, cold shadow over the feast. “You will be fine.”
“Will I?” Kade’s question was barely audible. He looked up at Gortash and the fear in his eyes was no longer just for himself. It was for the man before him, for the dark, ruthless calculus he knew lived behind those eyes. He knew the lengths Gortash would go to protect what he claimed as his. The plea formed on his tongue—don’t start a war over this, don’t do anything you’ll regret—but it died unsaid. He knew its futility.
His voice was barely a breath, laced with a resignation that was its own kind of agony. “Please be careful.” He looked away, shaking his head slightly. “Just…be careful.”
Gortash paused on his way to the door. He turned back, and for a fleeting second, the mask softened at the edges. Something raw and unguarded flickered in his gaze—an acknowledgment of the fear. He reached out, his hand closing over Kade’s shoulder in a firm, brief squeeze, careful to avoid the bruises he knew lay beneath the robe. “I am always careful.”
Then the moment was gone. The mask was perfect once more.
“Stay here,” Gortash commanded. “I’ll take care of this.”
He turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft, definitive click that echoed like a verdict in the suddenly hollow sunroom. The glorious light poured in, unchanged, illuminating the abandoned feast, the cooling tea, and Kade—alone once more, wrapped in Gortash's silk and his own careful bandages, waiting in the bright, terrifying silence for the storm his sunshine had failed to hold at bay.
Overview:
When Lord Enver Gortash claims a bastard-born nobleman’s son (Kade'solyn Southersby) as payment for his father’s debts, he expects a pliant pawn: in public, a pretty face for a loveless marriage to improve his image, in private, his own personal political weapon to wield. A protege forged by his own hands.
But Kade is not at all what Enver expects: half-drow outcast, idealistic revolutionary, scarred by years of neglect, he carries a spark of fragile defiance Gortash can’t seem to drown – nor resist.
Their relationship becomes a battle of wills and reluctant fascination as Kade learns to navigate the manipulative world of Baldurian politics under Gortash’s cruel tutelage.
Yet even as he’s forced to play the game, he refuses to surrender his conscience – or his belief that the man who once saved him might be worth saving, himself.
Pairing: Gortash x Male half-drow OC (Kade'soyln Southersby) Genre: slow-burn Gothic Romance pre-canon AU
CW:May/December relationship, major character death, referenced child abuse/neglect, dub-con, non-con
In this chapter:
Kade and Gortash take a nap.
No CWs for the chapter but an announcement! I'm going to be trying to release a new chapter every Friday from here on, so that it's something nice for people to read or catch up with on the weekend. This chapter's been a vision in my head for almost a year now so pls enjoy.
Read on Ao3! or Start at the beginning!
< chapter 15
Chapter 16: Softer than a Sigh
The rest of that first day after Ravengard’s visit was spent in a tense, artificial quiet. The rest of their breakfast sat waiting after Gortash returned, but Kade couldn’t finish. He apologized, voice small, but he wasn’t hungry anymore. Gortash said nothing; simply nodded and called for Jhorin to take the rest of the food away. The kitchen staff were welcome to any leftovers they desired.
Gortash attempted to bury his restless energy in a mountain of paperwork, spreading documents across the large desk in his bedroom. Kade, pale and listless, retreated from Gortash’s company with the murmured explanation that he wasn't feeling well. He settled down on the window seat, an unread book open on his lap, and stared out over the smoky cityscape.
Gortash knew the truth. This was no physical ailment, but a deep malaise of the spirit—a churning mix of depressive thoughts and anxious worries borne of the last days’ events. He watched Kade move like a sleepwalker, a quiet frustrated helplessness settling in his chest. He could create anything his mind set him to, build wonders of terrible power and destruction…but he could not mend this.
As noon drew closer, Kade mumbled something about perhaps taking a nap. He set the untouched book aside and made a quiet move toward the door, likely heading back to his own, colder room. Gortash, without looking up from the trade report in his hand, cleared his throat.
"You could," he began, his voice deliberately casual, "continue to rest here. If you wanted." He gestured vaguely with his quill toward the massive bed. "I'm going to be working here anyway. I…” He paused. “I don't feel like going to the study today."
It was a lie, and a poor one at that. The study was his sanctum, his center of power. Kade knew it. But the unspoken offer—stay, I don't want you to be alone—was so sweetly transparent that a soft, fond smile touched Kade's lips, briefly brightening his exhausted face.
"That would be nice," he said quietly, taking careful, hobbling steps to the bed, gratefully sinking into the pillows. "I like listening to you write. It's…soothing."
And so, a delicate peace stretched, the tension from the morning easing away. The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the fire, the soft rustle of parchment, and the steady, rhythmic scratch-scratch of Gortash's quill. It was a sound of a mind meticulously shaping the world to its will, of order and control; and true to his word, Kade found a strange comfort in it. The predictable sound was an anchor in the turbulent sea of his thoughts, and eventually his breathing slowed as he drifted into a deep, if fitful, sleep.
Gortash watched him from his desk. Even in supposed rest, Kade was not at peace. His brow was furrowed, his eyelids fluttering, and soft, distressed whimpers escaped his lips, twisting something sharp and protective in Gortash's gut.
After another hour of listening to Kade’s tormented sleep, Gortash set his quill down with a definitive click. The paperwork could wait. The city could wait. He stood, undressing methodically to his undershirt and trousers—even removing his golden gauntlets—and extinguished the fire in the fireplace. The room was plunged into the shadows, the only natural light from the still-open balcony. He moved to the bed and slipped in beside Kade, the sheets cool against his skin.
He curled his body around Kade's back as he lay facing away on his side, drawing the boy against his chest, enveloping him. It was barely afternoon, a wholly inappropriate hour for a man of his station to be abed. But as he settled, Kade’s whimpers slowly ceased. The tense line of his shoulders softened, and his breathing deepened into something truly restful. Gortash watched the troubled expression smooth from Kade's face, now in gentle repose. The decision solidified then in his mind, set unyielding as stone. He would stay right here.
He hadn't bothered with the self-indulgence of a nap in years, deeming it a waste of productive hours. But he took one now, his face buried in Kade's silver hair, his arms a steadfast shield against the nightmares—holding on as if he could single-handedly keep the world itself at bay.
Kade’s consciousness slowly swam back into being, with a gentle drift at first—then suddenly with a jolt.
His eyes snapped open, a sudden gasp tearing his throat as he woke to the disorienting, velvet-black panic of confinement. Something heavy and unyielding was wrapped around him, pinning his arms, holding him down. His breath hitched in panic as the remnants of a dark dream bled into waking terror—Cassian’s hands, the carriage, the crushing weight—
His heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage, and he inhaled a ragged deep breath—seconds from a scream. Then the scent hit him. Bergamot, ink, and the faint, metallic tang of forge-smoke.
Enver.
His body recognized the truth before his mind. Every muscle, coiled to fight or flee, went utterly limp, the adrenaline draining away so quickly it left him boneless and drowsy, his heart stuttering back to a slow, heavy rhythm. He lay still for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent, feeling the solid, warm pressure draped over him as his body relaxed. Safe, it said.
Now more consciously awake, he blinked in the amber sunlight that slanted through the drapes, the world swimming into proper focus—his mind, sluggish with the sudden adrenaline loss, finally caught up to the physical reality. The weight was an arm. The solid warmth at his back was a chest. The even breath stirring his hair…he was in Gortash’s bed.
And in his arms, it would seem; and judging by the soft, golden light through the balcony doors and the position of the hands on the ornate clock across the room, it was just past four in the afternoon.
Kade stared at the clock, the thought drifting through his drowsy brain with quiet surprise. Did he…did Enver seriously…nap? With me? The concept was so foreign it took a moment to settle.
Gortash had lain down with him. In the middle of the day.
Enver Gortash, who treated sleep as a grudgingly necessary—and often resented—biological interruption to productivity, had taken an afternoon nap.
With him.
A strange, trembling warmth bloomed in Kade’s chest, fluttering like the wings of one of his garden moths. He held perfectly still for a moment, chewing over the notion, and then began to turn with glacial slowness, the arm around him a precious artifact he dared not disturb. He wanted to look. He needed to see. He turned gingerly, bruises protesting, until he was facing the man, eyes quickly adjusting to the gentle golden glow that illuminated the figure curled against him.
He’d seen Gortash sleeping before, but it had never been like this, like something he’d categorize as…peaceful. Kade often caught Enver with his head bowed over ledgers at his desk, or sprawled in a chair after days of relentless work. Even when he laid in the comfort of his bed, his brow would be knotted, his jaw tight, his fingers twitching occasionally as if his dreams offered no restful sanctuary either.
Kade thought he slept like a man awaiting a dagger in the dark.
This, though…this was different. Now, in the dappled afternoon light filtering through the balcony doors, Gortash was serene.
Kade’s gaze traced the lines of his face, softened in repose. The usual severe, calculating tension was gone from his brow and his dark hair was mussed, a few strands falling across his forehead in a way that was almost boyish. The afternoon sun caught a handful of the silver strands swimming in that dark sea, turning them to golden filaments. His mouth, usually pressed into a firm line of command or a smirking curl of disdain, was gently parted with each gentle breath, his lips a soft and subtle pout. One arm was still draped over Kade’s waist, the other bent near his head, the powerful hand relaxed, scarred fingers bare and curled.
Kade studied the strong line of his nose, the surprisingly thick sweep of his dark lashes against his cheeks, the faint, weathered lines at the corners of his eyes that spoke of long hours and a harder life. He found the slight part of his lips endearing, the steady, quiet rhythm of his breath a soothing counterpoint to the frantic beat of his own heart just moments before.
Gods, he’s such a gorgeous man, Kade thought, his throat tightening. No, beautiful.
The realization was a physical ache, a pressure behind his ribs. Enver was so handsome. Not just attractive in the sharp, intimidating way he usually preferred to comport himself, but—in this moment especially—such a captivatingly human way. The way his strong, scarred fingers lay relaxed against the linen, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the complete and utter lack of performance…all that hard, iron strength now softened, beautiful in its vulnerability.
A beauty that was for no one else, Kade realized with slow dawning wonder. The Lord of Steel would have never shown any soul this sight. But here it was—his. Only his.
Kade breathed out, slowly, softly. The fluttering in his chest became a steady, aching throb and he knew, with a clarity that was both terrifying and exhilarating, why it hurt—why his chest ached with such a sweet, piercing pain. The feeling had been growing for months, watered by secret glances and brutal kindnesses, fed by fire and fear. It had taken root in the poorest soil imaginable and yet it had bloomed—wild and free and undeniable.
The room was silent save for their breathing and the quiet tick of the clock on the wall. The world outside had ceased to exist. Kade took in a measured, deep inhale, gathering his courage like a shield. Heart pounding anew, he inched forward, moving with infinite care as to not wake the sleeping man. He closed his eyes, shutting out everything but the sensation of this moment, this stolen, sacred act. He leaned in, his own lips trembling slightly—and brushed them, feather-light, to Enver’s. The kiss was softer than a sigh, a secret pressed into skin.
“I’m madly in love with you, you know,” he breathed against those parted lips, the confession so low it was almost inaudible—meant only for the air between them and the listening gods alone.
Gortash didn’t stir. Not a muscle twitched. The deep, even rhythm of his breathing continued uninterrupted.
Kade exhaled; a profound, shaky breath that felt like the lifting of a mountain from his shoulders. He’d said it. Not where Gortash could hear of course, not where he could ever know—no, Kade would never have that courage. But the truth had been given voice. He had confessed his heart to the universe, and the silence had answered its acceptance. That was enough.
It would have to be.
A deep, quiet contentment, the first true peace in days, bloomed within the boy. He settled back down, sliding closer until he was nestled perfectly against Gortash’s body and slipped his arm around the man’s waist. He nuzzled into the fuzzy thicket of his chest, head finding its proper place tucked beneath his chin. Enveloped in his scent and warmth, Kade let his eyes drift shut, his own breathing slowing, deepening, as he surrendered once more to sleep.
He did not see, as his moon-white lashes fluttered against his cheeks and his body grew heavy, the man beside him. Did not see those dark eyes snap open inches above his head.
He did not see Enver staring, unblinking, over his shoulder; gaze wide with a storm of stunned, terrified revelation.
Awake.
Awake the entire time.
Gortash could not run.
He had already ran that morning—a pathetic, panicked scramble from this very bed, fleeing the sunlit sanctuary as if the dawn-light on Kade’s sleeping face had been a holy fire meant to scourge him to bone and ash. He’d run, in his way, even before that: every time he pushed Kade away, sacrificed him to his ambition, made him small—made him less. He had sworn then, a vow written in the steel-forged core of himself: no more running.
Yet every fiber of his being, every honed instinct of the survivor, screamed to flee. His muscles, previously lax in the pretense of sleep were now iron, strained and quivering. A violent, animal tremor—the kind that preceded a sprint for one’s life—raced from his clenched jaw down the rigid line of his spine. His heart was not beating; it was battering against the cage of his ribs, a frantic prisoner trying to smash its way out, begging for the sanctuary of distance, of cold stone corridors and the silent solace of his study. He had to run.
But he could not.
The confession hung in the quiet air of the bedchamber, a specter made of breath and impossible tenderness. It did not fade. It pooled, seeping into the silken sheets, the velvet shadows, into the very marrow of his bones. It permeated the golden afternoon, thickening it, making every mote of dust in its path a glittering, accusing witness.
I’m madly in love with you.
It wasn’t the words themselves, soft as thistledown against his lips—they were not a revelation, not truly. The surprise was not in the feeling, but in its naming…for some buried, cowardly part of him had known.
For how long? He couldn’t say. Since the gala, where Kade’s pain-wrought eyes had looked at him not with hate, but with a betrayal so profound it could only stem from devotion? Since the night of the screaming nightmare, when Kade had claimed to see him, the true him, as Gortash flinched in the dark? Since the moment he’d draped his own coat over those shivering shoulders in a workshop reeking of hot steel and ambition?
Or was it older still—had the seed been planted years ago, when a winter’s thrush in a cheap silver mask dared to argue philosophy with a devil?
His breath hitched, a ragged, ugly sound in the tranquil room. It didn’t matter. A deep, secret corner of his mind had been cataloguing it all with the detached precision of a strategist—yet refused to give it a name.
Now, named, it was terrifying.
I love you. In truth Gortash knew the phrase well, had harvested those three little words from a hundred different mouths, plucked them like ripe, useful fruit. They were currency, flattery, a pedestal for his pride, a lever to pry open doors, a weakness to be exploited—or, at its most tedious, a trivial annoyance to be discarded without a thought. He was a connoisseur of cheap devotion, had seen it glimmer in the eyes of sycophants and lovers alike, or what passed for it in the grasping, soulless circles he navigated.
It had always meant nothing. Less than nothing.
This was not that. This was Kade.
This was the boy with annotations in the margins of pamphlets worn soft with rereading, with a stolen sketch folded beneath his pillow and a garden that defied the very soil it grew in. This was the stormheart, the rebellious bloom between black thorns, the gentle, relentless hand that kept pulling him back from the precipice of his own becoming. This was the one who saw the crack in the marble of his soul and, instead of driving a wedge, had poured something tender and fragile and mending into the fissure.
This love was not an offering laid at the feet of Lord Gortash. It was a silent, steadfast claim on Enver—the man he had buried beneath ambition and vengeance.
The rich, golden afternoon light, so gentle moments ago, now felt like a blazing interrogator’s lamp, exposing every crack in his armor, every tremor he sought to hide. He was laid bare, and the audience was his own pounding heart. His head swam, the world tilting on an axis he had not authorized.
Wake him up. The thought was unbidden, sudden, surging from shadowed depths. His mind reeled from it, body flinching in reaction.
Tell him. His skin prickled in warning; his conscious squirmed like something revealed under a turned stone, suddenly exposed.
'I'm madly in love' he said. Tell him!
(Do not look at it, do not name it, do not feed it—)
So are y—
The words, cresting the surface of his subconscious like a leviathan, abrupt and alarming, was a flaming match to gunpowder. The thing he had sensed growing within him for months that he had ignored with a silent, desperate, almost mad single-mindedness—a tender, hungry vine twining around the cold iron of his will—suddenly burst into full, terrifying bloom.
And the walls he built around it shattered.
Gortash was drowning.
The pressure in his chest became a vise, a band of hot iron tightening, squeezing the air from his lungs. His throat closed, a seam welded shut; bile rose from his churning stomach. He could not say it. He could not even think the words. To think it was to make it real, to give it a shape and a name, and named things could be seen. And seen things could be judged. Could be taken.
He was afraid—viscerally, childishly afraid. Afraid Bane would see this heresy in his heart, this crack in his chosen instrument’s resolve, and strip his power to dust. It was the ultimate vulnerability, the one flaw his god of tyranny would not forgive. Or worse—Raphael, that connoisseur of despair, would scent the vulnerability on the air and materialize from the shadows with that sagacious smirk and a mocking sonnet on his lips.
To want this, to need this, was to carve his own heart out and offer it on a platter to every dark thing he had ever bargained with, to make himself weak. The firmament of his carefully constructed world would crack open beneath his feet—revealing not power, not the glorious, controlled apothosis of his ascension, but the black, screaming, hungry void that had waited for him all his life.
And it would swallow him whole for the sin of it. For daring to want this instead of—
He was drowning. The word was no metaphor; it was a cold, black tide rising in his throat. That tight, familiar band constricted further around his lungs, choking off his shaking gasps. The air turned thin and sharp. No. Not this. Not now.
He was back in the dark, small and broken, with the scent of sulphur, blood and despair clogging his senses. His vision began to narrow, the amber-lit room darkening at the edges.
Breathe, you fool. Breathe!
He was having a panic attack. Here, in his own bed, with the weight of a sleeping saint in his arms. The Lord of Steel, the Chosen of Bane, was having a panic attack like an idiot child; brought to his knees not by an army or a rival, but by three whispered words and a kiss softer than forgiveness. The absurdity of it almost made him laugh, a sound that would have been a sob.
A technique, old and dusty, surfaced from the wreckage of his childhood. A voice, not his own, rippling with its own madness but gentle: Look, little mouse. Name five things you can see. It makes the walls stop moving. Hands as small as his, holding him; a rare lucid moment, in the hall of echoing screams.
Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached, he squeezed his eyes shut—a child’s gesture, desperate and afraid—then forced them open. Disgust at his weakness warred with necessity. His gaze, blurry with unshed tears, scrabbled across the room. Name them. Claim them. One by one.
One. The burgundy damask of the canopy, with its gold-thread pattern of pomegranates.
Two. The carved mahogany bedpost, a griffin’s claw clutching an onyx orb.
Three. A forgotten, half-full glass of water on the nightstand, catching the light in a distorted, trembling oval.
Four. The delicate arc of Kade’s silver eyelashes against his cheek.
Five. His own hand, resting on the cover between them. The hand that had forged death warrants and signed pacts with devils. It was trembling.
His breathing was a ragged, shallow thing. Good, little mouse. Good. The voice whispered in memory; eyes too bright but hands gentle in his hair. Now, four things you can feel. Just reach out and touch. The world still exists, and so do you.
One. The crush of fine linen against his skin, soaking through with sweat.
Two. The burning sensation of bile in his throat, sour and acidic.
Three. The solid, warm weight of Kade’s body against his own.
Four. The damp track of a single, traitorous tear he hadn’t felt escape, cooling on his temple.
Three things you can hear, now, sweetling. Not the screams. Listen for the small things, the quiet things, the things they don’t notice but little mice do. Gortash’s fingers flexed. Tightened, relaxed. Tightened, relaxed.
One. The quiet tick of the clock on the wall, a metronome of comfort.
Two. The gentle puff of Kade’s breath against his collarbone, soft as a moonlace petal.
Three. The drum of his own heart in his ears, slowing more and more.
You’re doing well, very well. Almost over. Two things you can smell. Sulphur doesn’t count.
One. Lavender soap. Garden dirt. The sweet smell of duskthistle and moonlace. Kade.
Two. A coward’s fear-sweat, sharp salt and bitter sour.
And now—one thing you can taste. You’re here, little mouse. You’re alive. As much as any of us are.
One. The tart sugar sweetness of a strawberry drenched in cream. Cloying and persistent and perfect.
His breath hitched, caught, and then began to even. The fist around his chest loosened, finger by finger. The roaring in his ears subsided to a dull thrum. He had not woken him. Thank every silent, indifferent god. The boy slept on, peaceful in the sanctuary of his own confessed truth.
I am loved.
The realization did not bring warmth. It was a weight, both crushing and sacred. A sob, raw and pitiful, bubbled up in his throat. He choked on it, his eyes burning, suddenly and mortifyingly wet. He squeezed them shut and breathed. In, out. In, out. A survivor’s song.
He could not acknowledge this. Not to Kade. Not to the empty air. Perhaps not even in the deepest vault of his own heart. To give it voice was to make it real, to make it a lever the world could—would—use to break him.
But. He cradled the word, a secret light in the darkness.
He had promised. In a moonlit park, with the taste of apology like blood in his mouth, he had promised to try. To learn the new, clumsy steps. He had not run. And the boy—the beautiful, impossible boy who loved him—slept on, peaceful now, anchored by his presence. The memory of Kade’s warm, trusting smile over a breakfast feast flashed before him.
He could not say it. He could not even think it to himself without the terror rising like bile.
But he could keep trying. He could stay. He could hold this sleeping, precious treasure through the nightmares. He could wage his wars and build his crown and, in the quiet hours between, he could attempt to be the man worthy of a confession whispered to an indifferent world. It was the least he could do.
Which was, he knew, the most he had ever offered anyone in his entire, wretched life.
Slowly, with the infinite care of a man defusing a bomb, he let his arm, which had gone stiff, relax again around Kade’s waist. He leaned his forehead, very gently, against the crown of that starlight hair. He inhaled the scent of moonlace and lavender and Kade, and he did not flee. He held his ground. He held him. And there, in the spotlight of a gentle amber afternoon, with the dagger of a god’s disapproval at his back and the weight of a devil’s laughter in his ears, Enver Gortash held the one thing he had never dared to want, and prayed to no one that he would not break it.
Ending note:
I had to include one this time! I have been looking forward to this chapter forever, this scene has been in my head since I started the fic -- namely Gortash really Going Through It at a real confession aha -- and I hope that it was worth the wait. I actually originally had just one chapter end at Kade's confession and then the next starting with 'Gortash could not run' and while that was an excellent cliffhanger -- it was barely 2k words lol. So I tried to include a little more mental 'space' with the formatting, I hope it still reads with the same impact.
And yes, the person in his past that helped talk him through his panic attacks was Hope. I've always head-canoned that when he was first there she tried to help him out, in her own way. ;u; I might write something with them eventually.
Kade & Gort from my fic A Defiant Garden. Gortash has finally admitted he has feelings! They're a bit possessive but they're there.
Now he gets to figure out what to do with them.
(ugh I love them sm)
