Part I : A fitting welcome
"Gods, you smell like a week of bad decisions and a dead troll," Helena declared, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as Faelan strode into the sitting room.
The chamber was in a state of orderly disarray, servants clearing away trays of half-eaten pastries and empty wine goblets—the ghosts of a tedious afternoon meeting.
Faelan, his face a roadmap of grime and exhaustion, broke into a wide, weary grin. "Is that any way to welcome a hero home from his death-defying quest?"
Helena started toward him, then recoiled with a theatrical gag. "Mm-mm," she shook her head, a genuine smile fighting through her disgust. "No. Before any welcoming can even be considered, that stench must be exorcised."
She clapped her hands sharply. "This will not do. Take him. Scrub him until he gleams. Use the good soap."
Two servants took Faelan by the arms.
"Treason!" he protested with a mock pout. "I demand a trial!" He was summarily dragged away, his laughter echoing down the marble hall.
The manor's bath was a sanctuary of steam and stone.
A Dwarven heating rune glowed softly beneath the water, a priceless artifact that kept the tub perpetually hot.
After being scrubbed raw with a near-brutal efficiency, Faelan finally sank back into the scalding, herb-scented water. With a long, shuddering sigh, a week's worth of tension, grime, and fear began to dissolve from his muscles. He closed his eyes, and sleep claimed him almost instantly.
He was roused by a familiar sensation.
The water shifted, and a soft weight settled onto his lap. Helena had slipped into the tub, her naked body a pale, breathtaking vision in the steam. She straddled him, her full breasts pressing against his face, her thighs bracketing his hips in a silent, undeniable invitation.
Faelan's eyes fluttered open. "Hey," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
"A more fitting welcome, my love?" she whispered, her tone a low, seductive purr. He smiled. "More than perfect."
Her hands began to work, her fingers tracing the tense cords of his shoulders, then kneading the hard muscle of his biceps.
It was an act of worship, a slow, meticulous rediscovery of a body built for war. The simple massage was more intoxicating than any kiss.
"Where's your husband?" Faelan asked, his voice a contented rumble.
"Holding court for the peacocks camped on our lawn," she replied, her fingers tracing the line of his ribs.
"He's positively vibrating with irritation. The guards told him you'd arrived. He's dying for a debrief." She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "That's not the only thing he's dying for."
Faelan chuckled, a low, intimate sound. "And you?"
Helena laughed, the sound warm and rich in the steamy air. "What do you think, seeing the position we're in?"
"Should we wait for Ali, or—"
"Why wait," she interjected, her mouth closing over his, "when we can simply do it again?"
The kiss was deep and hungry, a reunion of tongues and breath.
He left a trail of marks down her neck and across her collarbone, a warrior's claiming.
She answered with her own, a sharp, possessive bite on the swell of his bicep. As she moved lower, he gently lifted her chin.
"I don't have much strength left, Lena—"
"Don't worry," she whispered, a wicked glint in her eyes as she slid beneath the water. "I'll do all the heavy lifting."
A moment later, he felt a warm, liquid pressure, a slick, insistent rhythm that made his eyes roll back and his thighs tighten.
He surrendered to it, his head resting against the cool stone of the tub.
When he could take no more, he hauled her up, her body slick and dripping.
He stood, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms clinging to his shoulders as he took her, their bodies moving as one.
He carried her like that from the bath, through the quiet halls.
The servants and guards they passed averted their eyes with practiced indifference, their loyalty absolute.
They merely cleared the way as their lady was carried to her chamber.
He laid her on the bed and fell onto his back, letting her climb atop him, a goddess working her magic while he simply rested his head in his hands, utterly relaxed. He was home.
After a long while, the energy shifted.
He rolled, pinning her beneath him, their faces close, their heavy breaths matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
It was a conversation spoken in skin and sweat, ending not with a crash, but with a slow, shuddering release.
He spilled himself over the pale skin of her inner thigh, a final, shuddering tremor passing through him before he collapsed, his head coming to rest on her stomach as he fell into a deep, profound slumber.
Helena smiled, gently caressing his hair.
A few minutes passed before Alistair burst into the room, his face alight with a restless, barely contained energy. "I want to know everything—"
"Pshhh," Helena whispered, a finger to her lips.
Alistair stopped, his gaze falling on the scene.
Faelan was fast asleep on her stomach, one arm thrown possessively over her thigh, looking utterly peaceful—a weapon finally set aside.
"Oh. Asleep. Again," Alistair sighed, a flash of fond disappointment on his face. He began to undress, ready to call it a night.
Then his eyes fell to the mess on Helena's thigh. A new excitement, hushed and hopeful, lit his face. He looked at Helena. "Did he…?"
Helena's gaze softened, tracing the lines of Faelan's sleeping face. "No, my love," she whispered. "Not without him."
Alistair's expression was full of understanding.
He slid into bed, propping his head on his arm and gently caressing Faelan's shoulder. "We'll ask him after the ceremony," he whispered back.
A flicker of worry crossed Helena's features. "I hope he won't hate us for it."
Alistair took her hand and kissed her wrist. "I know he won't."
He then shifted, his gaze returning to her thigh. "You look far too comfortable to move," he murmured, "and it would be a shame to waste it."
"What are you doing?" she asked as he slid down the bed.
His mouth found the first traces of Faelan's release. "My duty," he said, before he began to lick her clean.
He swallowed, then moved higher, his tongue finding her clit.
Helena bit down hard on her knuckles, her body arching and trembling, stifling the cries of her climax so as not to wake the sleeping warrior between them.
Afterward, Alistair took his place on the other side of the bed.
Helena, exhausted and sated, fell asleep within minutes, nestled in a perfect, breathing stillness, an island of three in the quiet of the great manor.
Part II : A Lord's Vacation
The morning was a painful, unwelcome intrusion.
A blade of sunlight sliced through the balcony doors, falling directly across Faelan's eyes.
He groaned, slowly returning to the land of the living.
As his vision cleared, he saw Alistair sitting on the balcony, already dressed in a simple silk shirt and trousers, hunched over a comically small wrought-iron table buried in paperwork.
He looked less like a lord in his element and more like a scholar forced to work in a broom closet.
"Morning, early bird," Faelan's voice was a low gravel, rough with sleep.
Alistair looked back, and a grin of pure, boyish relief broke across his face.
He abandoned his papers and rushed to the bed, the morning light catching in his hair, making him look less like a lord wrestling with state affairs and more like the carefree mage Faelan remembered.
"Finally," Alistair said, his curiosity a palpable energy. "You're awake. I need to know everything. The mission, Tybalt, the—"
Faelan closed the distance in a single, fluid motion, silencing Alistair's frantic energy with a soft, lingering kiss.
"Patience, my friend," Faelan murmured against his lips. "All in good time."
Alistair's urgency melted, replaced by a familiar warmth. "Where's Helena?" Faelan asked. "Wouldn't she want to hear this as well?"
Alistair's eyes dropped, tracing the fresh map of love bites on Faelan's chest and neck.
His gaze finally settled on the deep, perfect imprint of a full set of teeth on Faelan's bicep.
He ran his fingers over the mark, as if reading a story written in tooth and nail.
His voice, when he finally answered, was huskier, laced with a different kind of hunger. "The lady of the house… is attending to her duties."
As he spoke, Faelan was already in motion.
He pushed Alistair gently back onto the bed, their bodies finding a familiar alignment.
He eased Alistair's trousers down, their eyes locked in a silent conversation as he began to enter him.
With each slow, deliberate push, Faelan's teasing returned. "So… what was it you were so desperate to know?"
Alistair's breath hitched, his words fragmenting into moans. "The… mission… in Bluemoth…"
Faelan brought his mouth to Alistair's ear, his voice a hot whisper as he began to suckle on the earlobe. "Oh? Which mission?"
Alistair was lost.
The initial, gentle pressure gave way to a demanding rhythm, and Alistair's muffled moans grew in intensity.
His nails dug into Faelan's back, his hands tangling in his hair, pulling him into a bruising, desperate kiss.
Faelan met his pace, their hips moving in a frantic, perfect sync until he placed a hand over Alistair's mouth, silencing the louder cries.
A few minutes later, it was over, a shared, shuddering release that left them both breathless and slick with sweat.
Faelan pulled away, a soft laugh escaping his lips. Alistair, looking utterly pleased and thoroughly exhausted, managed to laugh with him. "It's good to have you back," he breathed.
It took them a while to recover.
They lay tangled in the sheets, Alistair resting his head on Faelan's chest. "No more games," Alistair murmured. "Tell me."
Faelan gently brushed his thumb under Alistair's eyes, tracing the dark circles of exhaustion. "I was going to."
He laid it all out—the horrors of the church, the impossible rescue at the stadium, and Maeve's grim political assessment, the talk at the guild.
When he finished, Alistair was silent for a long time.
"That complicates things," he finally said, his voice heavy. "But at least Lyra is on board with the tournament plan."
He shifted, propping himself up. "Speaking of which, where has she been? She didn't visit us this week as well"
"I have no idea," Faelan admitted. "I'm supposed to meet her at the Guild today."
"You two didn't vex her, did you? You know how she keeps her heart in a gilded cage unless she's drowning in ale."
Alistair shook his head. "None that I can think of."
Faelan swung his legs out of bed and began to dress. "Well, you could ask her yourself. A small vacation wouldn't kill you. Care to play hooky, my lord?"
Alistair looked torn for a moment, then a slow, rebellious grin spread across his face. "I accept."
Faelan grinned back.
"Excellent. But first, we need to do something about that beautiful, aristocratic face of yours."
He rummaged through a servant's discarded laundry basket, producing a worn, slightly grimy set of clothes.
He rubbed a streak of grease across Alistair's cheekbone and mused his perfectly coiffed hair into a state of respectable disarray.
Faelan stepped back, appraising his work. "Something's missing…" He strapped his own sword belt around Alistair's waist.
"Perfect," Faelan declared. "You look like you've lost a fight with a goblin and are one bad day away from selling your sword for ale."
Alistair looked at his reflection in a silver platter.
A nostalgic, genuine smile touched his lips. "It feels like coming home."
Faelan gestured toward the balcony with a theatrical bow. "After you, hedge knight."
They slipped out of the manor , two ghosts leaving a gilded cage behind, making their way toward the familiar, chaotic heart of the Guild.