War waged with the force of a thousand storms, thunder cracking in the steel of swords and battle cries torn across bloodied lips. Every soldier was a cloud in a slick, red sky, and at their center, a hurricane.
His eyes charged with lightning, cloak ripped out behind him, he stood against the Masters in one final stand. A single catalyst for the end times as bolts pulsed from his fingertips, his energy flaring to collide with shadowed tendrils snapping to curve around him. Marcello Silvercrest would give it everything he had, the war that began at dawn beginning to dip into the dusk-lit hours.
Exhaustion beaded like sweat upon his brow, grime and blood seeping into his hairline of salt and pepper. The Halruaan forces were prevailing despite all odds as his team sought to box the Masters away from their charges. Even through his peripherals he could his son’s shields thrown up against every fireball and necrotic bolt, shattering with every impact. His lover with three arrows knocked back to his jawline as they cut through the air. The army general spinning in a flurry of blows as his blade spun through the ebony skin of enemies.
He would not let them fall.
Throwing out his hand again, his dwindling mana came with a sputtering glow to his tattoo, deep royal purples waning. Several more bolts of lightning spray from his palm, shattering out towards the enemy. One, two, three, four… The first bolt crashes right through the chest of a Master and she’s blasted from her feet, charred and unmoving, yet none of her allies waver.
And a weight slams into his back. Stumbling forwards, a sputtered growl rolls in Marcello’s chest with hands grappling at him for purchase.
“For the masters,” a voice snarls against his ear, fingertips connecting to the mage’s temples.
Everything froze.
Marcello spiraled backwards into the depths of his mind as a force threatened to break it, searching, ripping, tearing. It began to eat away at the depleted magic left pooling inside him, drawn up like liquid ice.
No.
The hurricane of a man was beginning to fail as his spin weakened, his eye splintering. It was a different kind of pain than most. Not jarring, not like the slice of a blade or the burn of raw magic against flesh. It was much more subtle. Like an exhausted ache turning his bones and muscles to jelly. Like he’d gone to donate blood and someone had just left him there… draining… draining…
Even his thoughts were growing slower, less coherent. He couldn’t fight off the feeling, the leech sucking away what he held so dear.
Rhaen… I’m so sorry… Please don’t let me hurt them…
He knew what came next as the darkness began to open up in the pockets of his skull, like eternal darkness shutting off and locking away different aspects of who he was…
Until he was… Nothing.
A puppet.
----
As the weight lifted off of him and heterochromatic eyes blinked open, he saw no signs of war. All he knew was the touch of dark fingers rolling down his cheek and caressing his jaw, lips parting lovingly to his mouth.
“Rhaen,” Marcello whimpers, tossing his fingers into his lover’s snowy locks as their bodies roll to their sides upon the cool stone flooring of the crystal cavern.
A chuckle blossoms upon the elf’s lips, jade eyes blinking open to meet his own. “I know.”
“I love you too.”
“Good.”
Fingers twist up to fists and he wheels his lover forward, crashing their lips together once more in feverish passion. Oh this man… Oh how limitless his love for him was. Marcello’s chest flared to life with the slow drum of his own heart, the warmth of the sun’s rays kissing away all the doubts and stresses. Nothing else mattered.
At the end of every long day was a bed occupied by the love of his life and an awaiting breakfast come morning with their children. He didn’t have to run anymore, for everything in him screamed to stay and fight like hell for all the love in his heart. For his family.
Mouths parted and his forehead brushed to Rhaenoran’s, noses swiping and nuzzling to another.
“Don’t leave me,” Rhaen finally exhales, thumb rolling beneath Marcello’s eye.
“I won’t, not ever.”
“...Come back to me.”
His voice broke and Marcello peeled his eyes open, searching the elf with worry. “Rhaen?”
Panic.
Were those tears? A hand immediately shot out, palm flattening to cup an ebony cheek as he softly turned his face upwards. “Rhaen… I’m right here. I promise, I haven’t gone anywhere.”
The cavern suddenly lurches, gravity rolling sideways and the two go flying. Crashing, tumbling. When he hits the ground next, his body is pinned beneath his lover, green eyes panicked and clouded with tears.
“Come back to me, dammit!” The words break out in a sobbed beg, splintering in Marcello’s mind like knives dissecting his brain.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
His head roared with the thundered ferocity of a waterfall as its strong currents ripped him beneath the surface.
----
Gone too long. The first conscious breath of air dragged into his lungs with a gasp as he breached the surface of reality. His vision swam, body functions still not entirely his own as he lay slumped in the trembling arms of another.
Marcello could feel wetness fall against his face, ringing ears giving way to the horrid sobs of his lover. Words tangled on his tongue in trying to speak, the notion of talking sending more daggers into his skull. He grimaces and forces the haze away from his vision with long, pained blinks.
Rhaen hovered above him with ash coated hair and blood smeared features, his friends, family, and people gathered around with sullen, mournful looks. Was it over? Had the war ended? Why were they all crying? He tried to find his voice again, fingers fumbling to grip the torn sleeve of his lover and tugging weakly.
“What happened…?” he whispers, both words blending to a long slur.
The dark elf’s gaze immediately snaps up, wild as nails drove deeper into Marcello’s robes. “Marcello.”
“Oh gods… Marcello…”
He lurches over with another sob, face crashing into the man’s shoulder as snot and tears seep into the cloth.
“Don’t move… don’t speak. I’ve got you… I thought you were gone… I thought-”
Caelan approaches from behind, the back of his hand wiping furiously beneath his eyes as they dart towards where a Crinti lay. Dressed in all black, an enchanted cloak drawn over his features and blending into the surrounding scenery. The only thing that set him apart from any of the other fallen enemies was the runes etched into his ebony skin. A spellthief.
“He took you.”
