Slow & Steady

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The day is grey and chilly. It looks like it wants to rain but it is holding back from releasing itself. Marto climbs the spiralling stairs leading up to the north west tower of the Fort. His heart is pounding more than what the exercise should be doing to his body. This conversation is one he was not looking forward to having but it needed to happen. It was the last step in his recovery from what had happened. The last remnant that needs to be banished from his mind.

“You’ll do fine! Fog will understand, when you explain things properly,” Gwen encourages him, followed up by a peppy trill. This sound happens just as Marto’s foot lands on the floor of the communal space. Heads turn to look, one of the cats even perks up, ears alert, expecting a chance to chase the tiny red robin. But the firbolg he has come to see doesn’t appear to notice him. Sitting by the window, they’re so engrossed in whatever they’re pouring over.

Marto quietly clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. “We’ll see.”

A robin cannot pout in the same way humanoids can. To compensate, Gwen puffs her feathers out, which forms disgruntled angles around her beak and eyes. It would be fierce if she wasn’t so cute doing it.

Fog slightly adjusts their position in the armchair they’ve claimed, long body impossibly folded up into the space. But it’s this movement that finally gets him to notice and follow where everyone else’s heads have turned with curiosity.

Seeing Marto there his gaze instantly softens. Removing a hand from the Primordial text he’s been reading, they then hold it out palm up in Marto’s direction, a silent ask to come closer.

“Ah Marto and Gwen, what brings you to this neck of the woods today?”

He tilts his head slightly with intrigue as he takes in the sight of the golden haired halfling, eyes catching with his and holding steady. Silently assessing the nature of the pair’s arrival.

Gwen abandons her pouting and flits over, taking up as much space on Fog’s palm as she possibly can. Nuzzling in, she makes happy sounds crooning sounds before doing little hops in a circle. Fog chuckles at Gwen’s dance. The half-masked worry disappears from Marto’s face as he watches her, replaced by a shake of the head and a lopsided grin.

“Wanted to come by and say hi, have a bit of a chat if you’re free… How are the lessons going?” Marto asks, taking Fog’s hand as he sets his armour case down. Gwen hops up their arm to be out of the way as the halfling folds Fog’s hand so their fingers are held, all the easier to brush a light kiss to their knuckles.

Unfolding himself more and putting the book in his lap, Fog rubs at the soft feathers on the familiar’s head with his other hand. “Hello to you Gwen, joyful as ever.”

He looks back to Marto, smiling at the kiss before readjusting where their hands are held so as to soothingly rub their thumb along his knuckles and bring him just that bit closer.

“And hi to you too. The lessons are going well, Draught says there’s not much left that he can teach me… It’ll be strange to not have the routine of it all anymore, perhaps I’ll have to bother you with random Primordial phrases to keep my practice up.”

“That’d be nice. Perhaps when I’m done learning Celestial, I could do the same,” Marto says, though his eyes slip away to glance around the room, aware of the scene they were making.

Fog follows his gaze, glancing at the room and faces nearby. “Would you like to chat somewhere else? We could always go to my room.”

Marto’s eyes, momentarily distant, come back to Fog at the suggestion. “Yeah, I think that would… be good.” He reaches for Fog’s things, picking them up in one arm and grabbing his armour case with the other.

Fog gets up and leads them both there without question. Though it’s a short walk down the corridor, they still give plenty of looks Marto’s way, curious what’s got him so preoccupied. Should they be worried? They can’t dwell on it too long, as he’s already pushing open the door to let Marto in.

The best way to describe Fog’s room is organised chaos, items in all sorts of random piles and stacks, but they would know where anything is if asked. Most noticeably he’s also gathered a comfortable nest of large cushions and blankets in one corner, whilst the bed looks more used for storing outfits.

Fog leans down to take his things back from Marto with a quiet thank you, also taking the armour case so as to put them all down nearby.

“So…” Marto looks around, rocking back and forth a little on his feet as he seems to debate whether to sit or stay standing. Gwen, meanwhile, has gone straight for the pile of pillows and puffs up into a fluffy feather ball as soon as she finds the perfect spot — the highest pillow.

“Got any plans for the rest of the day? Or were you just going to be studying?” the halfling starts.

Clearly not expecting that as a question, Fog tries to hide his surprise by also making himself comfortable on the pile of cushions. Leaving plenty of space for a halfling sized man beside him.

“I… not really. As you say, probably studying. Maybe a walk if it does indeed rain. You’re not intruding if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Okay… Yeah, good.”

Gwen chirps at the halfling who gives her a look. Marto catches himself as he sees Fog look back and forth between them. “Ah, sorry. I-” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m probably acting a little strange, which isn’t my intention. I’m just nervous…” He has taken a few small steps towards the pile of pillows, but makes no indication that he will sit down just yet.

Fog’s eyes flick down briefly to where Marto has stopped his approach, obviously making a mental note. “It’s okay… You don’t need to apologise for that. But why are you nervous? Is it because of what you want to talk to me about?”

He looks down at his feet. “Yeah. It is.” There’s a pause, then, “Do you remember that job we went on to find a cave in the Feythorn Forest with a rather disgruntled man and a changeling that could read our minds?”

They take a moment to think back, body still with concentration. “Yes? Something with Selûne, and in the cave we were attacked by two fiends, one of which took me down rather quickly.” He winces slightly with embarrassment at the fact. “You got your rather nice axe from there too… Though at the end Mist was quite urgent in wanting to share something with me, so I disappeared into my ring. With little warning to you.”

With a look of obvious concern, he adds, “Did something happen while I was in the ring?”

“Ah, no. Not on then…”

He hardly realised his breath was coming in short quick bursts until Gwen gave a soft trill. It made Marto look up, seeing Fog’s gaze firmly planted on his feet, where he had stopped just out of arm’s reach.

With a conscious effort and a long exhale, the halfling takes the last few steps towards the pile of cushions and carefully sits down, positioning himself to be far enough away from Fog so as not to crowd them. But mostly to give himself space should things take a turn.

“It’s more of what happened around that. Days and weeks after it. It might make you feel differently about… me. And about us.” Marto props up a knee so he can drape an arm over it in an attempt to stay relaxed and grounded. He’s not sure it works.

“Okay… okay. The way you’re acting, it seems you think I’ll feel negatively towards you.” He starts to reach out, but remembering the purposeful space made, holds himself back.

“I know it’s not easy to bare our truths to another, so if it becomes too much I understand if you need to stop. I’ll always wait for you Marto.”

The journey on Marto’s face is a whirling dervish of so many emotions. It gets to a point where the firbolg thinks the halfling might spin out into pieces, all from the simple, honest words they said. But Marto holds it together, clawing back control over the whirlwind at the last possible second.

A sad but determined smile curves his lips. “No. You need to hear this. And I need to tell it. Only then…” A hand absently goes to his left side to rub an ache that is no longer there. A heaviness darkens his brow before he closes his eyes, taking a moment to breathe. When he opens them, Marto’s clear blue eyes are on Fog’s.

“Only then can I be free from this shadow, once and for all.”

Marto shifts position to face Fog, crossing his legs, taking a slow deep breath. He holds his hands in front of him, elbows resting on his thighs. Then he gathers his thoughts, takes another deep breath, and begins.

“It began back when Kavel, Gerhard, Derthaad, Goop, and I answered a notice from a farmer, asking for help to find his missing husband. This was in Hammer of last year. The missing husband’s trail led to the Angelbark, and that’s where we-… where I met him. Adhyël.”

There is a lot of power in a name, especially in one that has never been said between two people before. Even though Marto knew Adhyël had died and ensured he would stay dead when his axe cleaved the fiend in two in the hellscape by the river in Phlegethos, when he said the devil’s name, some small part of him thought it would resummon his echo.

But it didn’t. Because he is gone never to return.

That didn’t make this retelling any easier. It was the first time Marto told someone everything. Every single detail and memory he had from those few months, Marto told it all to Fog. He was light on some of the finer details, specifically around the sex he had with Adhyël — Marto did not want to hurt Fog any more than he already, probably, was. But he did lay bare his emotions, the lust and addiction to his own self destruction he found in the devil’s touch, and how it almost led Marto to giving up his soul to save Zola and the others.

Heavy rain began to patter against the window at some point, a soft background track to the glaring harshness and raw intensity of his retelling. Fog doesn’t speak the whole time — no questions, no comments, no reactions. It’s like they are absorbing everything. Though the lack of reaction makes Marto nervous, he can’t stop. The floodgates have been released and there’s no going back. That said, Marto knows Fog enough to understand they’re probably waiting until the very end to process the full story and say anything.

Eventually, the end does come. The rain has stopped sometime between describing the descent into the Hells and the battle by the river, and the sky has lightened into a warm gold. Gwen has seemingly fallen asleep on the highest cushion, fully puffed up. Marto’s voice is hoarse from so much talking and he is desperate for a glass of water but is afraid to move. He feels balanced on a knife’s edge, waiting to hear what Fog will say.

There’s a long moment after Marto has finished, where Fog sits there. Grey eyes that lightly swirl with mist take in all of the man before him. It’s not a look of judgement but of consideration, someone who is thinking carefully of their next words. Eventually grey meets blue and Fog shifts his position to mirror Marto’s own, their knees touching just slightly.

“You’re right, I do see you differently now. Not in the way I think you are dreading I might, but in that I see you more, that I understand more, I think.” He sighs deeply, frowning. “We have all made decisions we have regretted or wanted to change, ones made by accident or on purpose. Some bigger than others certainly. I watched my baby sister burn the only home I knew at the time to the ground, and I regret so much that I didn’t tell her more that it wasn’t her fault she had that magic, that I didn’t stand up for her more. And so I had to watch her walk away and never come back, so alone and small. That I never went after her.”

He shakes his head slightly, so as to bring himself out of that memory and back to the present. “But I’m not here to compare regrets. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not going to run from you because you have a past Marto, and if I ran anywhere it would be with you. You pulled yourself back from that fate, and perhaps it has changed you but… at least from my perspective, you are trying to mend and grow from this all. Which to me is more important than anything else, I could never judge you for that.

“Now please can I hold you, because I feel like you’ve been trying to pull away before I even heard what you wanted to say and it’s been killing me.”

It takes Marto a moment to respond. “Fog…”

His hand was already reaching out just as his legs shifted to allow him to come closer, lessening the space between them. The halfling felt like he was floating above himself as his heart swelled with emotions he had never felt before. Only the tears prickling at his eyes kept him from flying up, up, and away. So full of high, ecstatic relief, and more than that, something bigger that he had never felt before. Marto felt it all flooding through his veins.

“How?” he asked, breathy in his weightlessness. “How could you… could I…?”

Fog takes the outstretched hand to pull Marto onto his lap, to softly cup his face with his own hands. Ready to catch any tears that might fall.

“Breath Marto. Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles now, something so bright in contrast to how gloomy they dress.

“And how? I don’t know, I ask myself that constantly when you’re with me. But I’m always so grateful that our paths crossed this way. Always.”

Such words uttered in sincerity and with feeling, born on the breath of the person he had been the most nervous to open up to about what had happened is more powerful than the oldest magic cast by the wisest druids. The shadows in his mind, the ones his thoughts ran by whenever this moment would play out in his imagination, were dissipating. The monsters were passing. They had passed. They were in the past. Any ghost of Adhyël he carried with him was banished, never to be seen again. It had been slow and steady work, but Marto felt all his efforts to claw back a sense of peace, of serenity, that he could live and breathe and not feel pain and guilt and shame, were being seen, felt and, most importantly, understood.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Worn hands hold Fog’s beautiful, bright, smiling face. Bright blue and shining silver-grey caress each other as the halfling began to feel so many things utterly and completely, and all at once.

“I don’t know if I will ever have the words to tell you what I’m feeling, Fog,” Marto started, his voice gruff and low. “I’m alright with them, but I’m no poet.” He brushes Fog’s hair back from their face. “I was scared, yes. I thought I was prepared, for anything… but you. You, in all your understanding. With all your patience. I…” Marto took an unsteady breath, scared and thrilled at the edge he felt himself standing on.

“I think I love you. And I realise that may be a lot to hear after everything I just said but-”

Before he has a chance to finish the sentence, Fog finally pulls him in for a kiss, something long and slow. The last of their patience having fallen away with Marto’s confession. When they eventually pull themselves away, their faces still mere inches from each other, Fog says quiet and breathless. “It’s not too much, it’s the perfect thing to hear. I too… I think I love you too.”

He chuckles at the delight of being able to say those words.

“And I think you’re using words just fine, but you could always show me instead if you wanted.” He suddenly pauses, eyes going wide as a blush forms high on their cheeks. “That… sorry… that might have been a bit…”

Marto begins to pull away from Fog and he sees them avert their gaze, an uncertainty to his reaction. He stops, cupping their cheek with his hand.

“I’m not leaving,” he says with a tentative smile. “I’m just opening the window.”

Reluctantly, Fog lets him go. His smile becomes softer, more sensual. The blush returns to Fog’s face as those eyes — such a clear blue, like the sky — seem to drink them in.

“Wake up Gwen,” Marto says, scooping up the robin from the pillow and going over to the window. With one hand he opens it, cool air lifting his shirt as the setting sun’s light spills in like a waterfall. “I need you to give me some time alone with Fog.”

The tiny robin yawns, doing a full body shake. “What? But how did it go? Are you and Fog-”

“I need some alone time with them.”

“Oh?” She looks up at him. “Ohh…”

Marto holds her close to the open window.

“I’ll be around. No need to rush!” the fey spirit says as she flies out of his hand, through the window.

The air is cool, but refreshing. There’s just enough warmth to get away with keeping the window open for now. As he turns back to Fog, who is sliding a small sturdy box now containing Mist’s ring as far away from them as they can, Marto unbuttons his shirt, tossing it onto the pile of outfits on the bed.

“You were saying, since I’m not good at words, I could show you my love.” Marto steps right up to Fog before kneeling down to be straddling over the firbogl’s lap. The faded remnants of a scar that once might have been a branded tattoo, curl up the left side of his ribs, but they only serve to draw Fog’s attention to the sculpt and tone of Marto’s muscular bare chest. His hands find the hem of their shirt, slowly teasing it up as his lips find the soft part of their neck, beginning to trail kisses all around their collar.

“Will you…” Kiss. “…let me…” Kiss. “…show you…?”

“Please.”

Not able to stand the teasing, Fog’s shirt quickly and haphazardly joins Marto’s on the bed. The blue skin of his chest and coiling fog tattoo up his right arm and shoulder on full display. With it gone they lean back further into the cushions, fingers circling the exposed skin of Marto’s hips as he admires the view before them.

Dragging his eyes up, the blush only deepens as he quietly adds, “I’ll even beg for you not to stop.”

Marto tilts his head, the golden light coming through the window catching in his sandy blonde hair, lighting it up, like a halo. His gaze holds an intense heat as it roams over the panes of Fog’s chest all the way down to the valley of his abdomen and the trail of fur down there. He begins there, lips finding the softest, most sensitive places. Fog’s flushing guides Marto’s hands, lips and tongue to each spot, leaving imprints of kisses all over their chest, collarbone, and neck. Just as he gets to Fog’s lips he stops. The coquettish grin only serves to heighten the glimmering devotion swimming in the depths of Marto’s eyes as he speaks three simple words.

“As you wish.”