Second Day

16th day of the 11th moon, 1105 HC

Damion wakes sprawled out across the entire bed. Just because he can. His wings are unfurled their entire expanse and drape over either side of the bed. He can take up space again. The bed is his and only his to use. And there is no one here to fuck him.

Dawn's light is starting to drift through the room. He'd like to take a long hot bath. He smiles at the thought and scurries off the bed and into the bathing chamber.

He turns on the tub's water to a near scalding temperature. He hops in and lets the water rise around him. His muscles ease and relax as the water reaches them. He lays back with his eyes closed just to simply enjoy.

He uses a toe to flick off the spout once the water reaches the rim of the tub. He sinks down into the water just under his nose. He leans back his head and submerges until the water just barely laps against his face. He runs his hands through his long hair swishing free in the water. As free as he is going to be soon. Soon soon soon.

He soaks and luxuriates until the water grows tepid. He figures that's as good a signal as any that it's time to get going. He washes his hair and body and gets out of the tub.

He notices there is a robe made of the same material as a towel. Interesting. He decides to put this towel robe on his soaked and wet wrinkled body. It's warm and cozy.

He hears a knock on the door and then the door opens. He peeks his head out of the bathing chamber and sees someone placing a tray of food on the desk. The person notices him and says, "Here's your breakfast. We'll come to retrieve you for the summit in a bit." He gives a quick bow and leaves.

Damion can smell there must be sugary delights on that tray of food. He grins and hurries over to the desk. It smells glorious. He sits and barely knows where to start. Last night was the first time he fed himself in two years, and he did it absentmindedly. Now he can choose. So many choices.

He decides to simply eat the thing closest to his hand. He grasps it with his chopsticks and pops it in his mouth. Somehow it even tastes better.

Damion polishes off the entire plate and the entire cup of juice. He takes off the towel robe and puts on the grey and white robes they gave him yesterday. He then sits down in a chair by the hearth. Oh my gods, I'm sitting in a chair! And he waits. He has no idea what else he's supposed to do.

Fortunately the wait isn't too long and someone knocks on the door and announces it's time to attend the summit. Damion takes a deep breath, then goes to join the escort down to the summit.

The escort brings him through the palace through the central plaza, and down to the meeting room for the summit. He enters the room and sees everyone else is already there and seated, except for Mulsae.

Damion cautiously goes to his chair and awkwardly nods to the assembled people, having no idea what proper etiquette is for a situation like this. He slides into his chair and looks out at everyone. Thunder Master Deryn is smiling at him, but everyone else is looking bored.

Mulsae enters the room, his shoes snapping on the floor with each step. He stands in front of his chair and then sits down as if it were his throne.

Marsh Master Selune begins, "Thank you all for returning. Yesterday, we agreed that slavery is prohibited universally. No matter the species, no one should have slaves. We then agreed that the next order of business is to define what precisely makes one a slave, a prisoner, or a spouse. We agreed to make policy changes to our Sanctums based upon the definitions we agree upon."

"I did not agree to make any policy changes to my Sanctum!" growls Master Sorvak.

"Please do not interrupt, Flame Master Sorvak," Master Selune says calmly, "I am merely summarizing the proceedings thus far."

Sorvak grumbles to himself.

Selune continues, "Water Master Mulsae had proposed definitions but we were unable to come to a consensus. We broke for the evening after it was agreed that we will work on the definitions privately and then continue the discussion today."

"Have I accurately summarized the proceedings thus far?" She looks out at everyone and sees nodding heads.

"Let's return to the matter of defining slave, prisoner, and spouse. Does anyone have a proposal for these definitions?"

"We do," Deryn says. He stands and circles the room to hand a piece of parchment to each of the Masters. Mulsae holds his so that Damion can read it.

Slave: One whose life is 
controlled by another for any
reason or no reason. There are
no restrictions on this level
of control, the slave may be
harmed or even put to death.

Prisoner: One whose life is
controlled by another for the
reason of the prisoner's
prior behavior. A prisoner
may be harmed or even put to
death. However, there are
restrictions on the
treatment of a prisoner.
None of the following can
occur:
 - They cannot be housed with
   their captor
 - Their bodies cannot be
   altered for the purpose of
   sexual gratification of 
   others
 - They cannot be manipulated
   or coerced to perform 
   behaviors for the personal
   gratification of others

Spouse: One whose life is
joined with another with whom
they work for each other's
mutual benefit. They may not
cause each other harm nor kill
each other.

"This is ridiculous on so many levels," scoffs Sorvak.

"How so?" Selune politely inquires, "These seem like reasonable definitions."

"We should be able to do whatever we want to our prisoners," grumbles Sorvak.

"Wouldn't that make them slaves?" questions Heaven Master Halion.

"They're prisoners!" exclaims Sorvak as he crumbles a part of the parchment in his hand.

"Then you believe Mulsae can keep Damion and do anything he wants with him?" Mountain Master Garrick asks incredulously.

"No," Sorvak growls, "Water Master Mulsae is being disgusting with Damion."

"You seem to believe you are the exception and can do whatever you want with your prisoners," comments Master Halion coolly.

Sorvak grinds his teeth.

"Flame Master Sorvak wants absolute authority over his Sanctum. And if he has his way, he'd have absolute authority over all of us as well," Mulsae says with a bored expression as he picks lint off his shoulder.

"Flame Master Sorvak," Selune says placatingly, "Please tell us what part of the definition of prisoner do you object to?"

Sorvak continues to grind his teeth and not answer.

"Do you wish to house your prisoners with you?"

No response, except the Flame Master seems to be getting redder.

"Do you wish to alter prisoners' bodies for the sexual gratification of others?"

No response. The muscles in his jaw feather.

"Do you wish to coerce or manipulate prisoners for your personal gratification?"

No response, but he looks away.

"Flame Master Sorvak," says Selune with a bit of authority, "I will ask that you contribute to this conversation productively. Please do not further interrupt unless you have a constructive critique of the suggested definitions."

Sorvak scowls, "This is ridiculous," he grumbles to himself as he sits back and crosses his arms.

"Are there any objections to the definition of slave or prisoner?" Selune asks. She sees shaking heads. "Then let's move on to the definition of spouses. Any objections?"

"Wives work to the benefit of their husbands, not the other way around," growls Sorvak.

The other Masters glance at each other.

"The Way of Balance outlines that a marriage is a manifestation of the Yin and Yang making both parties equal in standing," says Ground Master Dalenna.

Sorvak scoffs, "That may be what the Harmony Wardens claim, but that is not what happens in a traditional marriage."

"If it will make everything easier and put an end to these proceedings, I'll gladly go ahead and marry Damion. Then we can just continue our situation as it has been," Mulsae says nonchalantly.

"You're both male, though," says Halion cautiously.

Mulsae shrugs, "I'll ensure the policy of marriage is gender neutral in my sanctum. Bonds between people take many forms. My Sanctum should be fluid enough to honor that truth."

"You need consent to marry someone!" argues Sorvak.

"You had the consent of your wife's parents to marry her. I have the consent of his people to marry Damion. His people gave him to me," responds Mulsae.

"You can't do anything you want to your spouse," Dalenna explains.

Mulsae smirks at Sorvak, "Can't I?"

Sorvak is seething in his chair.

"Flame Master Sorvak doesn't want to openly confess that he beats and tortures both his wife and their children. If we adopt Thunder Master Deryn's definition of spouse, Flame Master Sorvak would have to change his ways or be subject to these proceedings himself," Mulsae explains.

All eyes turn to Sorvak. He says nothing.

"That is a grave accusation, Flame Master Sorvak," says Halion, "Do you not have something to say?"

"I haven't done anything wrong!" announces Sorvak.

"But it will become wrong if we adopt these definitions," Deryn says gravely.

"You can't have it both ways, Flame Master Sorvak," Mulsae says coolly, "We can both go home and keep our lives as they have been, or we both have to change our ways."

"Mountain Sanctum supports these definitions as-is," says Garrick, bored and ready to end things.

"Heaven Sanctum agrees," says Halion.

"Ground Sanctum agrees," from Dalenna.

"Water Sanctum agrees," Mulsae says with a smirk.

"This is insanity!" Sorvak yells as he stands up and yanks his wife by her arm and up to her feet as well. "Absolute insanity!"

Damion flinches as fire explodes outward in a burst of light and heat. For a heartbeat, everything is white-orange. The floor groans beneath a wash of flame, and the Masters around the circle jolt to their feet.

But the heat never touches him. A wall of cool pressure sweeps over his skin. Unmistakable water magic. Mulsae's magic. It curls protectively around his shoulders like mist-wrought armor, holding the fire at bay.

Damion stumbles back, blinking through a shifting patchwork of light and shadow. Somewhere through the haze, he hears Sorvak shouting, "Let her go!"

Garrick’s voice cuts through, low and unmoved. "She's not leaving with you."

A scuffle. A crack of heat. Someone gasps. A snap of lightning. Then more voices, all overlapping, all angry. Damion can't make out who is speaking anymore.

The argument stops and there is quiet. A soft chime cuts through the chaos, a pure note, high and steady. A radiant pulse of golden light fans out across the room. The smoke flees from it, curling back like mist before the sun. In moments, the chamber is clear again. Heaven Master Halion lowers his arm. The magic must have come from him.

Sorvak is nowhere to be seen. But his wife remains, alone in the silence, a glowing seal etched in the stone beneath her feet.

"Zeven guessed he'd do that," Garrick says, "So I put a mountain seal around you to prevent you from leaving."

Zeven rushes over to her, "Mother!" and crushes her in an embrace.

"Oh, my little bolt," she coos and hugs him back. The burn that Sorvak gave her yesterday still blisters on her skin. "But what about your brothers and sisters?" She looks up at everyone and says louder, "My children are in grave danger."

"Safe," Deryn says as approaches her. He gently puts his hands on her elbow, "All of them are safe. They are all here, in this palace."

Her eyes are as wide as saucers. Deryn smiles warmly down at her, "And Brayl is here, too."

"He is?" she says with a wobble of her lip and glistening in her eyes. Deryn nods, "You're safe, Serelinne. Your children are safe. And you're free to be with the person you love."

She breaks out into a sob and crushes her face into Deryn's chest. Zeven lays a gentle hand on her back.

"I propose we break while I escort Serelinne to Brayl and her children," Deryn suggests.

"Any objections? No? Then we're on break until Thunder Master Deryn returns," Selune announces.

"I'm going to go be with my family. You don't need me for the rest of this, Rick," Zeven calls back to Master Garrick. He merely nods in acknowledgement.

"So that's what Deryn's motive was," Mulsae turns to Damion, "Serelinne is his brother's lover," he scoffs, "I never even knew her name before now." He shakes his head.

Mulsae stands and jerks his chin to the terrace, "Let's talk."

Damion nods shyly and gets up to follow Mulsae to the terrace. Mulsae strolls over and leans a hip on the balcony. He takes one of Damion's hands in his.

"It seems you had an interesting night last night," Mulsae smiles gently.

Damion blanches. A cold sweat breaks out across his skin. He did a lot last night that he wasn't supposed to.

"You're a good boy, Damion, I'm not upset with you," Mulsae says soothingly. "I'm proud of you. You're going to be on your own soon and I'm glad you're meeting people. Maedor, Zeven, and Deryn are good people. They are the type of people I told you to find: people who won't judge you and will accept you exactly the way you are."

Damion's lips part in surprise.

"I'm glad you all were successful last night. You can't believe how difficult it was for me to not take a peek into your mind so I could find out the definitions you came up with," Mulsae chuckles softly, "The curiosity was killing me."

"You wanted us to succeed?" Damion is puzzled.

"Take down Sorvak? Free his wife? Ensure marriages are truly consensual? By the gods, yes," Mulsae says.

"But you'll lose me," Damion says softly.

Mulsae smiles and runs a hand down Damion's cheek, "I'm losing you. These are our last moments together. I'm being selfish and trying to enjoy them."

Mulsae sighs with a bittersweet smile, "Just in case this is literally our last moment together, I wanted to give you this." He takes a folded parchment out of his pocket and hands it to Damion.

"This is Heavenwood parchment. I have its pair which will reflect everything that is written on your copy. You can use it if you ever want to reach me. For anything," he ducks his head to ensure he has eye contact with Damion, "Absolutely anything at all. Nothing is too small. Do you understand?"

Damion nods, "Yes," he whispers. He sticks the folded parchment in the pocket of his robe.

"Remember: I promised to take care of you, and that promise isn't ending. I will help you out of any trouble you get into. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Damion whispers.

"Is there anything you'd like to say to me?" Mulsae asks softly.

Damion looks him in the eye and says, "I hate you. And the fact that I don't hate you completely makes me hate you even more."

"I understand," Mulsae says solemnly.

"You're a fucked up person, Mulsae," he says in all earnestness, "You do bad things. You do good things. You hurt me. You comforted and cared for me."

"I know," Mulsae sighs, "I know."

"You're fucked up, Mulsae," Damion says with a shake of his head, and then turns and walks away. He walks back to the meeting area and slumps down into his chair with his arms crossed.

Damion doesn't know what to think of Mulsae. He's going to miss his... friend. The one who talked to him about books and taught him about the world. The one who comforted him when he was sad. The one whose touch could bring him to the highest forms of pleasure.

He is thrilled to be getting away from his captor. The one who routinely raped him. The one who made him kneel for hours. The one who paraded him around naked and humiliated him. The one who cut off access to his own cock.

Can he keep the friend and be freed from the captor? He shakes his head and scowls. No, he can't separate the two. They come as a package deal.

There's a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looks up and sees Deryn looking down at him sympathetically, "What's with the sad face? You're going to be free soon."

Damion sits up in the chair properly, "I wish it could be easy, but it's not. I am filled with conflicting emotions and it's really frustrating."

Deryn crouches down, "You're not alone. Even Serelinne is feeling conflicted right now. It's the nature of domestic violence. It's insidious. Love, and hate, and fear, and empathy all swirl together and become inextricable from each other."

He jerks his chin towards Selune, "The Marsh Sanctum has domestic violence support networks. You'll be supported. You'll be in good hands."

Damion gives a small smile, "Thank you." Deryn nods then pats Damion's knee and stands up to stroll away back to his seat.

The Masters and their chosen partners start heading toward their seats. Mulsae sits in the chair next to Damion. Once everyone has seated, Selune begins.

"Thank you all for returning. Before the break we agreed upon definitions of slave, prisoner, and spouse. We have previously agreed to incorporate these definitions into the policies of our respective Sanctums. The next order of business is to decide upon Damion's current status while under Mulsae's care. Is he a slave or a prisoner? Any comments before we proceed?"

Selune looks around the room and sees shaking heads.

"I would like to begin by questioning Damion and see how his treatment compares to the terms we've just defined," says Selune. No one objects.

"Damion," Selune begins, "Do you feel your life is controlled by Water Master Mulsae? If so, how?"

Damion clears his throat and steals a glance at Mulsae. "Yes, Mulsae controls every aspect of my life. He dictates what I do every minute of every day, including how I wash and relieve myself."

"Have you been free to leave?"

"No."

"Do you know why Water Master Mulsae decided to control your life?"

"I was a soldier in an army that rebelled against him. I was taken as a prisoner of war."

"Where would you say you live?"

"I live with Mulsae."

"Where do you sleep?"

"I sleep in his bed."

"Has your body been altered for the sexual gratification of another?"

Damion squirms uncomfortably in his seat. He clears his throat, "Yes."

"How so?"

"I was given a tongue piercing and..." he cracks his neck and a flush burns across his skin, "He has stretched my anus so that it can accept his cock without prep."

Halion shifts in his seat uncomfortably. Dalenna's eyebrows are firmly embedded in her hairline.

"Have you been manipulated or coerced into performing behaviors for the personal gratification of another?"

"Yes. He always has me eat from his chopsticks, even when we are alone. He forces me to look into his eyes while using the toilet," he rubs his hand on the back of his neck, "He forces me to use my mouth on his cock."

"Thank you, Damion, that is all the questions I have," Selune looks out at everyone, "Does anyone else have any questions for Damion?" She's met with shaking heads. "Any objections on voting on Damion's current status while under Water Master Mulsae's control?" More shaking heads. "Flame Sanctum abstains since they left these proceedings. So, Ground Master Dalenna, we'll start with you."

"Slave," she says.

"Marsh Sanctum abstains," Selune says.

"Slave," votes Halion.

"Water Sanctum abstains," says Mulsae as he picks lint off his knee.

"Slave," Garrick says solemnly.

"Slave," Deryn says with a nod to Damion.

"It has been decided by this council that Water Master Mulsae has been keeping Damion as a slave. Since slavery has been abolished universally, Mulsae is not allowed to continue to control Damion's movements."

Selune turns to Damion, "You are free to leave this room and go wherever you wish. I recommend that you go back to your room and await one of my counselors to speak with you and see how the Marsh Sanctum may assist you. But that is your choice, and your choice alone. You are free to make your own choices from now on."

Damion nervously eyes everyone. Deryn smiles and nods at him. He glances at Mulsae who also nods to him. He stands and slowly walks away. He steals a glance behind him and everyone is watching him.

He reaches the open-air stairs carved into the mountain’s face, leading toward the central plaza above. A grin breaks across his face. Instead of climbing the stairs, he bolts for the edge of the balcony and jumps!

Wind rushes past as he dives, wings slicing through the air. He loops and weaves, soaring higher, then plunging low, laughter caught in his throat. The mountain and sky blur around him in joyful motion. When the thrill settles into calm, he angles toward the palace and lands lightly at its entrance, still smiling.

He enters the palace and tries to remember the way back to his room. Left at the sculpture... or right? Umm... I don't recognize this hallway, maybe I should turn back. I had gone right at the painting... or left?

A gentle appearing Sylvaran man approaches, "Do you need help?"

Damion looks up at him bashfully, "I don't know the way to my room."

The man smiles kindly, "I would be happy to escort you."

Damion follows the Sylvaran, admiring his green feathered wings the entire way. This is why he doesn't know how to get to his room, he's too damn distracted by these gorgeous wings!

They arrive at his room, and Damion has no idea how they got there. "Thank you for your help," he says softly.

The man smiles warmly and bows, "My pleasure," then turns to walk away.

Damion enters his room and stands in the middle. He doesn't know what to do. He would really like to talk to this counselor that Selune had mentioned. He decides to sit in the chair by the fire and wait for this counselor. And wait.

And wait.

He's gotten used to waiting. Mulsae has been making him wait pointless hours all the time. The sun is growing lower on the horizon.

There is a knock on the door and Damion jumps up excitedly. The door opens and a servant enters bearing a tray of food. "Dinner is ready," the servant says.

Damion takes the tray and thanks them before they leave, closing the door with a soft snick behind him. Damion is alone again.

He sits at the desk. He hasn't been alone in two years. He has constantly been at Mulsae's side. He's alone now. He'd always been surrounded by other soldiers in a lively noisy Hearthhold. Then he was constantly at Mulsae's side. And now he's alone. All alone. Like how he was alone those buggy nights in a makeshift tent as a child. Left to fend for himself. Alone. Alone.

Alone.

He's having trouble breathing. He sucks in a gasping breath and razorblades flood his lungs. He sinks off the chair to the floor breathing rapidly but getting no air.

Breathe in, hold... breathe out, hold... breathe in, hold... breathe out, hold... Mulsae's voice chants to him to use his breath to calm his nerves. He doesn't know if it's really Mulsae in his mind, or merely a memory. Mulsae always knew how to calm him down and get him to relax.

Mulsae seemed to know him so well. Better than anyone ever had. He sinks further into the floor on to his side curled in a ball under the desk. Fuck Mulsae. But he seemed to have seen every part of him and found him good. He seemed to have seen through to his very soul and judged him as good. He felt seen and known by Mulsae. Fuck Mulsae.

Tears begin to fall. He's so fucking frustrated. Fuck Mulsae. Those glowing blue eyes flash before him. Fuck Mulsae. Fuck Mulsae. Fuck him.

There is a gentle knock on the door and it opens. In walks a Sky-Touched woman with glowing grey eyes. "Damion, I'm the counselor sent to speak with you."

Damion pops his head up so it can be seen above the surface of the desk. "Yes," Damion blurts through tear soaked lips. He angrily rubs his face along the sleeve of his robe. "Yes," he says, "I've been expecting you." Understatement. He jumps up to his feet and walks over to her.

"Hello, Damion," she dips her chin, "I'm Falloway. Most just call me Fal. It's nice to meet you."

"Thanks, yes, I'm happy to meet you," Damion says awkwardly.

She gestures to the two chairs in front of the fire, "May we sit?"

"Yes, please," Damion says, relieved.

They both get settled in the chairs. Damion breathes in and out kind of giddy. He doesn't know what's going to happen, just that something new is going to happen.

"I have been informed that you have just been released from a domestic violence situation," Falloway says gently.

"That is putting it mildly," he smirks.

"Yes. The Masters just ruled that you have been treated as a slave for the last two years." Damion nods solemnly.

"Your situation is unfortunately not new. We are experienced in rescuing women from similar situations, so we have some systems in place that we can utilize to help in your transition."

Damion nods gravely at the thought that his situation is common enough to have 'systems' in place.

"I'm going to ask you some questions to get a better idea of what your situation is exactly. Okay?" He nods.

"Do you have any family?"

"No, there was only my mother, but we were separated when I was young."

"Do you have any friends or community you want to return to?"

Damion rubs his hand on the back of his neck, "No. I was a soldier, it was my entire life since I was five. None of them will accept me after what Mulsae has done to me."

She nods solemnly, "Do you have any assets? Possessions?"

He shakes his head, "Nothing. As a soldier, everything was provided for me," he picks at his robe, "Even this isn't mine. It was given to me just yesterday."

"Well, fortunately you do have funds," she begins and Damion cocks an eyebrow.

"Mulsae has pledged a very healthy lump sum to you to get you started, plus an equally healthy monthly stipend for the rest of your life."

Damion's jaw drops. He sits there openly gawking.

"You're a wealthy individual, Damion."

He blinks at her in silence. She chuckles softly and hands him a parchment, "This is your banking information. Your account is in the Marsh Sanctum. Mulsae is handling all the banking transfers to ensure the funds appear in your Marsh Sanctum account."

He takes the parchment delicately from her and looks at it. None of it makes any sense to him. "I don't understand this..."

"It's okay, you can take the parchment to the Bank of Marsh Sanctum and a banker there will explain everything to you." Damion nods. His mouth goes dry. He's never had to handle money before, let alone had a bank account. His anxiety starts to rise.

"The next steps for you will be to find a place to live, get yourself basic necessities, like clothing and shoes, and find you a community to connect with." Damion nods, getting overwhelmed with this list of things to do. What happened to his simple life where he was told what to do and where to go?

"Do you know where you would like to live?"

"No."

"How about which Sanctum? What Sanctum would you like to live in?"

Damion blinks. "I have no idea."

She nods, "We can start you off with getting you a furnished apartment for short-term rental until you can get a better idea of where you would like to settle down."

Settle down? Settle down? What does that even mean? I can't even picture what it means to settle down. His anxiety levels rise more.

"You'll need to go shopping soon and get some clothing."

"I've always just worn fighting leathers. I don't know what else to wear."

She smiles softly, "I'll go shopping with you. How's tomorrow? After lunch?" Damion nods, relieved. He doesn't have to figure it out alone, and he has something to do tomorrow.

"Finding you a community is going to be more difficult, however," she says sadly, "Unfortunately, our communities are entirely composed of women and men are unwelcome."

Damion's heart sinks.

"But I will start looking around and see if I can find some communities that would accept you. What are your interests?"

Damion scratches his head, "Fighting?"

She nods, "Anything else?"

"Drinking?"

She chuckles, "Anything else?"

He thinks, "Oh, I've been reading lately."

"Book clubs are common enough, I should be able to find one for you."

"Okay!" she says as she sits up. Damion's heart sinks because it looks like she's going to leave. She smiles widely, "It's time for us to go to Sedgefold. You'll be staying in Reedrest until we get you an apartment."

Damion's eyes widen. He has no idea what any of that means. "What... Where are those places?"

She chuckles. "You don't know much do you?"

Damion's cheeks turn red. "No... I don't..."

"Sedgefold is the capital of the Marsh Sanctum. Reedrest is a quiet complex nestled at its core, serving as both Master Selune’s home and the heart of the Sanctum's governance."

Damion gawks. "I'm going to stay with Selune?!" That serene woman with the glowing grey eyes who ran the summit proceedings.

"Sort of," she replies, "You'll be staying in one of her guest houses. But you probably won't see her."

"I see." Of course not. I'm just a bastard born nobody. A Sanctum Master wouldn't make time for me.

"Let's go!" She heads straight to the door and opens it, then looks back at Damion expectedly.

"O- okay," Damion says and follows her.

Falloway leads them through the palace to the main entrance. Two Sylvaran servants open the grand doors to the central plaza.

The center of the plaza holds the Spirit Portal. It appears as a perfect circle of a foreign landscape suspended just above the ground. Around it stretches a white marble courtyard, wide and open to the sky, ringed by eight slender monoliths, each etched with a different trigram that glimmers softly in spiritlight.

As Damion follows Falloway in a slow arc around the portal, the view within its surface begins to change. With each step, the landscape reflected inside shifts: barren rock and flame, a forest wreathed in wind, a garden of thundercloud blossoms. The portal seems to respond to the direction of their movement, revealing glimpses of the spiritual heart of each Sanctum.

When the portal shows a dark expanse of water broken by tufts of grass and low islands, Falloway pauses. The twisting trees make it unmistakable. The portal now reflects the spirit landscape of the Marsh Sanctum.

Falloway approaches the portal and turns back. Damion hadn't even realize he froze in place. "Come on," she says, "Let's get going."

Damion blinks out of his stupor and approaches Falloway. As soon as he reaches her side she steps through the portal and disappears.

Damion is nervous as fuck. He has never been in the spirit realm. He's heard stories that it is weird and nothing like the mortal lands. Damion cracks his neck and takes a tentative step inside the portal.

It feels like stepping through a veil, cool and smooth against his skin, as if the space itself bends to let him pass. Sound dulls. Light stretches. For a breath, he’s between worlds. Then his foot lands. It feels like it lands on nothing. He looks at his feet and they're submerged in dark water, but he isn't wet. He doesn't feel any water.

He sees Falloway and she just motions at him to follow then walks away. He goes to walk forward, and he does move forward, but his legs aren't taking strides. He's gliding forward. He looks ahead and Falloway is also just drifting forward without walking.

The water stretches out endlessly, glass-smooth and dark as ink, reflecting images of people. Blossoms drift weightlessly in the air. Low trees twist from the shallows like reaching thoughts, their branches hung with luminous moss.

In the distance, reed-covered mounds rise like islands, each one surrounded by halos of light that pulse slowly, like breaths. There's no sun, just a silver-gray glow that comes from everywhere and nowhere at once. Laughter echoes faintly, without source. It’s not mocking, but it is unsettling.

Damion looks closer into these faces that are being reflected in the water. He recognizes them! His Flamekeeper is a recurring figure. He's like a father to Damion. He sees his old buddies from Scaldmere. He sees Mulsae as often as his Flamekeeper.

But there is this woman he doesn't recognize. He recognizes every other face except hers. She's Emberai. He stops and looks at her. She does seem familiar.

Then he gasps. It's his mother! He falls to his hands and knees to look closer at the image but now all he sees is himself. But it's not the Damion he knows. The reflected version of him is calm and serene, with a content happiness in him. That's nothing like who he is. He is anxious and feels so unsure about himself and his place in the world.

The wind stirs the surface, and the image drifts like pages in a book. He sees himself and Mulsae, collared and leashed, kneeling before a black-haired woman with yellow talons for nails. The page turns. Damion is holding down Mulsae’s legs while she strangles him.

Another turn. It's of a woman hung from a rig, severed legs strung back onto her like a marionette. Then Damion flinches when a different woman explodes into view, violet energy bursting from her body.

Veilstone Manor flashes past empty, cold. Then it's warm. He sees himself in the parlor, laughing with Sky-Touched and Emberai. Mulsae, Nori, and Rivenar are there, along with three others he doesn’t recognize. They have glowing violet eyes. He's never heard of Sky-Touched with violet eyes before.

"Damion!" Falloway’s voice breaks through. "Don’t get lost in the memories. Come on, let’s go."

"But..." He looks up. She’s already walking, her expression edged with impatience. Nevermind. This isn’t his place. This isn’t his time. He stands, brushing phantom weight from his knees, and follows her into the mist.

They walk in silence. The landscape breathes around them. Low reeds sway without wind. Pale lilies open as they pass, closing behind them. Twisting trees bow toward the path with moss-draped limbs. There’s no clear boundary between ground and reflection. Their feet land on water, but do not sink. It ripples under their weight, showing fractured glimpses of memories beneath. He tries to no longer look at the reflections. He doesn't want to remember.

Falloway walks ahead of him with the unbothered ease of someone on familiar ground, her steps sure, her back straight. She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t slow down. She offers no commentary on this journey through the Spirit Realm.

Damion doesn’t try to catch up. He doesn’t speak. His steps are careful, hesitant. The water beneath his feet keeps showing him faces he knows, faces he’s lost. The marsh shows what he doesn't ask to see. He tries not to look, but it's difficult to not stop when the image of his mother flickers by.

The quiet presses in around him. Blossoms drift. Trees with luminous moss lean close as if listening. He tries not to make noise. He tries not to feel too much. Falloway only occasionally glances back.

They walk this eerie land for a long time. He gets into the rhythm of it, like when he was a soldier on a march. Keep moving forward. He watches the trees. They're each so unique, twisted in their own way.

Damion just keeps following Falloway, alone. Alone with his thoughts. He thinks of his mother's face, so grateful that memory was recovered. He thinks of that serene version of himself, a version that seems impossible to achieve. The monster with yellow talons, and he's helping her hurt Mulsae. The laughter in the parlor that hasn't happened, but would be joyous if it ever does. They were truths, in some way. They seem to be echoes of what might be coming for him.

If those were images of his future, it means he gets through this. He doesn't know what is going to happen when he arrives in Sedgefold. But perhaps whatever it is, he'll survive it.

They walk seemingly endlessly. But, finally, far ahead, the glow of a portal pulses faintly in the distance, like a lantern behind fog. Falloway seems to be heading towards this portal.

As Damion steps from the portal, the texture beneath his feet shifts. He feels the give of something soft yet solid. He's standing on woven reeds, damp with mist but firm underfoot. He looks down and sees the path is not stone, but a mat of tightly layered watergrass braided into a floating walkway. The weave glistens with moisture, reflecting the violet shimmer of the spiritlight that still clings to his skin from the crossing.

Falloway is already several steps ahead, her long gray robes whispering around her ankles. She glances back at him once with a flat, unreadable face and keeps walking. She moves with familiarity, stepping lightly along a series of curved walkways made of polished driftwood and bound cane. These paths undulate gently over dark, shallow water that flows in slow eddies.

Around them, the city of Sedgefold spreads like a dreamscape. The light is diffused, a soft, luminous overcast that seems to rise from the marsh itself. Wide-trunked trees twist upward with bare lower branches, their canopies high and thin, letting in soft gray-green light. From their limbs hang pale silk chimes and long strands of moss, swaying slightly in the quiet breeze. The air smells of fresh rain, herbal smoke, and something sweetly fungal.

The architecture doesn’t rise so much as flow. Buildings perch lightly on stilts driven into the silty ground below, each one a graceful blend of curved wood, shell, and reeds. Roofs sweep downward like a heron’s wings. Walls are often open or screened, letting in breeze and mist, and reflecting a culture used to listening, not boasting.

The walkways twist between homes and low public halls, sometimes merging with boat docks or weaving under overhead archways made from tree branches trained to grow into interlocking loops. Small lanterns float beside the paths, tethered by thin cords. Occasionally, a thin boat drifts by in one of the narrow canals, the rower silent, head bowed.

Damion walks without speaking. Every sound he makes feels too loud. The faint creak of the reed paths, the hush of his breath, the shift of his clothes. People move in the distance but seem absorbed in their own rhythms, unwilling to disturb the hush.

Eventually, the reed paths become more solid with wider, flatter boards, sanded smooth by generations of footsteps. They pass a low arch flanked by two sentinel trees, then follow a path beside a gentle stream until a tall, open gate rises ahead. The gate is part of a low wall made from stacked layers of river stone and bundled reeds, curving around a cluster of elegant buildings built less densely than the rest of the city.

They pass beneath the arched gate into what Damion presumes is Reedrest, and immediately the mood shifts. The hush of the city gives way to curated quiet, a sense of place shaped by care rather than chance. The path beneath Damion’s feet is no longer woven or drifting, it’s set with smooth stone tiles edged in moss. Low lanterns glow from within carved driftwood sconces, and delicate chimes tinkle from curated boughs.

The air feels cooler here. Still misted, still damp, but tempered by flowering plants arranged in gentle terraces. Water flows purposefully through carved channels along the paths, feeding pools filled with lilies and slow-moving silver fish. Garden alcoves appear at regular intervals, each with low stone seating, gently bowed benches, or mats rolled out for tea or meditation. Reedrest is alive, but not loud. Every rustling leaf and trickling stream has been given its place.

The buildings themselves are modest in height but spread wide and interconnected. Each is made of pale wood and lacquered reed walls, with soft angles and wide eaves. The complex winds like a braided river, open corridors branching and rejoining, with the occasional arch or covered bridge between structures. People pass occasionally, robes whispering, voices low and brief. Falloway never pauses.

They arrive at a two-story building set apart by a circular grove of low cypress. A porch wraps fully around the ground floor, its columns carved with gentle spirals. The second floor uses the porch’s roof as a balcony, with open railings and hanging vines providing privacy without enclosure. The wood has the silvered polish of long exposure to mist and time.

Falloway ascends the stairs without comment, the boards soft beneath her feet. Inside is a small entrance hall that's dim, clean, and quiet. Two doors flank a simple staircase, and numbers have been etched onto each in swirling strokes of white ink. The walls are bare except for a single spirit chime hanging from the ceiling. It hums faintly, matching his breath.

They climb to the second floor. The landing is small and square, with two more doors each marked with numbers. Falloway steps to the one on the right, numbered three, opens it, and walks in without looking back.

"This will be your temporary accommodation until we can get you a short-term rental," she says flatly.

The room beyond is simple but not sparse. A large bed sits low to the ground, the frame carved from marshwood, its surface layered in blankets the color of silt and fog. Two chairs flank a small hearth, a fire already burning. A desk occupies the corner opposite the bed, with one straight-backed chair behind it and two simple stools in front. There’s a doorway beyond the bed, curtained with thin woven fabric that likely leads to a bathing chamber.

The air smells faintly of lavender and woodsmoke. The room is quiet. The room is... his.

"Do you remember the plan for tomorrow?" she asks.

Damion's eyes widen. So much has happened so quickly he hasn't a clue. His mind is overflowing with new sights, sounds, and information. He shakes his head somberly.

"First thing in the morning, you are going to go to the bank. Show them that piece of paper I gave you." Damion takes the paper from his pocket. "Yes, that one. Show them that and ask them to tell you how to access your funds. Withdraw some money you can buy clothes with."

She looks at him sternly, "That's very important. We can't buy you clothes without money." Damion nods.

"Then I will meet you here after lunch and I will take you shopping." Damion nods again.

"Okay then!" She claps her hands, "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon! Bye!" Then she skips out the door and closes it behind her.

Damion stands there motionless. She left. He's all alone. And his anxiety is high.

He snakes his fingers through his hair and paces the length of the room. All these responsibilities. He has to figure out where to live. How to live. How to not be alone. He even needs to figure out how to wear clothes. He knows none of these things. These things were always taken care of for him. First by the army, then Mulsae.

What happened to his peaceful life where he just read and chatted about everything and nothing?!

He pulls on his hair. This sure as fuck isn't peaceful right now. If this whole summit hadn't happened he'd probably be right now wrapped up in a cocoon of bliss from his lover's adept touch. Not a lover, fucking Mulsae. He kicks against the chair hard. A leg bends off and the chair topples over.

"Fuck!" he yells.

He falls down to his knees and tugs at the roots of his hair pulling his head left and right then slams his forehead into the floor. "Fuuuuuck!" he yells again into the floor.

He wished Mulsae was here with him. Mulsae always knew how to calm him down. He could always make him feel better. He made him feel good. Really good.

Really really good.

He stills for a moment. He wants to feel good. He wants to be taken far far away from here. He slowly pulls an arm inside the robe and snakes his hand behind himself. He presses against the anal plug and remembers how good it felt when Mulsae touched him. He gets a grip on the anal plug and pulls on it. The flare of the plug presses on his rim as he gently tugs.

He remembers Mulsae doing this. The beginning always involved Mulsae gently working the plug free and pulling it out. Damion pulls more firmly and the flare of the plug pops out of his hole. He gasps and pants. His cock grows and fills the confines of the cage. He pulls the plug the rest of the way out and drops it.

He runs his finger around his loose hole remembering how Mulsae would do it. He pushes two fingers inside. Mulsae was so good at this. Damion can't compare. He tries to find his prostate. He finds a spot that feels pretty good, but not like how Mulsae could make him feel.

He thrusts on the spot and can feel there's something building up. It's not as good. None of it even comes close to being as good. He groans in frustration.

He tries to put his frustration aside and just get himself to cum. He thrusts on the spot and feels some pleasure curling around inside him, molten and warm. He remembers how Mulsae would thrust his cock inside him and make him feel so good. He thrusts his fingers and imagines it being Mulsae's cock.

The pleasure grows and grows and pops. Release floods his body. Cum leaks off his trapped cock.

That sucked.

That was the most lame orgasm he's ever had. He feels worse now than he did before he started.

"Fuck!" he yells into the floor.

He stands up and the anal plug flops out of the robe and rolls along the floor. He pulls the robe off and tosses it over the broken chair. He snatches the anal plug off the ground and stomps into the bathing chamber.

He washes the damn thing. Angrily. He scrubs and scrubs at it. Stupid fucking thing. Stupid fucking Mulsae and his stupid fucking perfect fingers and his stupid fucking cock that he knows how to use real fucking well.

He slams his fist into the counter, "Fuuuuuck!"

He slides down to the floor. "Fuuuuuck," he moans softly. What am I doing? What am I going to do? What is even going on? Where did my simple life go? How did everything get so complicated so fast?

I just want to be far far away. Mulsae used to take me away from reality and bring me far far away. But I'm stuck in reality now. Cold, stark, reality. And there is no one to take me away.

I am alone.

He's in the hot Emberan Hearthhold. He's just a young boy. He barely knows anything. It's night and bugs swarm him. He tries to swat them away, but there's too many. His little feet crunch on the gravel as he tries to find a place to spend the night. He finds an abandoned torn up tent. He tugs at it to pull it free and wraps the material around himself. At least it somewhat blocks the bugs.

I am alone.

He wraps his arms around his legs and rocks back and forth.

I am alone.

He stares and rocks for an unknowable amount of time. His mind is trapped being swarmed by bugs in the heat of Scaldmere. Alone.

Exhaustion overcomes him. He sinks further into the floor until he's curled up in a ball on his side. Sleep overtakes him.

=*=

The darkness of night has flooded the room. He's laying on the hard tiled floor. He feels depressed and muted. He drags himself to his feet and sees the anal plug in the sink. He sighs. He has to put the damn thing in so he doesn't leak all over the place. He bends over the counter and works it into his hole. He grimaces when the flare pops in and his hole sucks it into place.

He lumbers over to the bed. He pulls back the covers and crawls in under them. Literally. He sticks his head under the covers first and scoots himself under them so his head is pressed against the tucked in covers at the foot of the bed and his feet dangle by the pillows. The pressure of the blankets feels good. He's surrounded and in a cocoon of warmth.

He imagines he's nowhere and nothing. He's floating in the darkness. Oblivion of sleep overtakes him.