The rhythmic scrape of Elias's quill across parchment was the only sound in the hushed sanctuary of his private meditation chamber. Sunlight, filtered through a high, narrow stained-glass window depicting the gentle Lamb of the Light, cast fragmented pools of color onto the worn rug and simple wooden furniture. Incense smoke curled lazily from a small bronze burner, filling the air with the calming scent of sandalwood and myrrh. Here, amidst the serene austerity, Elias sought refuge from the constant, unnerving awareness of Theron Blackwood that haunted the public spaces of the Cathedral.
He was meticulously annotating a treatise on advanced warding techniques, forcing his mind into complex sigils and energy flows, anything to drown out the persistent, phantom thrum of the connection that seemed to vibrate just beneath his sternum. The memory of amber eyes locking onto his across the refectory, the jolt of resonant awareness in the shadowed ambulatory – they were intrusions he desperately tried to banish.
A knock echoed through the quiet chamber, sharp and authoritative. Not the deferential tap of an acolyte. Elias's hand jerked, leaving an ugly blot of ink on the pristine parchment. His heart, traitorously, gave a single, hard thump against his ribs. It couldn't be…
"Enter," he called, his voice miraculously steady, though his fingers tightened on the quill.
The heavy oak door swung open. Commander Theron Blackwood filled the doorway, his broad shoulders momentarily blocking the light from the corridor. He wore his formal black and silver tabard over a dark tunic, but not his armor. His raven hair was tied back severely, emphasizing the sharp planes of his face, which still bore a faint, healthy pallor – a testament to his unnerving recovery speed. His expression was neutral, the disciplined mask of the Church's Sword firmly in place. Yet, his amber eyes, sweeping the small chamber with swift, assessing precision, held an intensity that instantly shattered Elias's fragile peace.
"Your Eminence," Theron greeted, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the small space. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft, definitive click. The chamber instantly felt smaller, warmer, charged with the Commander's potent presence. The familiar, subtle heat radiated from him, mingling uneasily with the cool incense.
"Commander Blackwood," Elias replied, setting down his ruined quill with deliberate care. He rose, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his simple grey meditation robe. "To what do I owe the… intrusion?" He kept his tone politely distant, the Cardinal addressing a valued Knight-Commander.
Theron didn't smile. His gaze, those unsettling amber depths holding the faintest suggestion of verticality, fixed unwaveringly on Elias. "An intrusion, perhaps. But necessary, I assure you." He took another step into the room, his movements fluid and predatory despite the lack of threat. "My wounds. Brother Anselm expresses satisfaction, but…" He paused, his gaze dropping pointedly to his own torso, then lifting back to Elias's face. "Given the severity of the demonic taint, and the… unconventional nature of the healing required," the word 'unconventional' carried a deliberate weight, "I felt it prudent to seek your personal assessment, Your Eminence. No one understands the lingering effects of such corruption better than you."
The Pretext. It was flimsy, almost insultingly transparent. Brother Anselm was more than capable. Elias had witnessed the miraculous healing himself; the scars were already fading. Yet, the logic was superficially sound, leveraging Elias's unique role and the gravity of Theron's injury. Denying the request outright would seem suspicious, petty, perhaps even negligent. Theron had boxed him in with the precision of a master tactician.
Elias met Theron's gaze, seeing the challenge, the demand beneath the veneer of protocol. He saw the flicker of that intense scrutiny, the heat that had nothing to do with fever. The resonant thrum within his own chest intensified, a low, insistent pulse. He was trapped. Trapped in his own sanctuary.
"Of course, Commander," Elias said, the words tasting like dust. He gestured towards a simple, backless wooden stool near the center of the rug. "Please." He needed space, even just the width of the stool, between them.
Theron nodded, a curt acknowledgment. He moved to the stool, his presence dominating the quiet chamber. He didn't sit immediately. Instead, with deliberate, unhurried movements, he began to unfasten the clasps of his formal tabard. The silver buckles clicked softly in the silence. He shrugged the heavy garment off, draping it neatly over the back of the stool, revealing the dark, close-fitting tunic beneath.
Elias's mouth went dry. He forced himself to remain still, his hands clasped loosely before him, the picture of clerical composure. Inside, his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Theron's hands moved to the hem of his tunic. Without ceremony, he grasped the fabric and pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion. The sound of linen sliding over skin was shockingly loud in the incense-laden quiet.
Elias couldn't look away. He was a healer; he'd seen countless bodies. But this… this was different. Theron Blackwood stood bare-chested before him in the lambent, colored light, and the sight was breathtakingly, terrifyingly potent.
His torso was a map of hard-earned power. Defined muscle rippled beneath smooth, sun-kissed skin, sculpted by relentless training and combat. Old scars, silvered lines of past battles, crisscrossed his shoulders and ribs, badges of a warrior's life. But the focus, the undeniable centerpiece, was the evidence of his recent near-death. Across his ribs and abdomen, where the Mawfiend's claws and the demon-rot had ravaged him, lay thick, ropy scars. They were still vividly pink and raised, stark against the surrounding skin, but undeniably healed. They snaked across his flesh, a brutal testament to the violence he'd endured and the forbidden power that had saved him. Yet, beneath the marks of destruction, the raw vitality, the contained heat emanating from him, spoke of immense, resilient strength. He was power incarnate, barely leashed, standing half-naked in the Cardinal's quiet meditation chamber.
The heat radiating from Theron's exposed skin intensified, a physical wave that washed over Elias, prickling his own skin. The resonant thrum within him surged, a sympathetic vibration responding to the proximity of the dragon's fire. Elias felt a flush creep up his neck, utterly unbidden and mortifying.
"Well, Your Eminence?" Theron's voice cut through the thick silence, low and gravelly. He remained standing, arms loosely at his sides, completely at ease in his near-nudity, yet his amber eyes were fixed on Elias with that unnerving, scorching intensity. "Do the scars warrant concern? Does the healing feel… complete?"
The question hung in the air, layered with meanings far beyond the physical. Do you see the evidence? Do you see the power you helped preserve? Do you feel it too?
Elias swallowed, forcing moisture back into his dry mouth. He stepped forward, closing the small distance, his movements feeling stiff, mechanical. The scent of clean sweat, leather, and that unique, underlying warmth – Theron's scent – filled his nostrils, overwhelming the incense. He stopped just before the Commander, acutely aware of the sheer physicality before him, the heat beating against him like a forge.
"Visually, the healing appears… remarkable," Elias managed, his voice tighter than he intended. He kept his gaze fixed resolutely on the scars, avoiding Theron's face, avoiding the intense scrutiny he could feel like a physical touch. "But the demonic corruption can leave deeper, subtler residues. A physical examination is prudent."
He raised his right hand. His fingertips began to glow with the soft, pure light of his Resonant Power. Not the brilliant lance used for deep healing, but a gentle, diagnostic radiance. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the air crackling with tension. Then, steeling himself, he reached out.
His index finger, sheathed in the cool, soothing light, touched the highest point of the largest scar, just below Theron's ribs.
The moment his skin made contact, two things happened simultaneously.
A jolt, sharp and electric, far stronger than any previous glance-induced resonance, shot through Elias. It wasn't just awareness; it was a surge of pure energy. His Resonant Light flared instinctively brighter at the point of contact, reacting to the potent, ancient fire slumbering beneath Theron's skin. It felt like touching a live conduit – power humming just beneath the surface, powerful, volatile, and startlingly responsive to his own.
And Theron… Theron stiffened. Not a flinch, but a sudden, total rigidity that locked every powerful muscle in his torso. Elias felt it beneath his fingertip – the ripple of tension, the iron-hard clenching. The heat radiating from Theron's skin seemed to spike, becoming almost blistering for an instant. A low, barely audible sound, more vibration than noise, escaped Theron's throat – a suppressed growl, or a gasp caught and strangled. His amber eyes, when Elias dared a fleeting glance upward, were wide, the vertical pupils dilated and sharply focused on the point where Elias's glowing finger touched his scar. The intensity in them was scorching, primal, stripped momentarily bare of the Commander's disciplined control.
Elias froze. His finger remained on the scar, the Resonant Light pulsing gently, but his own body was rigid with shock. The contact, the surge of power, Theron's visceral reaction… it was overwhelming. The air in the chamber felt thick enough to choke on, saturated with heat, incense, and the deafening silence of shared, forbidden awareness. The pretext of healing had vanished, leaving only the raw, electrifying truth of their connection, humming violently where skin met scar. Both men stood utterly still, locked in a moment of profound, dangerous intimacy, the fragile walls of propriety and denial crumbling around them. The only sound was the frantic pounding of two hearts, echoing the chaotic resonance trapped between their frozen forms.