The sun was rising on a new day and Noran had not slept. His mind was racing with thoughts, his heart refusing to let go of the feelings he buried deep within. It had been a confusing few weeks for him since Sally’s birthday. She had been exuberantly grateful for the writing set that Therin had given her. So much so, in fact that Noran was alarmed at the looks that passed between the two young people in the hall. It was like Therin had suddenly noticed she was a girl, woman-shaped and very pretty. Noran grabbed his middle and rolled to his side, anxiety and…something else rippling through him.
In the mirror above his mantle, his face looked paler than usual, his eyes sunken in his face, deep shadows marking his sleeplessness with unforgiving honesty. In short, he looked terrible. He tugged off his sleep shirt and ran a hand across his thin, smooth chest. He turned his head this way and that, watching the tendons in his neck stand out as he did so. He had lost more weight, it appeared. He was already too thin. Anxiety twisted inside him, banishing any thoughts of breakfast.
He dressed quickly, watching how the dark colours he wore washed him out further. He did the last frogging up on the rich silk vest and tugged it down into place. It was a woman’s style, tapered at the waist with boning and low cut to allow for decolletage or ruffled collars. His plain grey silk shirt was loosely laced up, the laces tied into a neat bow at his throat. The blue-grey leather pants were snug and tucked into his black boots, which had a small heel to make his legs look longer. His silver-blond hair was too long now, having grown out since his last trim and as he shook it out of his eyes he sighed. It would have to do.
A quick knock preceded Therin, who didn’t wait to be asked to enter. He came bustling in, his hair sleep-tousled, two shirts in his hands but none on his body. His trousers had been left half-laced and Noran lifted his eyes from the sight, keeping the rising blush from creeping up his face by thinking of anything else.
“Help,” Therin pleaded, holding out the two shirts. “Blue shirt and silver vest or white shirt and blue vest?” He lifted the two silk shirts and held first the dark, navy blue one up to his bare, tanned chest and then the white one.
“Er,” Noran said, casting the briefest of glances at Therin. “Blue,” he said and made busywork out of arranging his hair brush, comb and yet-unused razor on his dressing table. Therin threw the shirt over his head and tried to arrange his hair in the mirror above the fireplace but gave up using his fingers, instead reaching for the comb that Noran had just replaced.
“Are you excited?” Therin asked as he dipped the comb in the pitcher of water on the dressing table and yanked it through his hair, snagging on the knots. He dipped it again, and repeated the process, managing to somehow make the wild mass of curls he had come in with even worse. Noran watched him for a few minutes, not answering before gently taking the comb from his hands and motioning for him to sit at the bench before the dressing table.
He dipped both hands in the pitcher and brushed his long fingers over Therin’s hair, feeling the silken strands between his fingers. He could smell that the younger boy had shaved that morning, the rose scented shaving soap still clinging to his skin.
“I’m indifferent,” he finally said, answering Therin’s question. “Not a lot changes when he comes home.” He pulled the comb gently through Therin’s hair, pulling his curls off his forehead and looking at him in the mirror.
“But he’s bringing home the mace and the book.” Therin’s reverence was apparent, his voice almost hushed in the early morning quiet.
“Mmm,” Noran hummed but did not meet Therin’s enthusiasm. As he worked in silence, Therin watched him in the mirror.
“You didn’t sleep last night.”
“No,” Noran agreed. “I don’t sleep most nights.” The admission caused a rift of silence to fall between them, Therin’s eyes dropping from the mirror to his hands, folded in his lap, his thumbs pressed together.
“The dreams?” Noran paused his combing to rewet his hands and add it to the hair he was working on. He scrunched some curls and twisted a few around his fingers, still silent. He let one lock of hair fall across Therin’s forehead, a roguish curl that lent his handsome, manly face a softer touch of femininity.
“Among other things.” Noran’s voice was a whisper as he dropped his hands to Therin’s shoulders, which were warm under his pale, cool hands. Their eyes met in the mirror again and Noran removed his hands, crossing his arms across his chest, instead.
“Talk to him,” Therin urged. “Tell him how much you’re struggling with the exercises.”
“You know he won’t listen.”
“Then tell him you want to quit altogether. You look horrible.”
Noran replaced the comb and turned his back to Therin, his eyes watering. The care and concern that his adoptive brother had shown him since discovering how badly he struggled to connect to the Light was gut-wrenching and unbearable. It added to his guilt and shame surrounding his feelings for the other boy. He wiped the tears from his eyes quickly and took a shuddering breath, pasting a sad smile across his wan face.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said softly and gestured to the door. “Get breakfast. Save me some toast. I’ll be down in a minute.” Therin stood and stepped toward Noran but the thinner boy took a step back, dropping his hands into balled fists at his sides. Therin read his body language and nodded once, leaving the room, quietly closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Noran’s shoulders slumped in relief as Therin left, taking with him the painful, guilt-laced feelings. A new feeling, however, crept over him and he flopped onto his bed, groaning.
His father would be home soon, back from travelling across the sea. He had been away for almost a year and it was, he supposed, exciting to see what the High Lord looked like after a year in the desert, travelling with the nomadic Ka’Ti. He supposed he would be darker, maybe he’d have acquired a small Dinari accent. Maybe he’d have gifts for his sons, something practical for the two teenagers.
In that year, though, Noran had not gotten any further with his progress. He had not made any contact with the Light at all and the painful anxiety around that fact swirled against his gut, thwarting any burgeoning hunger. It was this fact that had driven the High Lord to venture across the sea.
“Perhaps your gifts lie with a different kind of Light,” the High Lord had said. “I will seek the Ka’Ti. Their power is…unique.” But the first letter home assured him that he would not find solace in the nomads’ knowledge.
“They say that their lineage is the only one that can wield this particular branch of Light. Your gifts must surely lie elsewhere.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The High Lord’s letter was burned as soon as he read it. It was too painful to be able to see the disappointment in the handwriting and Noran had harboured such hope that he would have answers. He closed his eyes against the memories, a tear tracking down his temple.
The whispering came again, this time a voice that sounded like nails on glass, screeching harshly that he would never find peace in the Light. It whispered against the inside of his head, clawing to get out. It made him shy away from the Light but ushered in a different kind of power, something that he was frightened of accepting. The path to the Light was barricaded, he knew, but this other path lay open before him. With his eyes shut tight he could almost see the clouded shadows that haunted him. He opened his eyes and looked to the desk across the room where he knew lay the pages that detailed his past.
“What was my mother like?” Noran had once asked Devan as they read together one night. He was very young, before Therin had come to live with them.
Devan’s eyes had grown dark and a frown had pressed his heavy brows together. Noran recalled that his father’s hair had been dark then still.
“She…” The High Lord had paused and looked at his young son. Noran watched his eyes trace the line of his silver-blonde hair that fell across his eyes, saw the High Lord’s eyes travel down his baby-like nose to his small mouth, rosebud red against his pale skin. He leaned down and kissed the boy on the top of his head and rested his temple against the hair briefly before clearing his throat.
“She was a broken woman who had fallen onto hard times. The monastery took her in but it was too late. I believe that at some point, she was likely a good person.”
“Did she love me?” Noran’s young voice wavered with pain.
“Yes, very much. It’s why she came to the monastery when she did. She wanted refuge from…her previous life.”
“What happened to her?”
Devan looked up from the boy’s wide grey eyes and shook his head.
“That’s not a topic for a four-year-old, son.”
It wasn’t until he was older, maybe ten or so, that he realised the extent of the pain his mother had endured. When she had birthed the boy, she had fled, knowing the fate of her child. The Morinn did not keep male children. They could not bear the gifts of Shadesorrow like a girl could and the risk of interbreeding could not be taken. They would take males from the outside world but their own males must be sacrificed to Shadesorrow.
Noran’s mother had swaddled her still-bloodied child, weak from childbirth, and fled to Lightholde, barely making it there alive. As she pounded on the door to the Great Cathedral, assuming it to be where the High Lord must live, she collapsed. It was merely chance that Devan had had Church business with the priests that ran the Cathedral. He found the woman and babe, taking them to the monastery and ensconcing them in his private quarters. The branding on her feet and hands were enough to tell him what her story was and with the kind of benevolence one would come to expect of a holy man, he nursed her back to health.
He allowed the pair to stay, making her a cook for the monastery. He reasoned that letting her witch-child grow up amongst the Light-bearing monks and Paladins could do nothing but good. In time, he would take the boy under his wing and drive the witchblood from him, instilling the child with Light.
Noran’s mother, however, did not know the lengths the Morinn would go to to recall one of their own. At first Devan could not make out what he was seeing, when he found her and the child. The red covered every surface of the small cell. The boy sat covered in blood, crying, sobbing, clutching his mother’s white hand. He scooped the boy up, pressing his small face into his chest as he called for help.
She was beyond help, though. The only thing left was the dagger that had been used and with a shock of revulsion, he realised it must have been her very own Knife. It sizzled angrily in the small pool of blood in which it lay. He handed the child off to a monk and wrapped the blade in a tatter of cloth. When he laid the woman to rest later that day, he buried the Knife with her. He planted a white rose bush above her, leaving it otherwise unmarked.
He remembered the night he had discovered the truth of his past, his father having had too much wine, stern and still as he watched the pale boy draw. Therin was away that night, sent to his aunt and uncle for a visit. The pair sat in the huge drawing room, the fire blazing before them, the snow falling thickly outside. Noran, his sketchbook in his lap, sat near the only lit oil lamp, his head bowed over his drawing.
“Still nothing?” Devan said and Noran lifted his head, tucking his hair behind his ear.
“Sorry?”
“The Light,” the High Lord said, gesturing vaguely to himself. “Nothing?”
“No, father,” Noran said, his eyes dropping. He let the curtain of his shoulder-length hair fall between them again and continued his sketch.
“Maybe’s your witchblood,” he slurred. Noran’s hand had stilled, his eyes wide, frozen. “I thought I could, I dunno, fix you. Maybe that’s not possible.” He set his wine glass down and carefully stood. Noran watched him stumble once but right himself and left the room. He came back a short time later carrying a leather folder which he held out to Noran.
“Burn it when you’re done.” But Noran did not take the folder. He was frightened. He watched his father’s hand tremble and then shook his head, dropping his eyes back to the paper before him.
“Take it,” barked the High Lord and Noran cringed away from the loud words. When he didn’t take it, Devan dropped it into his lap and left the room. He didn’t come back.
It had taken Noran a long time to work up the courage to open the folder. The front was embossed with the High Lord’s crest, the book and hammer pressed deeply into the leather. He opened the cover and was surprised to see that it was only a handful of pages inside. The thin, cheap paper had blurred the ink and Noran could see that they were pages torn from a book. As he saw the date at the top, he realised they were pages torn from his father’s diary.
The story of Noran’s origins was told with a matter-of-fact bluntness that he found hard to digest. The High Lord was not a flowery, descriptive man but he was not shy on details. From his mother’s arrival to her death, he had left nothing out. The details of his mother’s death were hard to read but he forced himself, trusting that his father knew what he was doing in giving him this information.
He had not burned the pages. Instead, he took them, folded them and tossed the leather folder into the flames, knowing that it would take a lot longer to burn than the pages would. He tucked them into his shirt, pressing them close to his heart. He had later hidden them in the false bottom of the drawer, where they lay, untouched, for several years.
He had never shown them to Therin.
Thinking of the other boy settled the guilt across his middle even further. Would Therin ever understand if he did tell him?
Tell him what? He asked himself.
About his past, of course.
But if he started there, he knew he would not stop and then his heart would be on his sleeve, wearing it for all to see, for Therin to reject and break and ruin. The disgust he would face was not worth the pain of keeping it hidden. And Therin would reject his love, of that he had no doubt. His eyes met him with nothing but brotherly affection. In Therin’s mind, Noran was nothing but the broken older brother who could not please their father. And to tell him how he felt was going to be a betrayal of that brotherly love.
No, keeping it all hidden was safer. It was better if he didn’t open any of those doors, really. It was best for him and for Therin, too.
It was then that he realised there were no lengths he would not go to to give Therin peace. There was nothing he would not do to keep Therin happy, bright, cheerful. To keep Therin as he was, the way he loved him, he would do anything. It was then that he realised that if he didn’t want to break the boy he so loved, he could never tell him how he felt.
Somehow, that resolution hardened something inside him, solidifying his resolve into something he could bear with much more grace. He sat up, wiping the tears from his face and stood, stretching. His sleep-deprived eyes felt gritty and hot but with a new purpose, he opened the drawer to his desk, took out the sheets he had not touched in years, and threw them into the fire.
To keep Therin happy, he would close and lock the doors, forever.
That would be how he loved him: from afar and silently protecting him from the truth.
Noran left the room, suddenly hungry for the first time in days.