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He had been young when he’d first met Will.
Will, a student from a village that was a week’s trip away on horseback — young and scared and shy, with bright wide eyes that shone with trepidation, and small hands that trembled with the promise of power.
Mike hadn’t been anything, yet, just a year too young to be assigned to a knight as a squire — but he'd had the passion for his dream, and the drive to master the skillset. His talent with wooden swords had been, at the time, fumbling and unsteady. But the eldest knights, with keen eyes and honorable titles, saw merit, potential. That was enough to gain him entry to the training yard.
The academy of their youth was a building masterfully carved from stone, with spires dedicated to different teachings, and with two distinctly separated courtyards, classrooms, and dormitories for varying age groups. One half of the school was for the younger children — the ones admitted early on to adapt to their proper place in life, to find what their true purposes were. The spirited, rowdy boys and girls were tested for their skill in battle, their possible feats as fighters, saviors. The softer ones, the ones who were more attentive and caring, with a mindfulness to them that was delicate but not fragile, were taught about magics, healing — the coaxing ways of the Weave, the subtlety of the arcane. Some destinies were not decided purely by temperament, and some did not bode with the school’s teachings at all, but Mike did. Will did.
Mike had fit in with the fighters, those passionate and filled with the right mentality to lead, to be bold.
Will had been quiet, reserved — but it wasn't his personality that had found him a place within the school ranks. There was something deep within him, or so it was murmured by their teachers, their guides. A power to him, a core of magic that swelled and pulsed and sang, unique and rare enough to have him allowed into the school with no cost, no extensive tests. An honor to most, but not entirely to Will — a secret the boy had whispered fretfully into Mike’s ear once, on a night where they had sat alone, watching the moon cross the sky.
Neither of them had felt like the academy was home, until they had come to meet one another. A meeting which had been more incident than fate.
Mike, sharply berated with his full name under a trainer’s harsh tone, stumbled in a mock-duel against a boy with months of practice more than he. The boy jabbed him in the side, and with a pitiful yelp Mike had stumbled and fallen forward, the skin of his knees splitting on the rough ground, his head knocking harshly as his chin hit a stone hard enough to make his jaw ache. He was expected to get back up on his own, and his opponent sauntered off with a disappointed huff when he failed to immediately.
Distantly, beyond his daze, he heard the light, rapid pattering of footsteps, and a faint shout from one of their superiors — the voice a commanding bark, beckoning for someone’s attention, their obedience. He shifted, sitting on the ground and pulling his knee up with a wince, eyes closed so he wouldn't yet have to peer at his injury. Despite himself, he hadn't outgrown his queasiness over the sight of blood.
He mumbled a soft curse under his breath, thinking of how his mother would balk at such a thing and scold him for it. His chest panged with hurt.
He missed home.
Alas, he had to get up. He braced himself, preparing to face the constant, painful sting to his injured knee until he could request to see a healer in a few agonizing hours.
Instead, Mike blinked his eyes open abruptly to a soft, unexpected touch. His focus splintered at the subsequent sting of pain, disorienting, his body jerking away from the touch of a stranger. The hands moved with him, stubborn, and he stilled like a spooked deer in the woods when his injury was flooded with warmth.
There was a golden glow, like that brought upon the world by the morning sun. Pale, unobtrusive, but persistent — awe-inspiring, as Mike gazed upon it.
The wound on his knee was stitched back together, the open rawness of it soothed, like a fire-warmed quilt to chilled skin in the winter. He watched, entranced, as his flesh knit itself back together, the wound sealing and tingling with a faint, not entirely unpleasant buzzing. Mike’s lips parted slightly, unbidden, as he took in the boy before him.
Kneeled at his side, one hand holding onto Mike’s arm, the other pressed fully to his knee, the boy was all softened features and silk-smooth skin. He was tanned, faintly so, with moles speckled over him like the first stars at sunset, the brightest ones. His eyes were a brilliant hazel, though they were flecked with hints of green and gold when they opened, looking to Mike as if he held the answers to every eternal question in the world.
The boy was dressed in loose robes, a relaxed beige tone that grouped him with the students being taught of the ways of magic. A sash around his waist, a pale green shade that matched the grass at dawn, noted his lower-ranking. A new student, just like Mike. Someone with much to learn, and room to grow.
Mike thought, with an incredulous look upon his face, that this boy needed no teaching at all. His skill was woven into his expression and the comforting way he squeezed Mike’s arm, pulling him back into the present moment with the cautious air of someone who understood how easy it was to be scared when hurt.
Something within Mike tugged uncomfortably.
“Are you alright?” The boy asked, his voice a whisper between them, faint enough that Mike had to strain to understand him. Mike leaned closer, blinking — he must’ve appeared a fool, to anyone who may have been watching.
His mouth opened wider to answer, or maybe to gush over the small show of magic he’d just witnessed — but he was interrupted.
“William!”
It was a girl who called him, a number of years older than either of them. Maybe double their age, but not so old as to not be a student herself. Mike’s mouth snapped shut, and he wondered why he suddenly felt sour as his shoulders hunched slightly, head ducking. The boy — William, Mike noted — looked up at the girl with a flustered expression.
“Sorry,” he blurted, rushing to his feet, his hands wiping off the bottom of his robe as he offered the girl a guilt-ridden glance. The boy shrunk, and Mike thought that was an awful thing — he was already so small, to see him wilt made something in Mike’s chest lurch. He didn't want the boy with golden magic to shrivel in such a way.
“I’m sorry,” William reiterated, his voice a meek murmur as he shuffled towards the girl, his own head lowered. Mike couldn't tell if it was from respect or fear of the girl, who held some authority over the both of them.
The girl, with bright blue eyes and tussled, choppy, short brown hair, softened at William’s apologies.
She reached out a hand, ruffling the boy’s hair with more affection than most of the older students ever displayed for anyone. “It’s alright. You shouldn't run off from me, though. We both know your brother would have my head if something happened to you on my watch, hm?”
She looked at William with her lips forming a crooked smile, her gaze shifting to Mike and assessing him with a brief once-over. She glanced around, taking in the other boys and girls his age, all in the midst of their training. Mike wondered how they all weren't stuck, like him, gaping at the boy who had just healed him like a divine blessing had been laid upon his brow.
The older girl tutted softly, patting William’s head again more firmly. The small boy simply whined, a hint petulant, though he still shrank into himself shyly. Mike watched the exchange closely, struggling against his urge to interject, to introduce himself, to blabber his praise like a blushing buffoon.
The girl said, “Shall we continue to your room?”
William, seemingly with a great reluctance, nodded his head silently.
He shot Mike a glance, appearing taken-aback to find Mike already staring at him, before he was trotting politely after the older girl who had begun to chatter away about some topic or another that Mike was not privy to.
Mike stood on shaky legs, though he knew better than to think he trembled from pain — no, his pains were long gone, banished by gentle hands and brilliant eyes.
He decided that he would not stand another day without knowing this magical boy’s presence innately.
→
It was, of course, not so simple for Mike to track down the small healer in a matter of a day.
He had chores to attend to, training to tackle, and studies to keep up with, lest he fall behind and somehow ruin his entire life in one afternoon.
Despite his attempts, locating his friend-to-be was also harder than he’d anticipated; apparently asking for the boy with hazel eyes and brown hair who was new was not gleaning him any worthy answers, and with his youth he was often dismissed.
It was frustrating.
He had been devising a rather genius plan on sneaking into an office to try and find any useful information, when the object of his curiosity happened to stumble into him one day.
The collision was much more dramatic than it ought to have been, leaving both boys on the floor — Mike rubbing his shoulder, William rubbing at the base of his spine with a wince, a few scrolls and books scattered on the floor. Mike immediately set to gathering them, thoughtless in his hurry to help the boy. How astounding, for them to run into one another again, when Mike barely saw students more aligned with the Weave compared to those he learned with daily.
Incident, he wondered, or fate?
He’d settle for either, his mood lifting when he recognized those green-gold flecks that sparkled at him, William’s expression apologetic — perhaps his default state.
Mike pointed at William, perhaps a touch over-enthusiastically. “You!”
William, his complexion paling slightly, echoed meekly, “Me?”
“Yes!” Mike leapt to his feet, William’s belongings held carefully aloft in both his hands. He thrust the small pile towards William’s chest, his grin eager. “You healed me, my leg,” he enthused, faltering after a moment. He felt his grin slip, just a bit. “You don't recognize me?”
He only had a moment to feel embarrassed — of course the boy wouldn't recognize him, they were strangers— before William, with rosy cheeks, cleared his throat and shook his head, his gaze carefully averted.
“No,” he corrected in a murmur, “no. I remember you. I just hadn't thought you'd remember me.” He admitted it like it was a shameful thing, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor with his cheeks puffed out, his brows furrowed just enough to shadow his long eyelashes. Mike blinked, frozen in place like an idiot.
“Not remember you?” He repeated, mystified. “How couldn't I? You—” He hesitated, debating how to phrase it. He settled on, “Your magic. It was beautiful.”
William looked stricken, for a very long moment. Mike fretted, suddenly faced with the question of if that was somehow offensive. He'd never interacted much with students connected with the Weave, and none of his family had ever been so magically-attuned as to form opinions on such things. But, much to his relief, William only stuttered, his fluster strangely endearing to Mike.
With a sense of bravery that would later solidify his belief in his path, in the life he’d want to live and the choices he’d wish to make, Mike pressed on.
He sounded a little breathless, even to his own ears, and felt the undertones of embarrassment as they crept into his voice. It cracked over his words, but it did not dissuade him.
This moment didn't feel like fate, or like something that had been foretold, or already drawn in ink. It felt like revealing a clean page, unmarred and pristine — it felt like dipping his pen into the inkpot, and preparing to craft a story that had never been imagined before.
He asked, braver than he’d ever been; “Would you like to be my friend?”
→
Even throughout the first months of friendship, Will maintained a flighty attitude, always wary of offending Mike, always careful with his words.
Much to Mike’s sorrow, he rarely got to glimpse his friend use his magic with Will’s determination to use it only when prompted by their teachers. Their first meeting, he had explained once with a sheepish, small smile that Mike had cherished, had been an impulsive decision. Mike had sworn he was grateful for Will’s impulsiveness, but Mike wasn't sure if Will believed him entirely.
It pained him for his friend to be so reserved, not just with his talents but with his self as a whole — Mike could tell there was more to the boy. Hidden in his tight grins, and under his furrowed brows, Mike could see that there were layers beneath his shy exterior, carefully crafted and mindfully maintained.
Mike had always been persistent. Others would have coined it as stubbornness, but he didn't care which label fit him best, as long as he achieved his goal.
In this period of his life, his goal was Will. Getting him to open up, at least towards Mike. Was it so wrong to want his friend to feel comfortable with him?
He didn't think so.
He started small. Pokes to Will’s arm when they spoke, and sitting an inch closer when they fled to the nearby fields for a break from the crowded airs of the academy.
He found Will to be an artist, and fawned over his skill endlessly — though this was certainly no ruse! His awe was entirely genuine, his eyes wide and his touch reverent whenever Will would grace him with the chance to flip slowly through the pages of his sketchbook. His control with the ink, the sway from thin lines to thick, the darkened patches where shadows laid heavily and the occasional splashes of color from when Will could access proper paints — all of it took Mike’s breath from his lungs, filling him with something else. Oxygen seemed fickle compared to the feeling in his chest whenever he was allowed to admire Will, and his art.
On some days, with pinkened cheeks and averted eyes, Will would show him drawings of Mike. His features inked as if they'd been traced from reality right onto the page. The curve of his lashes, the protruding angle of his nose, the freckles dusted across his cheeks, much more prominent now after weeks spent training under the unrelenting sun.
Will made him look like a legend waiting to happen — like the champions of ancient tales, filled with grace and charm in the cut of their armor, the proud lift to their heads. Will made him look like the heroes of old, his training sword becoming the trusted blade of a dragon-slayer, his leather-padded armor into sharp, cutting lines of smooth metal, marked only with hints of age-old battles, hard-fought and won.
Mike enjoyed those days the most, though to him every moment with Will was a joy unlike any he had known before.
That was why — perhaps an act that would be considered foolish by most, or even dishonorable — there came a day when Mike decided to lay the line of his fate within Will’s skillful hands.
Their field did not stray far from the trodden academy pathways, but it was only in the summer that the other students tended to find their way into the tall, breeze-swayed grass of yellow and gold and pale green. In the autumn, their field was theirs alone, save for the rare occasion where they stumbled upon an older student seeking a brief reprieve.
On this day — a day of mild weather, the skies thick with fluffy clouds that made out a thousand different shapes and scenes for a child’s imagination to toy with — they tucked themselves away in their field, rooted together under the shade of an old tree, dappled sunlight warming the air. Mike had carried along his training sword, as he often did, where Will had brought along a small satchel of art supplies. A modest collection, Will had once said, but useful in allowing him to explore his creativity with colors and textures and all sorts of things that Mike admired, but didn't quite understand in full.
He was no artist himself, but that didn't ruin his fondness for watching Will work.
In the midst of the afternoon, when the sun was beating down with its harshest rays, Mike swung his sword in a lazy arc, panting somewhat from the heat and feeling uncomfortably damp with sweat. He lifted a hand from the hilt of the sword, tugging in exasperation at the tight collar of his tunic. He squinted as he turned his face towards their tree, finding Will with his shoulders drawn in, his knees raised and being used as a surface for him to lay his sketchpad upon. Even from a short distance away, Mike could spy the tip of Will’s tongue poking out from between his teeth, his eyebrows furrowed faintly in concentration. His hand made a large gesture, sweeping across the page, and Mike itched to peer at his work in progress.
Glancing down at his sword, then shooting an accusing glance upward to the sun, Mike gave in to his urges.
Trotting over to the tree, he welcomed the breeze that hit him like a greeting, sighing in relief as the sun’s blazing glare finally retreated from his knobby shoulders.
The clearing under the tree was a rough patchwork of thin, short grass trimmings and lopsided circles of orange-brown dirt speckled with gravel and stones. There were sometimes little flowers that sprouted up in clumps of white and blue and purple, but they often came in the spring, and shrivelled by the summer’s end. Very rarely did they last through the fall. Mike made his way towards Will, tucked neatly into the natural, curving nook that the old tree provided. A tad uncomfortable after so many hours sat still within it, but a blessing now as Mike pressed his back to a thickened tree root, the wood allowing him to slouch against it with a pleased sigh.
Like a gravitational pull, Mike was drawn into Will’s space with little hesitation, feeling the moment where Will tensed against him before relaxing again.
On the sketchpad was the beginning of a mighty steed, with room above it for a rider. The horse was frozen in motion, its hooves lifted in a steady, cantering pace. There were the faint lines of a saddle, and metallic shin guards and boots faded into stirrups for an unknown hero, perhaps riding into battle. Mike allowed himself a moment to take in the drawing, the unshaking swoop of Will’s hand as he sharpened the line of the horse’s snout.
There was one thing about Mike that his mother, his father, and his elder sister had always lamented about. He had never been very good at keeping his thoughts to himself. Whether he spoke them, or showed them in the scrunching expressions of his face, or projected them from his body language — they told him he was absolutely unable to keep his opinions private, his wishes in mind alone.
Mike, accustomed to these accusations and rather accepting of them, for they were not baseless, was not so surprised when the words escaped him before he thought them through entirely.
“Will,” he started, “I shall devote myself to you.”
Will, who had silently tilted his head to listen, startled at his side. His hand stuttered on the page, though he had enough control not to jerk around and splatter his ink. Mike raised his brows, watching the reaction with mild intrigue.
“What?” Will squawked, his voice cracking on the syllable, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“What?” Mike returned, his tone innocent as he batted his lashes, quite innocently indeed.
“Hells below,” Will muttered, putting aside his sketch to turn and face Mike. “Why would you do a thing like that?” He demanded, appearing sincerely perplexed by the concept.
Mike huffed, not so exasperated as he pretended to be.
“You're my friend. My best friend. Why wouldn't I?”
“You're supposed to devote yourself to a God. You can't just– just—” Will sputtered for a moment, and Mike revelled a little in how off-guard he had caught the boy. “You can't swear an oath to me. I have nothing to give you.”
Mike snorted, “A paladin doesn't swear his oath to be given anything. A paladin gives, protects.” He paused, gentling his tone as he reached out to clasp Will’s hands in his own. “I could protect you.”
Will stared down at their joined hands, and in his hazel eyes Mike saw what had been there in every moment Will had used his powers before, discussed them in a whisper like they were a forbidden topic. In his eyes, Mike saw the faintest trace of fear. Unease.
Will had never said it, not in words, but Mike had learned quite quickly that he’d not needed words to understand Will. Will, in the silent way of a creature hiding in the woods at night, was afraid of his hands. The power within them.
Maybe he would never admit it; not to himself, not to Mike, but Mike knew it all the same.
He squeezed Will’s hands.
“Protect me?” Will muttered, lifting his gaze to Mike’s. “From what?”
“Anything,” he answered, the word escaping him with his breath. “The world, monsters, shadows. Anything at all. I can protect you, and I will always be your friend. Your most loyal companion. And you'll…” Here, he hesitated, a blush growing on his cheeks unbidden. “You'll be mine? If you'd like?”
Will stared at him for a long moment, in which Mike’s heart thumped rapidly in his chest, before nodding. It was a slow nod, cautious, but Mike could see Will’s sincerity.
More than that, he could feel it.
He wasn't sure if paladin oaths typically came with feeling, or if they were simply a weight to be carried by knowledge of word alone. But this — he felt it in their hands, the spaces where their fingers wedged together, interlocked gently on this mild autumn afternoon.
Will’s magic held a warmth to it, and between their hands Mike watched a burst of gold as it seeped from Will’s palms into his own, curling and washing over him like a soothing prayer, or like the magic of the academy healers when he was hurt.
It was Will, in every way, soft and quiet and loving beyond words, beyond all capacity.
Devotion, it seemed to whisper; a haunting, beautiful thing.
It was such a simple thing, to make this vow to his friend. To the boy he yearned to know inside and out, to the boy who he could tell would become so powerful that the world would stand in awe of him, just like Mike did.
Will shuddered, releasing Mike’s hands. The warmth did not fade, though Mike did mourn the touch.
“You… Maybe you can make a new oath, when your training is complete,” Will said faintly, as if he, too, had felt the connection as it formed. He looked scared.
Mike’s heart tugged in his chest.
“A new oath?” He repeated, scandalized. “No! I made this one. Why would I ever break it?”
“Mike,” Will warned, “they’ll expect you to make an oath to a God when you are knighted. To devote yourself to something real.”
He waved a hand, dismissive, and it tingled with Will’s magic still. He suspected the feeling would fade, but he hoped it wouldn't.
“A shame,” he said, tone impish, “because I like my oath. I will keep it.” A small part of him whispered in tune, I will keep you, as he stared at Will, unwavering.
Will shifted, apprehensive, and Mike took care to soften his tone once more. “Hey,” he murmured, tilting so Will would look him in the eyes one more. “It will be alright. Until I am fully trained, they won't know. And once I am, they'll have no say in who or what I devote myself to. But I won't take a new oath. Not ever. We’ll just keep it a secret for now. And when we're older and we're done with this school, we’ll leave together. We’ll make ourselves a party, you and me.” His voice picked up, and he began weaving their story together with more eagerness. He saw Will lean in, captivated despite himself, and he felt himself ease with the comfort of being seen. “We could go out into the world, you and I, make a name for ourselves. And we'd defeat monsters, and save people all the time. Maybe we'd make some friends, or join a bigger party every now and again, but it’d always be us. And we could slay a dragon. Or negotiate with a dragon… Meet a dragon! Any of it. And you—” he turned, stumbling for a moment at the sight of Will’s smile, something so small and so private. He adored it.
“You could paint our adventures. Or the places we’ll go. Or the people we’ll meet. And I could write about them. In our free time, when we're not saving the world. Evil would cower in our presence. We'd be—”
“Heroes?” Will’s interruption was soft, and did not grate on Mike. He looked much more relaxed, his eyes alight at the dreams Mike was spinning for them.
Mike shook his head, just a little. “Together.” He finished. “We’d be together.”
Will hummed, looking soft and content. It was Will, this time, who reached out and intertwined their hands, much to Mike’s delight.
Murmured like a secret, Will said, “I’d like that, Mike. I really would.”
He squeezed Mike’s hand.
Mike squeezed back.
→ → →
“Michael.”
Mike shrugged his weary shoulders, the pads separating his tunic and his armor rubbing at his skin uncomfortably through the thin fabric. He lifted his head to Will, who held a hand out to him, his eyes blank.
“My cleric,” Mike murmured, stepping forward and taking Will’s hand, their palms slipping together with the ease of years piled behind them, and decades amassing ahead of them.
Will’s magic felt like a void, where it pressed into him. It stuck to him, less like a warding barrier and more like a layer of skin that didn’t belong to him. It was dark, and pulsed with a sickly purple shade — a stark contrast to the golden glow of their youth. But it was still Will’s magic, and where it touched Mike, it soothed. It dispersed his aches and pains, seeking out his twinging joints and his bruised muscles and releasing the tension in them, pulsing with a love that was ancient and everlasting. Mike hissed softly, but relief soon swamped his surprise.
Will stared at him, expectant.
“Better,” Mike answered the silent query, smiling at Will.
The man did not answer him, turning away. Mike did not probe; he knew Will well enough to know when his love was contemplating something.
On days like this, where Will’s voice became a rarity, his consciousness a blessing, Mike was careful to keep him as long as possible.
Will kept hold of Mike’s hand, leading him along gently. That was something that had remained; Will never demanded anything of Mike. Not his loyalty, not his love, and not his presence. Every touch was reserved, wary. Will did not tug him anywhere, and Will hardly touched him in the way Mike craved. Will did not hold him, and Mike tried to understand despite the way it stung.
Will lead him towards a dying clearing.
Everything around them — around Will — died, but Mike had never minded it. Perhaps he was blinded, or misguided, but Will had a way of making even death appear beautiful.
Flowers wilted, and under their boots the ground crackled and protested, puffs of dust and ash rising under their every step. There was little color in death like this; the slow rot of things, the gradual crawl towards the end. Will’s pale complexion and eyes, glazed a pure, unseeing white, his robes dirtied black at the ends and colored a faint gray, offered little in vibrancy. His brown hair sported strands of gray, and the rosy blush to his cheeks he’d held as a child had faded with his decaying body.
Mike was the only color in the landscape, save for where the sky met the horizon — too distant to be touched by the rot, too empty to draw Mike’s gaze away from Will. He’d grown almost tan in comparison to Will, his own brown eyes a startling flash of color whenever he glimpsed his own reflection. His armor was faded now, but the red of his chest plate, the yellow and blue embroidery on his cloak, were comforts he clung to.
Near them, a tree creaked, crying out against the end dawning upon it. A corpse laid at the trunk, rotted beyond recognition. Mike didn't flinch at the sight of it. Will paused, turned to take it in. His breath hitched in his chest, and his hand tightened around Mike’s in a shaking grip.
It was like a string snapped, finally pulled too taught.
There was a low gasp, resurfacing from the water after too much time. Mike braced himself.
“Mike,” Will said suddenly, and that was what broke the distance between them.
Mike swept forward, pulling Will away from the sight of the body, his freed hand rising to take Will’s chin and force his head away.
“Will,” he hushed, pulling, pulling, and Will fell into him with a pained little cry that made Mike’s heart break. Will collapsed against him, his body trembling, and his grip scrabbled against Mike’s armor, clutching at the seams for purchase.
“It’s alright,” he soothed, “it’s alright. You've done nothing wrong.”
Whether Will believed him or not, it was the truth of the matter. This curse had never been Will’s, despite how the burden of it had corrupted him so — despite how the world heard his name and cowered at the evil they saw him as.
Mike knew better. Mike was not afraid.
“Mike,” Will said, a repetition, as if Mike was all he knew, all he recognized. “Mike, please, please, why can’t you—”
He cut off, knowing his plea would go unanswered.
He’d asked before.
Why can’t you kill me?
It wasn't a question Mike could answer honestly, not without revealing his selfishness. Love was wonderful, but it was also this; being unable to kill the man he was endlessly devoted to, even when he begged for it.
Even when his death was what could save the world that Will was slowly destroying, with Mike a passive, loyal shadow at his side.
Mike couldn't do it.
He said, a weak avoidance but the truth all the same, “You know why.”
The line between them, the vow that coaxed Mike along, closer and closer to his love, following his footsteps no matter where they went — it pulsed between them, a heartbeat.
Will shook his head, his hair tickling against Mike’s cheek, the line of his jaw. He felt Will shudder again, pressed so closely, and his heart continued to crumble in his chest.
He said a second time, “You know why.”
He wished he could feel remorseful for it. He wished he could do what the world demanded of him. Mike wished very desperately that he had never lost Will in the first place — that Will had never been burdened with the weight of the world, with his fingertips dipped into Death’s deepest depths.
But fate had a certain design.
He couldn't tell what his place was in this story fate had drawn. He couldn't tell if he was supposed to be the one to slay the world’s greatest evil, or if he was supposed to trek after Will as he always had, unshakably enamoured.
If fate wished for him to rid the world of Will, then it had been sorely mistaken in its choice of who would wield the sword to slay him.
Mike, with steel in his resolve, with love coating his every action, his every sin, held Will in every way that was needed of him.
Will asked him faintly, as he had asked many a time before, “Why are you still here with me? Why won’t you leave?”
Mike answered, as he had before and as he always would, “I am yours. You are mine, Will. I will follow you to the ends of the world, and farther yet. I would never forsake my oath to you.”
“You could make an oath anew,” the words hit his skin like the bites of a viper, stinging with accusation, desperate with fear. Will still clung to him, and so Mike did not release him, and did not step back as he wanted to in order to look Will in the eyes.
“Never,” he said fiercely, his grip tightening on his cleric, a mirror of desperation, a reflection of fear. “My oath is my love, Will. I’ll never abandon it. Never abandon you.”
“Even as I am?”
With the gentleness of a saint, Mike used his hand to lift Will’s face, pressing a tender kiss beneath his eye.
“You are you,” Mike answered simply, seeing no lie in his words. “That is all that matters to me. That is all that will ever matter to me. I will keep my oath.”
Will shook his head, and tears dotted the lines of his lower lashes, clumping them together, wetting the swells of his pale cheeks. Mike brushed a thumb against one, wiping the tears away with reverence, with an aching devastation woven into his bone marrow.
“You'll die doing this,” Will whispered miserably, choking on a breath, helpless little sobs wracking his frame.
“I won't. You'll protect me. I know you will. Just as I’ll protect you.”
Perhaps it was his quiet conviction that eased Will — that, or the curse as it slowly slipped back into place, consuming the mind of his lover again.
Mike watched, heart panging, as Will’s eyes glossed over, slow as fog creeping on the horizon. He held on for only a moment before Will was stepping back, shifting away from him like a spirit on the wind.
All that remained intertwined was their hands, fingers painstakingly locked together.
Will stared at him for a very long time, his eyes unblinking, the tears drying in visible tracks down the sharp lines of his face.
The magic in Mike’s chest pulled, and he blinked down at where their hands stayed linked.
There was a small twitch — the faintest spasm.
Will squeezed Mike’s hand.
Mike paused, absorbing the moment, memorizing it. Every second he got with Will was one he'd never allow himself to forget. Every touch, every word.
The being before him, a mix of Will and something entirely other, observed him with only a hint of intrigue, utterly detached from the world around him.
But Will stared at him, expectant.
Mike’s grip on Will adjusted, and with everything that he was, he spoke through their touch instead of through the words they rarely shared anymore.
Will squeezed his hand.
Mike squeezed back.