Memory

Remember, Rhys told himself. It's for a warm bed and two guaranteed meals. Every day! That alone is worth the risk.

As if in answer, his handhold crumbled, the ancient stone disintegrating under his left hand. Fingers tightening on the lip of one of the hundreds of pitted holes in the abandoned keep's walls, Rhys swung. His momentum kept the young thief swinging back and forth as he clung to his remaining handhold as if his life depended on it.

Which it did.

Rhys screwed his pale blue eyes shut, forcing himself to /not/ look down as the pebbles and stones that were once his other handhold plunked into the moat. Despite the castle's fall into disrepair, the moat, fed by a small offshoot of the Maugyl River to the east, was still full and healthy. Often, when he was younger, Rhys and the other street orphans would come up to the Nerith Ruins from Maugylton to fish and swim in its still-blue waters. The more active boys would break off stout twigs from the surrounding trees, re-enacting the Purge from a century before with those makeshift swords.

In his youth, Rhys enjoyed these games as much as anyone else. Now, at the ripe old age of seventeen winters, he considered himself above such childish fare, gravitating towards more interesting pursuits, common to men already grown fully into their bodies.

But that's not the real reason, is it, Rhys? He tried to black his own thoughts out, the cat-claws tied to the front tips of his boots gouging into the wall as he continued his ascent, the top of the battlements in sight. Only a few more spans...

Gloveless hands, torn and bleeding, gripped the edge of the wall as Rhys crested the top. He let minutes pass as he lie on the edge, watching the sun set as he allowed the autumn-touched stone cool one side of his face, his sweat drawing clean lines on his dust-caked face.

"Kemen damn me," he muttered, invoking the name of the Patron of Luck and Thieves. "I wish that was the hard part."

Sufficiently calmed, Rhys sat up, searching for a path downward to the inner bailey. In thought, a hand absently smoothed out his sandy-blond hair. He left it long this season, foregoing one of Rafal's blunt-knife haircuts. The longer hair had made it easier to bind a single forelock together against his left temple with a set of multicolored beads; a gift from his most recent paramour. 'It gives you an aura of mystery, Rhys,' he had said.

Soon after that gift, Rhys' lover had been caught by the Town Guard beating beggars for their alms. Despite what they had shared, Rhys made no effort to rescue him. You do not steal from the Beggars. That's the first rule any Orphan pickpocket learns. Every Orphan shunned the bully, Rhys included. But...he did miss those nights, and the comfort of a warm body beside his own.

Rhys went through that summer steady, but worried. A solitary Orphan was easy prey for the tavern bullies, or Guild Nobles looking for a new toy. He had almost broken down in relief when the Eyes found him.

The Guilds may run the city now, since the Nobles were deposed in the Purge, but any Orphan knew that it was the Orders who held a lot of the power. Being asked to join an Order was the dream of every Orphan, since it meant security, and a stable place to live in most cases.

The Orders themselves used to refer to themselves as Thieves Guilds, but changed their named to Orders once the Merchant Guilds took political power. "We won't sully our honor naming ourselves after a lower class of criminals," Mishawn said, in his interview with Rhys. "The Orders are a much better class of thieves."

Soon, Mishawn had explained all about the Most Sacred Order of the Eyes of the Waking Dream. The Orphans referred to the Order as "The Eyes" for short. Unlike some of the less savory Orders, the Eyes had a reputation of being good to its members. Their activities leaned more towards spying and uncovering secrets than outright theft and murder. This suited Rhys just fine, since he had only stolen for his own survival, and bore a strong dislike for harming others for any reason other than a last resort of self-defense.

Ah, there's something. Rhys smiled as he hauled himself back up, walking along the battlements until he arrived at the staircase. The rubble of the parapet that had fallen when the castle was originally attacked had destroyed a bit of the stone steps leading down to the ground inside the keep. The remaining stairs had some rubble along the edges of the steps, with the centers of them being cleared away by previous foot traffic. A few more loose pebbles, kicked off the edge by the boy, bounced along the ground.

Grit crunched under his boot heel as Rhys lowered his foot on the topmost step. This, apparently, was the formal initiation task set by the Eyes, for full membership into the Order; the prospective member must enter the Nerith Ruins by ways other than the front gate (the drawbridge long destroyed), spend the night inside, and return with some item of value. All in all, it didn't appear to be that hard of a trial. Except...Gods above, why the Nerith Ruins?

The Ruins...it had been what, eight years? Eight years, and Rhys could still see those eyes while he slept. They never wanted him, never called to him, but he was drawn to them all the same. Through what lovers he had, all of them had said that, while he slept, Rhys occasionally called out a name,

"Pol..."

He stopped at a large gap between steps. It was too far for a simple jump, and a quick glance over the side said that a jump from that height to the ground would twist his ankle at best, and break both of his legs otherwise. A part of him wished he could have afforded a rope and hook, since that would have made this much easier, but he was instructed to go that night, with only what he carried. The cat-claws, they were for getting topside in case the Watch got on his tail. The rooftops were a separate world for the Orphans: a personal highway, and a means of escape if the situation proved too much to bear. The boot attachments made it easier, as Rhys was able to shimmy along the wall the steps were braced against, using hand- and claw-made foot-holds to keep him from plummeting to his untimely death. Inch by inch, he crept sideways, the sweat stinging his eyes again as the light began to fail, bringing night with it. By the time he cleared the gap, and staggered his way down the rest of the stairs in exhaustion, evening had fully arrived.

His boots scraping against the blasted ground was the only sound inside the keep, just barely holding back the aura of death that seemed to permeate the place. The place had no smell, the summer winds and rains over the passing decades scouring away the stench of smoke, rot, and decay. Just barely, Rhys could see the circular scorch marks peppering the courtyard. About seven spans wide, each mark showed the thief where a fireball had landed in the siege. The Arcane, jealous of the inner magic the Nobles held, allied with the Guilds during the Purge.

Dust swirled around his boots as Rhys gazed upon the ruined castle itself, his hand going reflexively to the sheathed dagger at his belt.

Some areas of what was once Castle Nerith had been leveled; broken stone towers reaching up to the sky like the exposed ribs of a skeleton. Other towers, their onion-shaped domes intact, stood defiantly against the erosion of time and the elements. Jagged shards of colored glass littered the perimeter of the fortress, the metal frames of the stained glass windows long since rusted. The wood doors, at the center of another scorch mark at the top of the steps, had rotted away to leave only an open portal to the darkness inside.

Rhys felt an involuntary shudder rip through him as he started up the steps. Hundreds of Eyes had done this before, he thought. And the fact that the Order still exists proves that this /can/ be done. But...is it worth spending the night here? His stomach rumbles in answer.

The outside of the castle was a shock, seen up close. Even in tatters, the inside of the castle itself stole Rhys' breath from his lungs. It was all he could do to stop and stare.

Through the outer doors stood a foyer. Small and dark, the room stretched a good five spans to each side. The furniture, now reduced to kindling, was designed for comfort and relaxation. Beyond that was the Hall, a sprawling chamber. Tables and chairs broken and thrown to the sides against other objects, ending in a single staircase that lead to a landing halfway up, breaking off into two staircases leading to the upper towers. The ceiling of this chamber dissolved into utter darkness, which Rhys judged to be about twelve spans straight upward.

Rhys winced as he took each step. Every move, every touch of boot against stone, every rustle of homespun cloth against bare skin, seemed to be captured by the walls around him and amplified a hundredfold. Bumps sprouted along the skin on his arms as he stifled a sneeze from the dust. Lighting the small lantern he carried with him, Rhys could see the dust where nothing had been disturbed, and the dusty footprints of previous initiates of the Order, set on their appointed tasks long ago.

He held the lantern close, as if standing in its circle of light alone could dispel the feeling of smallness and awe in the place. Better to find something now, he decided, then sleep. In the glow of the lantern, his footsteps didn't sound so invasive to his ears.

As he was clearing away a small pile of broken wood furniture near the stairs, a flicker of light out of the corner of his eye almost caused him to drop the lantern. As his head whipped to his left side, he groaned at the cause of his distress.

"Some Eye I make," he said, admonishing himself in front of the mirror. "Jumping at every movement like that."

The silver that rimmed the full-length mirror was tarnished, and pitted in most visible places, which would explain why a previous initiate had not taken it outside of the keep. The glass, surprisingly, had mostly remained intact; the lower half was a mass of cracks, but had been split crosswise across the center, leaving the top half unbroken. The light he carried cast Rhys' features into a relief of sharp angles and shadows; a small nose, planted under quite, pale-blue eyes and high cheekbones. He had kept his face free of any blond cheek-fuzz he had. He preferred it that way.

The outlines of his body could also be seen. Close to two spans in height, his build remained trim, not running to flab with idleness nor very muscular from heavy lifting. Clothed only in a sleeveless tunic, gray in color, and black breeches, the lithe figure could easily be seen under his clothes.

Rhys shook his head, setting the beaded strand of hair bouncing against the left side of his face. "Stop staring," he said, aloud, to himself. "You have no one to impress." Sighing at that, he turned back to the junk pile, searching once more.

At that moment, from that pile, a flash of color caught his attention. No, he thought. It can't be. It shimmered for just a second under the trash, but it was that color, that exact shade of sea foam green...he had seen that color only once before. And almost every night after that in his mind.

Setting the lantern down, the shuttered flame facing the pile, Rhys tore into it, ignoring the splinters in his hands from the broken chair arms and table legs. He tossed aside anything that didn't match that color, letting it clatter to the floor, ignored. Panting with the sudden rush of blood and exertion, Rhys stopped cold as he took in the sight of what he uncovered.

The portrait was small, only half a span wide at most, a majority of its round wooden frame intact. It was clearly part of the furniture here, abandoned almost a hundred years ago. But that face...around nine or ten summers in age; the small chin, the cheeks not completely rid of baby fat, the curly head of hair, close-cropped and black enough to be almost blue, and those eyes. Green eyes the shade of sea foam, wide and innocent. For eight years, Rhys could never forget them.

Pol...

Tired of swimming, the nine-winter-old Rhys wandered to the other side of the keep, out of sight of the other boys. With a wooden sword, carved from a branch and tied with twine himself, he let the other Orphans play at being the Arcane and Guild Soldiers bringing down the corrupt Nobility. That didn't interest him as much as the older stories did. It always came back to the knights. Noble, protective, good. /Those/ were qualities to aspire to, instead of bragging how much coin you carry in your ass.

He swung one way, and the head of an imaginary dragon was severed. A swing the other way, and his blade parried an opponent's strike. It didn't get better than that.

Smiling, Sir Rhys strode forward, sword at his side, as he closed his eyes. In his mind, he heard the cheers. He heard the crowds call his name. He heard the crying.

Crying?

He opened his eyes to dispel his own illusion, coming across a new sight. On the edge of the moat sat a small boy in good clothing, with his face buried in his hands, sobbing. His dark curly hair was in disarray, his clothes smeared with dirt and mud. Forgetting his pretense, Rhys jogged over to the crying boy, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

Lifting his face, the mystery boy looked at Rhys. Rhys felt as if he just got a kick to the stomach. By the Gods...

The first thing he saw were those wide, beautiful, sea-green eyes, set in that young face. The face would be even prettier if his cheeks and nose were not red from crying. Rhys hated seeing people sad, but this sight wanted to make his heart burst.

"I..." the boy said, voice scratchy from sobbing. "I can't find my parents. We were here, and they disappeared."

Rhys, feeling confused, knelt down beside the boy. "You don't know where they went?"

The boy shook his head.

"What's your name?"

"Pol."

"And I'm Rhys," he replied, squeezing Pol's shoulder. "Want me to help you find them?"

Pol's eyes lit up, and Rhys felt his stomach slip again. If I could make him smile like that all the time... "Yes," Pol said, beaming. "I'd like that very much."

"Good," Rhys said, getting up again. "Let me bring you to my friends over there and-"

"No!" Pol cried, looking stricken as he shrunk back from Rhys.

"No? Why not?"

"They scare me. I...was watching before. There's so many of them."

"And I don't frighten you?"

"No. You seem nicer."

Rhys smiled again. "Thanks," he said. "But, they can help. You don't have to worry about them, because I'll protect you. Do you want to wait here, then, while I get them?"

Pol nodded quickly. "Yes," he said. "I'll wait. You're going to come back for me, right?"

If I can help it, Rhys thought, I'll never leave your side. "Of course I will. 'Ja nuleti, li menul'."

Pol's expression went wide. "You know the Ganwyr language?"

Rhys shook his head. "No. Just that phrase. It's an old Knight's saying, that means-"

"If I lie," Pol recited, "may I be forgotten." The old Nobility and culture had believed that while the body may die, the soul would remain whole only so long as their names were remembered. The families of that time kept detailed records of their family trees, lest a name be forgotten and the soul destroyed utterly. That phrase, in the Ganwyr tongue, was a solemn oath. Should the knight fail something after taking that oath, his name would be stripped from the lists. A harsh punishment, but such was the life of a Knight, so the oath was rarely used in vain. "I've heard it before."

"And I mean it now," Rhys whispered. He took Pol's small hand, bringing it to his lips. "I'll come back for you."

To Rhys' surprise, Pol's face flushed scarlet and he giggles. "You're funny," he said. "And nice."

Rhys nodded, and drove the point of his wooden sword into the ground beside the boy. "I'll be back soon," he said. "If you need to defend yourself, use this."

"No worries," Pol said. "I'll wait for you."

But, by the time Rhys had returned, friends in tow, Pol was nowhere to be seen. For hours, despite the comments from his friends, Rhys searched with no sign of the odd boy. No trampled blades of grass, no signs of any struggle, and no signs of anything in the moat as Rhys swam through it, circling the keep twice. The only sign that made Rhys believe he did not imagine this was the wooden sword still in the ground, untouched.

The fights Rhys had gotten into lasted for weeks afterward, due to the constant ribbing from the others. It was just a fantasy, they had said, or that he was just seeing things.

And, as Initiate Rhys of the Most Sacred Order of the Eyes of the Waking Dream looked upon the old portrait, he wondered.

Tracing a slender finger down the picture's cheek, he said, "Maybe I did see a ghost."

"Not...quite."

Rhys reacted on instinct, honed by years of street living. His dagger was in his hand before he realized it, spinning around on the balls of his feet to face the voice behind him. He crouched, narrowing his eyes at whoever snuck up on him.

And promptly froze, as his dagger dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.

The figure before him was translucent, the walls of the keep visible through his body. The baby fat of the figure's face had melted away in adolescence, leaving it lean and healthy. His hair was still the same mop of cropped black curls, and the rest of his body filled out nicely. He was shorter than Rhys, though they appeared about the same age, and was more compact and broader in shoulder than the young thief, easily seen beneath the black-and-russet livery he was wearing. And those eyes...oceans of green. No one else had them.

"Rhys," the ghostly figure said, as a smile formed on his face. "It's you, isn't it?"

Aghast, Rhys could barely stammer out the word. "Pol?"

Pol took a step forward, eyeing Rhys. "The years have been...very good to you. You did come back. I remember."

Snapping out of it, Rhys strode ahead, going to place his hands on Pol's shoulders. "Who /are/-" he said, and was cut off as his hands passed right through the image. "What..."

"Let me explain," Pol said, a pleading look in his eyes. "I am the same boy you saw, back then. I could hear your thoughts, and your fantasies of being a Knight. If I appeared to you as the age I am now, this age, when I was..." He stopped, and changed his tack. "If I appeared as an older boy, you would have thought I had less...honest intentions."

Rhys nodded. He had had to knife an older boy or two who had the same thing in mind when he was smaller. He only really looked at boys around his own age. "Who and what are you? A Noble..."

"I was," Pol admitted. "I am Polanan Ardeas T'Nerith. This is...was my family's keep. I'm the only one left."

"But...how are you still here? This..." Rhys said, holding up the portrait. "And this."

"About ninety years ago," Pol replied. "As for the rest, I'm not a ghost as you believe such things exist. I...live here. I can't see beyond the boundaries of the keep, but I can appear, and read the thoughts of others. And...sometimes I can make people forget things, but..."

"Is that what it is," Rhys asked. "You've been controlling my mind?" Those eyes...longing. So many nights...

"No!" Pol cried. "I won't do it. The Nobles had powers like that, but we are bound never to use it to control others. Only help them. Please believe me. Ja nuleti, li menul."

Rhys' eyes went wide. "You're serious."

"I am. I can see what happens here. I saw you come back for me, where you left the sword."

"Then why weren't you there? I made a promise to you."

"And you kept it. Even then, you had a kind heart. But...it would have raised too many questions."

"There's too many now!" Rhys yelled. "For years, I thought I had failed."

"You didn't," Pol said. "You lost no honor. Rhys...did the Eyes send you?"

"They did. Or...did you tell them to send me?"

The sprit shook his head. "No. They found you on their own. I hoped they would, since I...sponsor them in a way."

Rhys relaxed. "I don't get what you mean."

Pol smiled, turning red in the cheeks again. "For the Eyes, this isn't a test of courage, or perception. It's one of compassion. I'm trapped here, but I still...need."

"Need?"

"Yes," Pol said, voice soft as velvet. With a ghostly hand, he drew it along the side of Rhys' face. The thief felt nothing from the touch. "I need that companionship, because I am alone most of the time. I only ask for a night. If the Initiate accepts, I can...touch his mind, and we spend the night together. I make them forget the encounter, but ask them what they want from the keep. It's theirs."

Rhys sunk to the floor, legs turning to jelly under him. "That's...sick," he muttered. "Is that all the Eyes are? The whores of a ghost?"

"It isn't like that," Pol said. "No one is sad, afterwards. And it has been very long. It's sharing, a joining. I get e memory for myself of what it feels like to be...real again. Besides...this is still my home, and all of you come to steal my family's things."

"Why? You don't need them anymore."

"You don't know that."

"And you do?"

"Yes." Every object in here is a memory of mine, and you take them for trophies."

Rhys flushed. "I...didn't think of it that way."

"It's a reward for the good-hearted. If I sense wickedness in someone's heart, I scare them away, and they go back empty-handed."

"And me?"

"Gods above, Rhys. I knew that when we first met. I wished...but you were way too young. You like what you like. I didn't make you that way, either."

Rhys nodded. "I didn't think you did, Pol."

The image chuckled. "You almost made my heart break these last few years," Pol said. "You have no idea how happy I am they found you, of all the Orders."

"What do you mean?"

"You dream of me."

Rhys felt the heat creep into his cheeks. "I do."

"I can hear you. On those nights. I can't...touch you from here when you're in town, but I could feel those cries. There's much I can do, but those nights I felt so helpless.'

"/You/ feel helpless? Gods, Pol, I spent years thinking I had failed you."

Pol put a hand on the shaking Rhys' shoulder, despite the fact that there was no true contact. "But...you didn't, Rhys." He knelt down, looking at the blond rogue. "If I could have, I would have been there."

"And now?"

"Yes," Pol said. "I never forgot you."

Rhys swallowed, finding his breath before he spoke. "Pol...can...can you..."

Pol nodded. "The Eyes will protect their own. I can promise that. Just...do you want this?"

A single nod. "Yes." And Rhys sighed, because he knew he had always wanted this.

Without a word, Pol places his fingers against Rhys' forehead. Behind his eyes, Rhys could feel a pulse of golden light, pushing its way forward until it covered his vision, blinding him.

It was evening in the Keep, but the lanterns strewn along the walls made it appear to be midday. Light reflected off the stained glass windows, pictures of Knights in battle or the stories of the Gods whole in a multitude of shimmering hues. People missed about as Rhys looked around, chatting cheerily with other guests, or sitting at fine tables laden with food as they appreciated the group of bards on stringed instruments. The walls were whole again, to Rhys' astonishment, and freshly-painted, with a floor of black marble smooth enough that one could see their reflection in it.

And what a reflection! Rhys simple clothes were nowhere to be seen. Instead, he wore a tunic of light blue, outlined in silver, with darker blue silk for a shirt and matching breeches, tucked into ankle-high boots in black leather. At least, that's what it felt like. The clothes did feel like silk...

"Do you want to dance, Rhys?"

The thief looked up, back to Pol, still dressed in the same clothes he appeared in. "This is unreal," he whispered.

"In our minds, it is real," Pol said, extending a hand. "That is what matters."

And all at once, every urge, every want roared up in Rhys like a flood. Without words, he closed the gap between them, taking Pol into his arms, and pressed their lips together. Rhys squeezed with his arms, pulling Pol against him, crushing them together as their mouths opened, tongues searching, pushing, and tasting each other. The kiss was deep, powerful, and tasted of cinnamon and oranges. Immediately, Rhys could feel Pol's manhood, erect, pressing against his stomach, exuding a warmth that threatened to melt Rhys on the spot. Pol's arms drew close, putting strain on Rhys' shoulders. Gods, Pol had strength.

Pol was the first to draw back from the kiss. "I will take that as a no," he said, with a grin that almost seemed plastered to his face.

"Pol..." Rhys gasped, kissing him again. How he wanted this. Years...after so long. "What is that...what I'm tasting?"

"My favorite summerwine," Pol said. "You like it?"

"Yes. You can feel that, too?"

"Your prick against my thigh? Yes, Rhys."

Rhys shook his head, lifting Pol a few inches off the ground, his arms still wrapped around the smaller man. "The kiss, and all of it? This is how you feel as a ghost?"

Pol chuckled. "But I'm not a ghost."

"How do you mean?"

"Being a ghost means that I died."

In his shock, Rhys almost dropped the boy. "What do you mean you're not dead?"

Pol shook his head. "I should explain." He took a breath, looking around the room as Rhys set him down gently. He indicated a laughing, graceful blond boy, sitting with a number of other men and women, enjoying some joke. "See him? That's Daven."

"Daven?"

"Yes. When I was sixteen, about a century ago, he wintered here as a squire to my father, as an older brother of mine was sent off to another Noble's castle to Squire. We...fell in love. That winter was not cold, not for us. And, on Solstice, he gave me this." Pol stopped, showing him a simple gold band, with a turquoise stripe running through the center of it. "We had pledged our love, that day."

"And what happened?" Rhys stared, fascinated. Something about that Daven seemed...familiar, somehow.

"My Father found out. He was furious. Daven, he sent home. Me...he decided on a worse punishment. In the lowest part of the Castle, he kept a chamber, ensorcelled to keep its prisoner in stasis."

Rhys, unused to magic being talked about as if it were so commonplace, shook his head. "Stasis?"

Pol nodded once more. "It's a magic...it keeps the subject...preserved. They don't age. They're frozen in time. He was meant to keep me there for three years, because he figured Daven would outgrow me by then, and would have moved on to a woman, and it would hurt me, and I would never think of men that way again."

Rhys nodded, getting most of it. "Why didn't he just change your mind?"

"Because some things not even our power could change. The will of the Gods is not meant to be altered in such a fashion."

"And...you were...frozen in time like that?"

"I was, for about a year, as I measure it now. Then, the Purge happened. I don't know exactly how, but the magics being unleashed disrupted the spell. The spell can't be broken unless the door to the chamber is opened. But since it's under the ruins you know, that isn't possible. But, while my body still is held in stasis, my mind was awake. It has been that way ever since."

Rhys, for all his courage, started letting a few tears fall. "Pol...I'm so sorry. That must be so terrible."

Pol smiled, wiping the tears away. "I have learned to live with it. I...encounter people on occasion, but it is my lot in this life," he said. "I'm all right, here." He stood on his toes to kiss Rhys. "And tonight, you're here with me. I...wished for this. For a long time."

Rhys nodded around the lump in his throat. "As have I. It hurt so much."

"And I'll take that away, tonight." Pol drew away from Rhys, sliding his slender hand along Rhys' arm until they laced their fingers together. "Come. Any more dallying and we'll both pass out."

Rhys nodded mutely, following. His manhood was straining against his breeches, a small clear stain appearing against the blue silk. He wiped the new-forming sweat off his brow as he followed the Noble.

Time seemed not to pass for Rhys as the two made their way up the stairwells in the towers. No one passed them on the steps, the torches along the walls canceling the darkness. He waited, not quite patient, as Pol fumbled through his pockets for his room key, and opened the door.

The room itself spoke of wealth, the carpets a deep russet in color, finely woven, with mahogany furniture tastefully placed against the walls. The bed itself was double-sized, the sheets silk, and maroon in hue. Rhys smiled, caught between his attraction for Pol and his feeling of being impressed at the furnishings.

Maybe it was a trick of the mind, or maybe in their haste, their clothes came off almost immediately. Pol's body was tanned, and very well defined. This dispelled the rumors of yore, that the Nobles were all lazy and wasteful. Pol smiled, seeing Rhys' lithe form, erect and waiting as he was, and pulled him on top of him, on the edge of the bed.

The silk rustled beneath them, as Rhys started a barrage of frantic kisses, starting at Pol's throat, and slowly moving down the Noble's chest, and along the patch of coarse black fuzz where his cock stood waiting. He lingered there, tasting the sweat on the back of his tongue, Pol's warm member pushing up under his chin.

"Rhys...what are you doing?"

Rhys looked up, seeing Pol's eyes glittering with curiosity. "What do you mean? I want to pleasure you."

Pol looked shocked. "But...only Daven-"

Rhys blinked. "You mean, all this time, no one else ever..."

Pol shook his head. "They took their pleasure from me, which did give me some of my own. It was good enough, and still-" he stopped in a gasp as Rhys went down, rough tongue licking across the tip of Pol's prick, tasting the clear wetness there, going around in a few circles around the shaft. Pol's hips thrust upward, and Rhys took his Pol's cock in his mouth, forcing his own head up and down in a flurry of groaning heaves.

Rhys rode the passion like an ocean wave, forcing himself harder as Pol yelled. As the young lord pulled his hips upward, Rhys was ready with his hand. His fingers deftly pried Pol's cheeks apart, digging a pair of slender fingers into his crack, massaging up and down, in rhythm with his head and mouth around Pol's penis. The Noble went even harder, his fingers tearing rents in the sheets as he screamed. He came all that more quickly, a sweet, moist warmness filling Rhys' mouth as he swallowed. He tasted it, rolling it over his tongue as he savored every drop.

Pol's face was in a twisted mix of sweat and tears as Rhys crawled back up onto the bed, removing his fingers. "It's yours," Pol said, breathless. "Anything. Name it."

Rhys shook his head, his own cock throbbing, a trail of clear goo leaking, stretching it like a strong between his prick and Pol's as they made contact. "Not yet," he panted. "Do you still want me?"

Pol reached, grabbing Rhys' wrists in a grip of steel. "Yes."

Rhys climbed on top of Pol, bringing their lips together as he lifted Pol's lower body, finding the inviting crack with his manhood. With a grunt, born of passion long held back, he thrusted, going in as deep as he could. Pol yelped again, biting down on Rhys' lower lip. This only made Rhys more ready, as he sank into an almost animal-like instinct. Again and again he thrust into the rear opening, burying his hard cock there as he pushed Pol back further and further until the Noble's head was slamming against the mahogany headboard.

Pol leaned in as he came again, spraying his seed all over Rhys' stomach. With a limberness born of good physical shape, he curled over, licking Rhys' smooth hairless chest clean, occasionally clamping teeth down on the thief's nipples. "More," he said. "More."

Rhys growled, tears stinging his own eyes as he worked, fucking harder and harder until their sweat and other fluids stained the sheets into a blood red "Yes. Oh, Pol...so long. I wanted."

"What," Pol said.

"You," Rhys said. "I wanted you!" he shouted as he came, spraying his own semen into Pol's crack. All at once, he deflated, almost ready to sob himself, like a small boy on the edge of the moat, years ago. "I wanted you..."

"And I you," Pol said. "I live, still, and I remember love."

"I love you."

"Shh," Pol said. "I love you too, but you need to be with someone...there. You cannot be sustained by these fantasies."

"Watch me."

Pol shook his head. "You'll understand, some day. But. Your reward. Name it."

Rhys nodded. "Anything? Anything I ask?"

"Yes."

"I want to remember."

Pol's face went white. "You what?"

"Don't wipe this memory away, Pol? This is...all I've wanted for years." Rhys started to sniffle. "How will you live if no one remembers you? I can't let that happen to you. You don't deserve that." Rhys shook his head as they tangled themselves in the soggy sheets. "Let me remember. Please, Pol...for love..."

Pol thought about that for a time, then nodded. "As you wish," he whispered, and kissed Rhys again. Once more, the golden light blossomed in Rhys' mind, rendering him blind.

As the light faded, Rhys found himself on the floor of the keep, once again in decay. The stone was cold against his back and legs, which were back in their old, commoner clothes. The only light there was the sparse sunlight streaming through the holes in the walls where the windows once sat. He blinked, as if waking out of a dream. And, it was a dream, but every second was locked into his memory. The kiss, the sex, the scent of all of it still lingered on his body, along with the spilled seed in his breeches, the gray cloth having turned dark with the wetness. Regaining his breathing, Rhys turned over, jumping at the clanking sound as something rolled from his chest onto the floor, rolling in circles until wobbling to a stop on its side.

Rhys smiled softly, picking the ring up. Inspecting it, he found a simple band of gold, with a stripe of turquoise running the length of the ring, down the center of it.

Putting the ring on his finger, Rhys stood up, shaking out the stiffness in his limbs, and other places, before gathering his things and heading outside. The way out of the keep, through where the drawbridge once stood, made for easier leaving than getting in, since the Eyes instructed him to find another way into the castle.

One thing consumed his thoughts as he bathed in the moat, the cool water soothing his inner heat, still, and softening his cock for the first time that morning. It consumed his thoughts as he washed his breeches and clothes free of the semen, and still pushed against him as he left the boundaries of the castle grounds.

He turned, and spoke. "Hear this, Pol. There is only one thing in that keep worth having. Worth being freed from that place. I promised it long ago, and I promise it again. If it takes me another ninety years, I will come back for you. I will dig you out of your prison if I have to do it with my bare hands. I will bring you back to the world, and to me. For honor. For love.

"Ja nuleti, li menul."

-End-