Runebound

III

The cold rain poured down; a strong torrent accompanied by the occasional faint thunderclap. Droplets rolled down the glass panes, hammering against the roof. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter. It threatened to lull Branwen to sleep much like it had Tilus. His escort was fast asleep in the bed meant for two; it was large enough yet Branwen took the floor, laying what clothing he had down to make it the least bit comfortable. He deemed himself used to it since their time on the road included slumbering on the uneven ground.

With his back against the side of the bed, blonde locks messy and splayed along the rumpled sheets, the young prince sat in silence—he made no noise so Tilus could sleep. Even if he happened to open his mouth, Branwen figured the elf would not awaken. If the man could rest through a growing storm, then he wouldn’t rouse if Branwen happened to cough. Still, the prince was as silent as a mouse that’d just heard the clacking of a cat’s claws against smooth wood. The cotton tunic that laced at the neck was discarded, clumsily folded to serve as a makeshift feather pillow—minus the feathers. It was not the most adequate thing in Iyea but it was decent enough.

It was only two and a half weeks after leaving the tavern but Branwen appreciated the company Tilus provided. Granted, the elf was not the most kind man he’s ever met, though it was better than nothing. They did not talk. Barely, if only a few words every once in a while. It proved to be a bit of an annoyance; Branwen was becoming comfortable around Tilus but didn’t believe the same could be said for the mercenary. Branwen has been given the cold shoulder more than once. It was clear that Tilus was not intimidated by Branwen’s social standing, that he was of royal birth. There was no fear. No unease.

Tilus was just Tilus. A man frightened by naught, from the skirmish they found themselves stuck in just days prior—bandits attempting to gut them like fish and slash their throats come nightfall. An ambush. Branwen hid while Tilus fought. The prince possessed no skills when it came to fighting or self-defense. Sheltered ever since his elder brother passed away—Sylus, the late First Prince of Almaythia and heir to the throne. Hidden away and protected, shielded from the horrors of life and the rare good that came with. Branwen knew nothing. He did not know how to defend himself, nor how to properly hold a weapon; he’d fumble and his hands would grow clammy. Branwen had never experienced the endearing gift of love; never touched or held or kissed anyone, man or woman. There were no suitors, not like Sylus had. There were no fond memories of anyone or first ‘I-love-you’s”—nothing. Nothing, despite the cravings. Nothing, despite the desire.

The prince dragged a hand down his face as he pushed out a quiet sigh. Shifting onto his knees, Branwen pushed himself up. He stretched, eyes falling to the slumbering form of Tilus. Branwen remained still for a long moment, simply staring. Staring, the rhythmic beat of his heart quickening. There was only one word that invaded Branwen’s mind: beautiful. Tilus was beautiful. Striking and dashing. Intimidating yet gallant. The prince took the risk; shuffling closer to the bed, Branwen edged his knee in place to keep himself steady, and leaned over to catch a glimpse of the elf’s face. You look so peaceful, thought Branwen as his eyes scanned the man’s features. A five o’clock shadow, slightly parted lips, and skin that was smooth as silk and as fair as the moon’s gentle glow.

“Ryria be praised. Your personality is foul but you are so…” His voice trailed off. Branwen could not think of the word yet it lingered on the very tip of his tongue. He blinked a few times and reached out, fingers brushing the scruffiness of Tilus’s cheek. It was barely there but Branwen could feel it. “Enchanting,” he whispered, the softest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That—yes, that is what I was searching for.”

Being able to touch Tilus as he slept, it was a moment the prince knew he’d cherish. Though walking on eggshells was not what he craved. Branwen longed for more. Far more. But he knew that, at that moment in time—perhaps not for the entirety of their time together—what he yearned for was out of his reach.

Drawing his hand back upon catching the mercenary shift, Branwen glued his hands to his sides as he threw himself back a step. Breath lodged in his throat, he stood still for what felt like ages before the snoring picked up again. A wave of anxiety washed over him, heart pulsing in his throat from escaping his chest. He swallowed thickly as he swerved, tiptoeing around the bed and made his way over to the window. The latch shook with every rattle of thunder and the rain pattered against the glass panes even harsher than before. Branwen breathed out, slowly, the palms of his hands settling themselves against the sill. They were flushed red much like his face—an onslaught of heat that annoyed him to no end—and the runes that painted his flesh only grew more defined. Symbols he was born with that no one, not even the palace physician, could explain. Symbols that he had yet to reveal to Tilus. It appeared an ancient language; it must’ve been, but the purpose they served was unclear. Or maybe it was nothing at all; a tease that had no meaning. Branwen did not know. He wanted to, though. They were like brushstrokes. Clean and concise. At times Branwen felt as if his body was a canvas, a mere display for these runes.

It was a mystery, much like the foreign feeling that blossomed in his chest everytime he laid his eyes on Tilus. Shrouded in fog, the truth unknown to him, cursed with bitter confusion.