On His Own

For a short time, everything felt still.

Torven's arm felt heavy across his chest, his breath was slow and steady, brushing Nox's shoulder in warm intervals. Their legs were still tangled beneath the sheets, and the scent of wet skin, sweat, and salt still surrounded them.

But Nox couldn't rest anymore.

His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling that was just beginning to glow with the faint gray of morning. He could have sworn he saw it in Torven's eyes. Or did he? ′Did I take control of him for a split second? What if I do it without even realising? What if I take his life force away?′

He swallowed hard. His heart beat too fast. This time, not from pleasure or even regret, but from fear.

It was easy to forget the danger in moments like those. To forget what he was capable of. What still lingered beneath his skin, waiting for the wrong moment. Perhaps a wrong emotion or a wrong kind of dream could trigger it without him even knowing.

Torven stirred beside him, shifting slightly, pressing his face against Nox's shoulder.

Nox hesitated.

"I... I think I need some air," he said, more to buy time than anything else.

He pulled on his linen pants, fingers fumbling at the drawstring.

"You're running," Torven said from the bed.

Nox froze at the door.

"I'm not," he lied.

Torven sat up. The covers fell from his chest, revealing an impressive build and a few scratches made by Nox.

"Yes, you are." His voice was gentle, not accusing. "I can feel it."

Nox didn't respond. He just opened the door, slipped out into the corridor, and closed it softly behind him. He didn't want to answer.

The kitchen was still dark. Only the faintest light spilled through between the curtains, casting shadows over the furniture. Nox moved to the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass of water from the jug, hands shaking ever so slightly.

Nox tried to steady his breath. To focus. But the tremor in his fingers betrayed him. He hated this feeling and felt like he couldn't trust his own mind anymore.

'What if, next time, I hurt Torven?'

That thought landed like a weight in his stomach.

He glanced at the brown Mark on his skin. It was still the same. But that didn't mean Torven was safe.

Over the next few days, Nox began to pull away, slowly and carefully, hoping it would hurt a bit less. He kept making excuses: longer training hours, earlier mornings, late walks alone. He laughed when expected and smiled when Torven looked at him, but the warmth in his eyes never quite reached all the way anymore.

And Torven noticed it.

He didn't say anything, at least not at first. He just watched and waited. And gave Nox more space. But every night that passed without Nox returning to his room, the silence between them deepened. Like a rift formed not by argument, but by fear unspoken.

One evening, Torven finally asked:

"Is it me?"

Nox hesitated too long before answering.

"No. It's not you."

"Then what is it?" responded Torven.

The young warrior looked away. Out the window, and toward the stables. Took a breath and said quietly.

"It's me. I'm afraid of what I'm becoming. I'm scared I will hurt you."

Torven stepped closer but didn't reach out. His voice was quiet, but firm.

"You're not alone in this. You don't have to be."

Nox closed his eyes.

That was the problem. Him being not alone made everything so dangerous in the first place.

"Torven... I feel... I need to work through this alone to give you my best version of myself. You gave me your all. I want to give you my all, too." He started again.

But Torven didn't let him finish, instead he held him in his arms for a second before saying: "At least you're not sneaking out in the middle of the night this time".

He hesitated for a second before adding: "Promise me that when you're ready, you will come to find me." he stood now, with both hands gently cradling Nox's face, forcing him to look into his eyes.

"I promise..." whispered Nox.

Torven saddled his horse that very same day.

Nox stood to the side, his heart clenched so tight it ached, and thought about a similar scene from his past when he, too, was saying goodbye to his father in the very same spot. Tears burned beneath his eyelids, but he kept himself rooted to the spot by sheer force of will.

When Torven was finally ready to leave, he turned back one last time. He approached Nox slowly and said, "Hey, Nox. It's okay. We'll see each other soon."

Then he kissed him softly, pressing every unspoken word into that one parting touch.

"This isn't goodbye," he whispered against his lips. "Just 'see you later.'"

And then he was gone.

Nox remained in the estate, completely alone.

...

There weren't many things that constantly reminded him of Torven, but one of them was that ridiculous little brown bull figurine, ugly and awkward, which now sat on the nightstand. Some days, he found himself putting it in his coat pocket without thinking and carrying it everywhere.

The first few days were the hardest.

Nox finally moved into the guest bedroom, the very one Torven used to sleep in. He told himself it was quieter there. But really, it was the only place where he still felt close to him. Every night, he woke up from nightmares, drenched in sweat, and with his heart pounding. The only thing that helped him make it through it all was the lingering scent of Torven on the pillow.

During the day, he kept himself busy, training or putting the estate back in order. He trimmed the rosebushes out front, finally cutting back the overgrowth. Cleaned the rooms. Stacked books on the shelves.

Often, Nox would sit in the same armchair his father once used, a book open on his lap, though he rarely read. Sometimes, he just stared at the slow, rhythmic swing of the clock's hands above the fireplace.

He visited the graves every day. His father's, mother's, and brothers'. He would stand there in silence, sometimes for minutes, sometimes longer, just staring at the stones and wondering if he could have done anything differently. If any of it had been preventable.

After a week or so, his sleep started to shift. The dreams weren't just nightmares anymore. Occasionally, he'd dream of his family, alive and well, eating together, working in the stables, or sitting quietly by the fire. And sometimes Torven would be there too, just watching him. Not speaking. But present as he used to be.

Nox missed him so much it hurt.

Eventually, he decided he needed to pull himself together.

Thinking would do no good; only action.

Nox realized there was only one person who might be able to help him.

Syrren.

So one morning, just after sunrise, he saddled up Gerhart. He checked the straps twice, and then, without a word or a plan beyond the road ahead, he rode out.

He didn't know what he would find in that little town. Or even if she was still there.

But he had to try.