conning | AND YOU WERE THERE, and YOU were there....

He can't quite repress a groan of angry frustration, but on the heels of it he says, "You haven't done anything wrong, but that's a problem. You're not safe and we need to move."

Where, is the problem. The tower is his sanctum but it's ultimately the property of the city, beholden to the Septarion. (Who may not be involved at all - there are certainly enough power-hungry mages with their own agendas - but he can't take that chance.) He can't go to Patia or Cerrit, at least not yet; Nydas and Quay can't house a potential fugitive; the Oracles are kind but not particularly intimidating...

"...Do you know if you're claustrophobic?" He's already steering him, very gently, towards the direction they'll need if this plan doesn't blow up in his face immediately.

That's a problem, the familiar stranger says, and he feels the first stir of anxiety about this whole situation. He lets himself be guided, trying and failing to figure out why he seems so familiar.

(Another, different, still-beautiful stranger, a world carved from shades of moonlight and cloud--

I can't let it happen, and I can't stop any of them.)

He reaches up and puts a hand on his chest, feeling the weight and bump of an amulet or pendant of some kind.

"I--" He pauses, startled into brief silence. "I don't. I can't remember. I don't think I am, but I can't remember."

He nips his lower lip between his teeth briefly. Forces himself to take a breath through the tension creeping up from his gut to his throat. "Why can't I remember? What should I remember?"

(I want to be with him again, with them both, but not like that. I know this isn't what you would choose, but I can't send you back. I can only give you somewhere with purpose to go.)

He reaches out to hang on to Zerxus and still stumbles a little as he loses his balance under the weight of the voice.

Something underneath his skin feels hot, but in a way that clarifies. His eyes glimmer and then outright glow a pale blue-white as his appearance changes. Unruly blonde hair, freckles, green eyes, a narrow face with a sharp nose. It happens in a blink, a blink of a blink: the briefest surge of Celestial power and a shimmer across the newcomer's skin, and suddenly Zerxus is helping support a very different man.

Carried in the glow for a blink of a blink is a voice Zerxus knows better than his own heart, saying something he can't hear.

Neal starts to drop to one knee. "What just..."

"Ho there, First Knight."

The hail comes from behind them.

Edited 2023-12-15 04:33 (UTC)

His grip tightens - almost painfully, before he gets a hold of himself - and his expression turns raw and vulnerable. For a long moment he's overcome with a desperate, desolate yearning that hasn't consumed him since Evandrin faded to nothing in his arms.

Feeling Neal weaken beneath his hands is enough to jar him into the present, and he kneels down with him just as he hears that voice. It's a familiar one, but that doesn't put him at ease; Neal will see the flash of annoyance and then a stern mask of professionalism as he looks up.

"Hello, Lieutenant." Findras's second in command is a powerful eldritch knight, but not a particularly kind or delicate one. Zerxus isn't exactly popular with the Spellguard - a terrestrial paladin being promoted over their heads never would be - but most of them are at least subtle about it. "I didn't realise you were doing night patrols."

Neal is having a hard time getting his thoughts in order. He can see that other place in his mind's eye, framing a beautiful man with a face that looks wrong when so serious. He lifts a hand to massage his forehead, only half-listening to his shepherd and the new stranger.

The lieutenant inclines his head in a gesture that is at least professionally respectful. He traces Neal with his eyes, something briefly hard and unreadable in them before he looks at Zerxus properly. "More out for a walk than doing a patrol. Everything all right?"

An angel, Neal thinks muzzily. He spoke to an angel about stopping something from happening. He finally looks up at the newcomer and there's... familiarity. Vague and formless, but present. This man is an enemy, Neal knows. He knows, and he doesn't know why. He feels like he has bits of glass buried in his brain.

"I didn't know you'd started playing escort to drunks."

Navigating his duties has never entirely stopped feeling like walking a razor edge, but he hasn't felt this close to it in a long time. He can feel the way Neal stiffens as he comes back to himself and realises - recognises? - who they're talking to.

He was ready to take the question at face value, to avoid asking why a casual stroll required armour, to pretend there's real trust between them.

Usually, he'd do that anyway. He's too tired to get in useless arguments at this point, too adept at ignoring the righteous indignation that flares hot in his chest. Except - he'd felt so much younger, for a moment. He can almost hear Evandrin murmuring that he understands, almost see that proud, exasperated smile -

"If that's how you dismiss victims, I can see why Findras keeps you on the edges of the city."

It's strange, the way he can simultaneously feel safer than he has in a long time (how does he know, why is that true) and like a wrong step will have things twist into a tailspin.

The new stranger chuckles quietly. "Oh, he's not a victim. I'm familiar with this one."

Neal shifts toward Zerxus, almost purposefully leaning against him now. Neal doesn't know his appearance has changed, doesn't consider that an altered face, instinctive or otherwise, doesn't do much good if the person trying to hide is still wearing a distinctive three-piece suit.

"You have the advantage then," Neal says. "I don't know you."

Edited (what is icon set consistency) 2024-01-03 20:46 (UTC)

Zerxus angles his body in a way that isn't even remotely subtle, putting himself firmly between Neal and Lieutenant Pain-In-His-Ass. It looks like an acutely vulnerable position from the outside, kneeling on the ground with an arm around Neal's shoulders.

If that's what the Lieutenant assumes, well. That's on him.

He certainly looks confident as he swaggers forward, cockily graceful. "No? They weren't entirely useless, then."

It's as good as confirmation, dropping like lead in his stomach. Zerxus isn't worried about besting this man in a fair fight, but he can't face the city itself and expect to win.

The Telepathic Bond isn't active, but Tempus is circling the city less than a mile away. Find the closest member of the Ring of Brass and bring them here. He'd prefer Nydas or Cerrit, but that doesn't matter right now; he doesn't know how long he can stall.

"So you've been hunting some sort of fugitive, and I haven't heard about it?"

Neal tenses, speaking without thinking--which is probably why he says what he does. He's not trying to remember anything. And he doesn't think about how bad it will sound.

It helps that whatever instinct drove the casting of the first illusion resurfaces with another soft, whispering glow, pulsing over Neal's skin and making the borrowed face disappear. "I'm not a fugitive. I was sent here for a reason."

The lieutenant smiles slowly. "Well. That's interesting. No, he's not a fugitive, First Knight. He's just part of a pet project a few mages have been working on. I can escort him home."

No, Neal thinks, but god there's a fear in him that makes it hard to breathe. No, no, he doesn't want to go with this man, he doesn't know what will happen but he knows it won't be good.

"I can't go home," he says, and knows that's true too, but also doesn't know why. He can't, but he can get himself and his shepherd out of here. He knows he can. Somehow, somehow, how?

The lieutenant takes a slow step forward, his hand drifting to his weapon.

Somehow that breaks through Neal's panicked static.

"No," he says. This time it's soft but steady, absolute, and there's a second vocal layer that rings around them in someone else's voice. The voice of the angel that Neal doesn't remember.

With a sharp boom of thunder, he and Zerxus are suddenly a good ninety feet down the road, reappearing in time to see the lieutenant hit the wall of the nearest building and then the ground.

I can't go home, Neal says, and it twists like a dull knife in his chest but he doesn't have time to dwell on it.

The moment that hand falls to the hilt of his sword, Zerxus has raised his own and cast Sanctuary on Neal. His next move should be to -

It feels like everything freezes, when Neal speaks once more with that strange, celestial echo. Zerxus couldn't move if he tried, so it's fortunate that the spells works as intended. Tearing his gaze away from the threat is reckless, it's stupid, but he can't help it; he stares at Neal with wide, stunned eyes.

"What - "

"Oh, now that is interesting. Not one of your tricks, was it, Sir Illerez?"

That's a new voice, low and silken as the wizard steps from the alley just beyond them, robes unnaturally still in the gentle night breeze. Zerxus doesn't recognise them straight off, but the gleaming necklace marks them as Ring of Silver. Dean of Enchantment, if he had to guess.

"It wasn't, no." His voice remains steady, but there's a rough edge to it. Fine; let them think it's because he's nervous, or questioning himself. Let them think he doesn't know exactly what he wants to do, if only in the broadest strokes. "It seems to me like your project isn't keen on continuing his work with you - and I'm sure that's his decision to make?"

Neal takes a quick, sharp breath at the appearance of someone new, easing himself to his feet. Goosebumps prickle along his scalp, over his arms. How did he do that? How did he do that?

Someone else steps from between two buildings across the street, in the same kind of robes. Clearly not of rank with the first wizard but equally clearly their ally.

"Mr Caffrey," the newest stranger says. He feels something constrict in him. He can feel himself going numb at the sound of the name, and when a glance confirms that his shepherd, the lieutenant, and the first wizard don't react--it's his. Mr Caffrey, that's him. And the world is going rapidly fuzzy around him as the stranger says something else he can't quite hear.

What he says is, "Come here, now."

Neal silently steps forward, resistance fading out after a brief surge of horrified surprised.

The moment Neal moves, Zerxus's hand shoots out to clasp his wrist and his eyes flare with starlight. Maybe it's just luck, that he hasn't used his Cleansing Touch too many times today, or maybe it isn't.

"No, that's not going to happen." As he speaks, his other hand finally drifts to the hilt of his sword. It's one last warning, because he really doesn't want this to end in bloodshed if it doesn't need to.

But he is rapidly losing his patience.

The lieutenant has caught up to them, at this point, and has his own blade pointed towards them, lazily shifting from one to the other. "Is this truly the hill you wish to die on, First Knight?"

Clarity washes back in and he retreats, back beside and then slightly behind Zerxus. He feels sick. Terrified in a way he hasn't been until now. At least not since waking up in that alley, but it's not like that gives him a broad span of experience to draw from.

"He's not going to die on it," Neal says softly. He doesn't know how he knows that, except that he's going to try and figure out how the fuck he helped the first time and do that again. A deep breath. "You might, though."

Zerxus doesn't let go of Neal's hand.

"No one needs to die here," he says, and he draws his Holy Avenger in a burst of divine light, crackling and shimmering around the blade. "But please keep in mind: between the three of us, I'm the one with healing magic."

His reserves are lower than he'd like, but he's worked with worse.

Edited 2024-01-04 06:33 (UTC)

It's breathtaking, that light. Breathtaking and beautiful and Neal thinks help me, to no one he can name.

Help me help him. Help me remember why I'm here.

"Who are you talking to?" It's the first wizard this time, fixing on Neal with sudden intense focus.

"Help me," he says, quietly, but his otherworldly echo is anything but quiet. Celestial light swirls around his free hand and weaves itself into a long, thin, glittering sword that looks made from ice frozen impossibly around flames, a dark orange flicker in the depths of the blade.

All that keeps his head jerking from two very active threats is years of training, but he catches the shape of it out of the corner of his eye - he knows that Neal is armed, now, and he can only hope that means he remembers how to use a sword.

He casts one last thought to Tempus, who still isn't in range, who may not have found anyone yet.

Then he falls into a stance that's painfully familiar, back to back with someone he knows he can trust. He can question why he knows that later, why any of this is happening; right now, he needs to be a knight.

"I am giving you one final warning." They're outnumbered, at least one wizard here is a more powerful enchanter than Patia, and he has no idea what his own ally is capable of. This is reckless idealism in its purest form and it could easily get them both killed, or worse.

For the first time in perhaps a month, Zerxus smiles.

They've done this before. He knows it with an absolute certainty he can't explain, one word the only thing tied to the feeling: Enclosure. What does that even mean in this context?

Doesn't matter. All at once, the lieutenant is in motion and the wizards fall back slightly, spells lighting up at their fingertips.

The voice is in his head again. Hold them off, it says, and he feels strangely capable of doing just that. Something is going to happen, he doesn't know what, but he has to hold them off until it can.

"Dibs on the one I threw against the wall."

The lieutenant growls and comes in swinging.

"Good choice. He's really not as good as he thinks he is." It has the intended effect - he gets just a little angrier, just a little sloppier - but Zerxus doesn't risk a glance to confirm. He needs to focus on what the wizards are casting if he's going to -

A slash of his hand is all it takes to make the streak of lightning fizzle to nothing, but that's his last Counterspell and the Dean is still casting. He just has to move, raising his sword and dashing forward -

The psychic lance sears right through him. The pain could be forged through, the taste of copper in his mouth is hardly new, but he can't move.

"No!"

It's not his voice.

All at once, it's like he's tipping backward into the quiet dark, wrapped in something heavy and blinding. Something to protect him from what's happening out there, mentally speaking. Something to make sure he stays out of the way as the patron he unknowingly serves does what needs to be done to protect the man it loves.

Whenever Neal starts to come back to consciousness, it'll be after Evandrin checks out.

And in the mean time, Evandrin in Neal's body is at Zerxus's side in a breath, his landing in front of his husband sending out a blast of energy from Destructive Wave that washes over their enemies in a roar of thunder and starlight. 5d6 radiant and 5d6 thunder damage and these fuckers get knocked prone on a failed con save.

Neal had checked out. The presence there now is a few steps shy of godly.

Bitches.

He knows that voice. Even through the echo of a stranger, through the blood rushing in his ears, through the frantic pounding of his heart as he's made helpless.

Things change so quickly in the heat of battle, and usually he keeps up with it, but even once his limbs jerk back into motion it feels like he's moving through molasses as he turns to just stare.

"Ev - "

He'd forgotten about the lieutenant, who's charging them with two rapiers. There's no time to think or consider; Zerxus steps between them, sword whipping upwards with unnatural speed as it catches both strikes.

"This first, darling," Evandrin says. It's his voice still, though Neal's is there underneath it like a whisper.

Both voices are also exhilarated.

Evandrin raises one hand and ~~takes a second action~~ blasts the Dean with lightning.

The stunned, strangled laugh that tumbles from his lips tastes like blood, and his eyes are burning as he parries again. It feels like he's dreaming.

Well, if he is, he'd rather hold on to it for a while; if he isn't, he really does need to focus on this fight. That's a little easier, gaze locked with someone he's never liked. (Can he hear this, too? Does it matter?)

"If you keep this up, at least one of those is going to break." Zerxus isn't bothering to restrain anything now, either the growl of contempt or the power of his strike.

The lieutenant snarls, pale with nerves. Only half of them are from the fact that he's remembering who he's fighting.

The other half is confusion at the prospect of who he wasn't expecting to.

The Dean is down, stunned but not dead; Evandrin turns on the other wizard, who he's held at bay with a glittering moonlight shield while he dealt with the ringleader. The shield warps, bells outward, and then blooms into a column of ghost-white flame that crisps the second wizard as the Dean starts to shake off Evandrin's previous attack and struggle toward his feet.

Most of the time, Zerxus doesn't like making people afraid. It can be necessary - it can even be kinder, stopping violence before it starts - but it always leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Watching someone so happy to sneer down his nose at everyone else tremble in his ridiculously expensive boots -

He's a paladin, not a saint. His grin isn't pretty.

Still, even as his sword drips with the man's blood, "The offer remains open. This fight can end right now, with both of you licking your wounds somewhere else." He expects to hear a fondly exasperated huff behind him. Gods, he's missed that sound.

He gets it, tone for tone the way he remembers, and a soft chuckle besides.

The lieutenant slowly backs away and around, toward the dean, helping the man to his feet. The wizard needs the assistance. He's barely conscious. The other wizard needs a revivify. And Evandrin looks fresh as a daisy in his borrowed vessel, with the addition of an eerie blue-white shimmer in the air and under his skin.

"This is not finished." It's the dean who speaks, a shaky wheeze, his eyes locked on the creature between him and Zerxus. "We will find out what... that is. And how and why it's here."

The lieutenant clearly wants to dump the dean back on his ass and run, or at least withdraw quickly, but that would be political suicide.

"He," Evandrin says. One raised hand, a flash of light at his fingertips, and the wizard roast on the ground stirs and gasps in shock and pain. Another tiny gesture from Evandrin and the burns start to fade as the newly resurrected wizard passes out.

"Leave." Quiet. Absolute.

He puts a hand to his hip, to hide the fact that his fingers are starting to tremble as his grip on Neal slips.

Zerxus takes a step forward, sword low at his side but his eyes blazing - not just with fury, but with divine starlight. It adds a strange resonance to his voice, a growl almost like thunder.

"Or you could talk about my husband like that again."

Any lingering urge to save face dies on the wizard's tongue, and he uses it to cast Teleport instead. On himself, of course, not the man trying to haul his ass to safety.

"For fuck's - " The lieutenant swallows the anger and refuses to meet either of their gazes, before turning on his heel and running. Only once he's entirely out of sight does Zerxus sheathe his sword, let himself turn to face something worth looking at.

"Evandrin?" It's almost a different voice entirely, soft and strained and profoundly vulnerable.

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