It's been seven days since he and Azazel began their illicit love affair. In natural fashion for Azazel, he's made love to him much more than seven times. Alistair simply cannot say no to the man. Not that he'd want to, anyhow. He's far too charming and suave for Alistair to resist.

They had been enjoying a stroll through the gardens and the occasional bout of Alistair writing down some lines in a poem when Azazel began to sneak kisses and touches from him. Currently, they're seated on the edge of the fountain, Alistair desperately attempting to keep pace with Azazel's ravenous kissing. If there's one thing Azazel is good at (which there isn't just one: there are many), it's kissing him senseless. Alistair is quite inclined to surrender himself and allow Azazel to do as he pleases.

However, he manages to silence such an imprudent desire, pushing Azazel off him when he grows frisky. Azazel doesn't look disappointed. Instead, he smirks like a man who knows he'll be getting what he wants, one way or another. How insufferable.

"Darling," Alistair says, adoring how easily the endearment rolls off his tongue, "We must be careful."

"I know, you've told me everyday," he replies, dipping his head down to kiss his neck. Alistair only allows if for a second or two before regaining his will and shooing him away. "Relax, doll. No one's gonna see us."

"We could be easily spotted from the guest bedroom window," he points out, nodding to the window of the room in which Azazel had been staying. Azazel ought to have known that himself, having stayed over a month there. He wonders what goes on in that head of his, sometimes. "There is a clear sight from the room, clearest in midday."

"No one's gonna go in my room," he denies, leaning back on the marble. Stretched out so indolently with a careless grin on his face, he looks as much of a prick as the first day they met. "Well, maybe except for you later tonight."

"I will not," he refuses, and Azazel raises his eyebrows in an amused challenge. "The general has grown questionable about my frequent disappearances. I have told him that I am simply sleeping in the other guest room, as I have been oft to do, but he remains suspicious nonetheless. I must remain in his bed tonight."

Azazel grimaces, repulsed at the idea. Alistair doesn't remember himself when he had grown numb to the idea of sharing a bed with his predator. Sometime a few years back, he presumes.

"I get it," Azazel says, taking his hand. Alistair laces their fingers together. "But I don't like it. I don't like him."

"Neither do I. But it is a task I must endure, should we wish to continue our affair," he explains, squeezing Azazel's hand. "Should the general grow suspicious and discover us, he will surely challenge you to a duel of honor. And that's a fight you will not win."

Azazel grins. "Wanna bet?"

"No, I most certainly do not 'wanna bet'," he retorts, and Azazel laughs for whatever inane reason. He huffs, but there's a smile tugging on his face. There always is, when Azazel's around. "You're despicable."

"You love it."

Alistair allows Azazel to steal another kiss, albeit a brief one. Kissing out in the open this way makes him nervous.

"I have written you something," he says, turning back to his notebook. Tearing the short poem out, he offers it to Azazel. Azazel reads it as he adds, "Consider it a token of my affections. Someday, I will marry the general. I simply wish that you know where my heart belongs despite that."

Azazel's eyes seem more crestfallen with every line he reads of the poem. Alistair is confused. There is nothing sorrowful in the poem. Has he done something wrong? Are letters of love only exchanged between characters in books, and not in real life?

"I... apologize if I have done something incorrect," he says, and Azazel glances up at him. "I am not yet familiar with acceptable expressions of romance. I did not mean to upset you. Is poetry not a suitable gift?"

"No, that's not it—"

"Should I have written a haiku instead? Perhaps I should've forgone iambic pentameter?"

"Ali."

"Lovers give each other sonnets in the novels I have read, but my novels have proven insufficient in accurately depicting the real world. If I have breached a social custom, please forgive—"

"Alistair," he says, snapping him out of his rambling. "The poem is beautiful. I love it."

Alistair feels himself flush. He clears his throat and forces it away. "Oh. I'm glad."

"It's just," Azazel begins, only to cut himself off with a sigh. He gazes down at the poem, forlorn. "I don't know. I wish you wouldn't marry him."

His chest tightens, almost like it's trying to kill him.

He turns his head away. "We've discussed this."

"I know, but—here, listen," he says, turning to face him and straddling the marble edges of the fountain in the process. With one foot in the water, he takes Alistair by the shoulders and states, "Run away with me."

"I cannot."

"Let's get out of here, out of this estate, out of this town, hell, let's get off this island!" He exclaims, proposing such dishonorable schemes that Alistair could faint. "We can change our names, move into a little seaside cottage. You can write your poems and I'd get a job, and—"

"Listen to yourself," Alistair bites, turning his head to glare at him. "You really think any of that would be enough to stop the general?"

"We wouldn't let him hurt you. Fulk and Gunnora, they're both really well trained soldiers. They'd keep you safe. I'd keep you safe."

"You really think I would no longer be bound by contract?"

Azazel groans, putting a hand to his forehead. "Forget the damn contract."

"I will do nothing of the sort."

"You're really going to let this thing ruin your life?"

"I am going to see it through to the end," he declares, his words sharp. Azazel turns away from him, scowling. "A contract is a promise. And I do not break promises."

****

They have, thus far, managed to keep their affair a secret for another whole week. Alistair is both impressed and relieved. Even with the constant supervision of Savaric or Grimald, they have eluded discovery. He suspects that is because neither Savaric nor Grimald care for anything except their jobs, much like their dear general himself.

Walking through the marketplace, they are accompanied by General Thurston for protection. Alistair does not enjoy having the company of his fiancé and his lover simultaneously. He is always watching his words and has already caught himself on the verge of using terms of endearment towards Azazel several times. Worse, he is dutifully holding General Thurston's arm as they meander through the town, gazing longingly at Azazel all the while.

The town is nearly prepared for their wedding. A spot has been cleared at the cliffside for the ceremony to be held, and decorations have been placed all over town. The guests are here, not including his father, who cited pressing business as an excuse for forgoing the wedding, and they are all filled with bubbly cheer. It's a fairytale wedding. On the outside, that is. Alistair quite feels like crying whenever someone asks if he's excited to be wed.

But his feelings on his impending fate are pushed to the side as they travel the town. It seems as though every step Azazel takes is met with some bloody retaliation. He had been informed about the traps, and assured that they would do Azazel no harm, and then assured again through Azazel's gentle kisses, but they still catch him off guard everytime they make an appearance. The townsfolk seem far too used to these attempts on his life to care. Even Azazel himself doesn't seem bothered. It's as if it's any other common occurrence. Alistair cannot find it in himself to feel the same. Every trap that activates shoots floods of adrenaline through him, much like the harpoon that now soars past where Azazel's head had just been.

Alistair's hand rushes to his chest as if his insides might leap out, and the general hastily pulls him from the danger. Azazel nonchalantly leans his head to the side, allowing the arrow to whip past his head and plunge itself into a nearby tree trunk.

Again, he catches himself before calling Azazel 'my love'. "Azazel, are you quite all right?"

"Fine," he replies casually, having the audacity to yawn. "That one was way too easy."

Turning to the general, Alistair privately hisses, "Is it not your job to protect him? Why has no progress been made in capturing his killer or disarming these traps?"

General Thurston has no response, but his expression exudes frustration. That's one sentiment he supposes they can agree on: anger at the inability to stop Azazel's would-be killer.

They walk through the market some more, Azazel eyeing the rich that pass by. Alistair thinks he ought to be eyeing the town for traps and not for targets to steal. He tries to do some of the searching for him, but cannot find a single trap. Whoever puts these contraptions together certainly knows how to disguise them. He hopes no townsfolk accidentally set them off.

As they arrive at the merchant's spot in town, General Thurston glances around. Alistair almost thinks he's scanning the area for traps, but of course, he is not. Facing Alistair, he wonders, "What would you like as a wedding gift, my pet?"

"Nothing."

A pause. The general looks around, as if searching for ideas. Turning back to him, he asks, "And what date will we set for the wedding? Your father has urged us to marry sometime this summer."

"Yes, I am aware."

"I have dutifully fulfilled every request you have made, have I not?" He inquires, patting Alistair's hand that rests on his arm. Alistair is inclined to recoil, but he maintains his composure. "Per request of your mother, I allowed you two years after the initial agreement of our wedding date to hone your talents in language. I agreed to wait until your mother regained her health to have the wedding, and I agreed to allow you time to mourn after her passing."

He does not appreciate memories of his mother coming out of the general's filthy mouth. He hopes this is evident in his tone. "I recall."

"So," he says, "When shall we wed?"

Alistair looks away. "I would like to explore more of this island, first."

The general frowns, turning his attention back to the road ahead of them. Alistair feels no sympathy for him. He will push back the wedding as far as he can, heedless of the general's pathetic whimperings.

After their conversation dies out, he realizes Azazel is gone. Panic crashes over him instantly. Has he been abducted? How did Alistair allow himself to be so distracted? He only frets a minute longer before he finds Azazel a short distance away.

He stands over at a merchant's cart, eyeing the goods on the table. The merchant keeps a close eye on him as well, likely wary of his reputation. Azazel offers them a friendly smile and wave, making small talk. Meanwhile, with his ghostly abilities, he slowly knocks an item off a different merchant's table, dropping it into his hand behind his back.

Alistair will never condone theft. But he will confess that Azazel is quite excellent at it.

With both merchants none the wiser, Azazel saunters back. As he gets closer, Alistair can see what it is he has stolen: a quill pen, dyed with streaks of gold between the natural white color.

"Here," Azazel says, offering it to him. "So you can write more nerdy poems."

Alistair gives him a disapproving look. Quiet enough so the general won't hear, he says, "I will not accept a stolen gift."

Azazel rolls his eyes, as if he's being the difficult one. He returns to the merchant's table, slyly replaces the pen, chats with them for a moment or two, then digs into his satchel and pulls out a bag of coins. After paying for the pen, he returns once more.

"Happy?" He asks, presenting it to Alistair.

Alistair takes it, admiring the beauty. "You didn't have to purchase it with your own money. I have more than enough to satisfy the cost."

"I know."

"I will repay the expense."

"Don't," Azazel laughs, a smile tugging on his face. "It's a gift."

Something inside of Alistair flutters and soars. When a thief buys you something, he thinks, you know how dearly they hold you.

He fights a smile as he gazes at the pen, appreciating his newest treasure. Oddly, it makes him think of two vastly different things at once: Pepin and letters. But those two seemingly arbitrary things do remind him of something very, very important. He thinks back to the letter they sent to the Ilracorn City Orphanage. He thinks about what they had discovered.

"Please," Alistair says, unlinking his arm from the general's, "Excuse me a moment."

General Thurston regards him with reluctance in his eyes. Alistair, accordingly, braces himself for opposition.

"My pet," he begins, "I would rather you remain by my side. With all of these traps laid throughout town..."

"I will only be travelling to the inn," Alistair assures, gesturing to the nearby building. "You will be able to see me safely enter and exit. The only persons inside the inn are our wedding guests and the employees. I see no harm."

"At least allow me to escort you inside."

"Absolutely not," he refuses, fixing the general with a unrelenting expression. "You must remain out here, guarding Azazel. Azazel, per your wedding instructions, cannot enter the inn. You two will remain here while I briefly enter the inn."

"Pet, I—"

"Surely, you don't think me incompetent enough to lose my way from the inn and back," he challenges. He ignores when Azazel scoffs behind him a quiet 'yes'. "I promise I will return in prompt fashion. Have I ever broken a promise to you?"

The general, although many things, is not a liar. As much as he may hesitate to do so, he eventually shakes his head in response to Alistair's question.

"Good. Then I shall return shortly."

Before the general can deny him, he spins around and makes his way down the path to the inn. When he enters the building, he is loath to see that it is of an entirely different atmosphere than he initially found it. It's calm, silent, and pristine. It reeks of the general's doing.

Those inside are his wedding guests. He knows none of them. They are the general's friends, family, and acquaintances. Unfortunately, they know him, and they pester him with incessant questions and comments about his wedding. Are you excited? Have you set the date yet? How unconventional, not knowing when you're going to wed but having the whole ceremony planned. He offers them all polite, concise responses, hurrying his way to the back.

He finds dear Gunnora in the employee's room with her father. When she spots him, she waves and says, "Hey, buddy."

"Hello. Um, buddy," he replies. "Could I bother you to ask a short question? Regarding Azazel."

"Sure, shoot."

"As we have previously concluded, Azazel's killers are targeting him to rid the last survivor of the Beggar's Hole Massacre," he states, and Gunnora nods. Fulk's eyes widen in shock. It seems she has not divulged all the information to her parents. He hates to startle Fulk further, but he presses on. "I wonder: why would anyone wish to do such a thing? What could they gain by wiping out all of the former residents of that place?"

Gunnora scratches her head. "Honestly, I don't know, man. The massacre happened when I was really little, and I only remember hearing about it in passing. Azazel would know more about it than me."

He frowns, fiddling with the pen Azazel gifted him. "Yes, I suspected as much. However, I worry that if I ask him of his past there, he will become upset as he did in the library."

"Well, you know," Fulk pipes up, sitting a little straighter, "When I was a colonel on the mainland, a lot of people considered this whole island lawless. They thought it brought down the reputation of the whole country, and Beggar's Hole was a big part of that. But since that place has been wiped out, those comments have stopped. This place has even become a tourist attraction for the same people who hated it only decades ago."

Alistair ponders his words for a while. They mean nothing to him, but he doesn't discredit them as useless. He just has to find the door they unlock.

"Thank you, Fulk," he says, bowing his head to him. Then, to Gunnora. "Thank you, Gunnora. I appreciate your help and your hospitality towards my guests."

They bid each other farewell, and Alistair makes his way back outside. He endures the prying inquiries of his guests again, managing to escape them in a reasonable time. He exits the building, fiddling with his pen and sighing. He had hoped to make some significant progress in his short chat with Gunnora. He is quite sick of worrying over Azazel.

When he looks up from his pen, he sees General Thurston and Azazel standing in the street where he left them. Azazel looks as though he's just gotten on the general's last nerve with some snarky comment and is quite pleased with himself. Alistair brings a hand to his face to hide his smile. The general turns to him. His eyes widen.

"Alistair, look out!" He shouts.

Alistair halts, confused. What is it that he's looking out for?

It happens a moment later: a rush of air sounds beside him, as if something has been shot at him. It turns out, something has. In the corner of his eye, he can see a harpoon trap rocketing towards him. Even if time has seemed to slow down, he's no Azazel. He won't be able to avoid this.

Instead of being struck in the side of the head, he's hit from ahead. Azazel slams into his body and knocks him aside just as the arrow passes overhead. It slices the satchel's strap, cutting it in half and sending the bag tumbling. The contents spill out of it, some hitting Alistair in the face. They hit the ground, Azazel above Alistair, right when the projectile imbeds itself in the inn wall.

Gasps and yelps of fear echo through the street. He supposes they've never seen someone else nearly injured by these traps. Azazel immediately props himself up, looking down at Alistair with concern.

"You okay?" He asks, his fingers brushing Alistair's shoulder, the most intimate sign of affection he can give in public.

"Yes," Alistair utters, almost unable to find the words. "Thank you."

The world around them seems to slow, if only for a moment. In that instant, he could truly believe it was just him and Azazel in the whole universe.

Then, it all abruptly returns with the general hastily scooping Alistair up.

"Alistair! Oh, thank the heavens you're unhurt," the general exclaims, brushing dirt and grass off of him. Cupping his cheek, he says, "You must be so frightened. Let's get you home."

"That won't be necessary."

"Thank you, Azazel," the general says, ignoring him. Azazel nods, quickly picking up his fallen things and stuffing them into his satchel. General Thurston stoops down, collecting the items as well. "You have just saved my fiancé's life. I see no possible way that I could ever... repay..."

General Thurston falls silent, examining one of Azazel's things in hand. Azazel's whole body is tense. Alistair doesn't realize why until he discovers what the general is holding.

The love sonnet.

Dread trickles through Alistair like drops of blood. His mind races in a desperate search for a solution to this delicate situation, but he finds nothing. The poem is addressed. The poem is signed. There is no interpretation but the honest one, and the honest one is what will ruin everything.

"I see," the general says.

His worst fears have been realized.

The general's face is dark and grim. "So. This is how it's been."

They've been discovered.

Alistair hasn't feared the general since he was a child, but now, he finds himself shaking. Cautiously, he places a hand on the general's arm. "Sir, allow me to explain..."

"There is no explanation necessary," he states. His eyes are sharp, bitter and narrow. They're locked on Azazel.

"I—I seduced him," he stammers, hurrying to float between Azazel and the general as he stands. "It is my fault. I lost sight of my duty to you and I—sincerely apologize, just please don't..."

"I always recognized that you two were close," General Thurston declares, his voice grave. He stares down Azazel with a burning, smoldering fire. "But I did not realize it went to such depraved lengths."

Behind him, Azazel mutters, "You're one to talk about depraved."

Alistair flinches. The general, his indignation sparked, demands, "Excuse me?"

The town's attention is on them. They're all trying to understand what's happening. Even Gunnora and her family have gathered on the inn porch to watch in nervous silence. All at once, all of Skystead will know of their affair.

"I have treated you with nothing short of generosity," the general proclaims, his tone dangerously volatile. "I provided you protection in the face of death, a home, meals, my trust! And how have you repaid me? By bringing danger to my fiancé and then defiling him?!"

The crowd around them gasps, appalled at the revelation. They turn to each other and murmur, their expressions disgusted and outraged. In front of everyone, they're being shamed. In front of everyone, they're being disgraced. Alistair knows why. It is not simply an act of petty vindictiveness on behalf of the general.

"General, please," he whispers, head submissively downcast. Anything to appease him. Anything to avoid this. "I will return home with you. I will do anything you wish. Just please, do not—"

The general holds up a hand to silence him. Alistair obeys, and the general takes him by the arm and draws him aside. Facing Azazel, he announces, "I hereby challenge you to a duel."

The town falls silent. Not even the wind dares to blow. Any person in their right mind knows to be afraid, to be apprehensive, to be alert.

Azazel, clearly, is not one of those people. With a nonchalant shrug, he says, "M'kay."

"To the death," General Thurston concludes, stony and dark.

Now, Azazel's paying attention. Everyone knows to kill a general is a federal offense punishable by death. Should Azazel kill him, he'll be executed. Should he not, he'll be killed in duel. There is no other alternative.

Alistair takes his arm. "General, please—!"

He shoves him off. "Begin!"

The battle begins more fiercely than anything Alistair's ever seen. Clashing of offensive moves and hacking of the general's metallic fins ring through the air. Alistair has seen the general spar countless times and has seen Azazel in a few instances of brief skirmishes. They are both adept fighters in their own right, but he knows how this battle ends. He knows that in every area, the general simply outmatches him.

Someone grabs his shoulders from behind. He whirls around, finding Gunnora with a mortified look in her eyes.

"Azazel—the general—what's happening?" She practically begs for an answer, her voice quivering. Her entire family stands behind her, equally terrified. Fulk holds his wife and children close, tension marring his frame.

He opens his mouth to give her an answer, but finds none.

The duel blazes on with barbarity. Azazel, slick and wily, vanishes and materializes at will to confound the general. But General Thurston, hardened with decades upon decades of experience, pins Azazel's tricks down before they can even begin. Azazel may give him a good fight, but he won't draw blood. No one ever does.

With a mighty slash, the general strikes Azazel back with his arm. He soars through the air, slamming against the inn wall. The wedding guests gasp and falter back, as if about to faint. Azazel pushes himself up to stand. He shakes. He falls to a knee.

Seeing that Azazel is losing strength, the general advances for the kill. Weak murmurs of fright rise up from the crowd. Seeing Azazel like this, seeing him on a knee and struggling to return to his feet, Alistair is reminded of the night they nearly died at the hands of the assassin. He can see Azazel's face in that moment, petrified and in agony, and it mirrors this moment precisely. The one difference is that Gunnora will not be able to save him. The only person who can save Azazel is himself. He hastens to him.

Towering over Azazel, the general glowers down at him. Raising an arm high to smite him, he says, "May God have mercy on your soul."

Just as he swings his arm down to strike the life from him, Alistair flings his arms around Azazel and cries, "Stop!"

The general's razor sharp fin halts less than an inch from his face. Alistair shudders, exhaling.

"If I promise to marry you in seven days," he begins, his voice wavering as he clutches tight to Azazel, "Will you swear to spare his life?!"

"No, Ali," Azazel coughs, putting a hand on Alistair's arm to try and push him off. "No, I—I can still fight—"

The general regards Alistair with a certain hesitance, as if he's analyzing him for some form of deception. Alistair locks on his gaze.

"General," he says, "Have I ever broken a promise to you?"

Tension fills the air like the world is drowning in it. The town is swept with silence, holding their breath to hear the verdict. General Thurston's sharp claw remains a hair's width away from striking them.

A beat. A long moment, bound and strained.

The general retracts his arm.

"Get Azazel out of my sight," he orders.

Out of nowhere, Savaric and Grimald appear and seize him. Alistair helplessly reaches out to him as he's dragged away. Gunnora and her family are wracked with sobs of horror and confusion.

Alistair stares at nothing, his mind reeling and his emotions stunted with shock. He does nothing as he is taken by the arm and lifted to rise beside the general. The general places a firm hand on his shoulder. Alistair wipes a single tear away.

"I am disappointed, Alistair," General Thurston says, "But I will find it in myself to forgive you."

Alistair knows he will never forgive the general for this.