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ANCIENT ECHOES

T he first rays of dawn painted Silas's sleeping face in shades of gold and shadow. Thorne stood sentinel by the bed, watching every flutter of his lover's eyelids, every shift that spoke of troubled dreams. His fingers hovered inches from Silas's cheek, not quite touching but channeling a subtle stream of calming magic. The air between them shimmered with power, invisible threads of comfort that couldn't quite chase away whatever visions plagued Silas's rest.

On the bedside table, that damned letter sat like a coiled snake. The Ashworth crest on its broken seal wasn't quite right, twisted somehow from the version Thorne had learned to hate centuries ago. It mocked him with secrets, with implications he wasn't ready to face.

Silas whimpered in his sleep, and Thorne's protective instincts roared to life. Every fiber of his being screamed to gather Silas up, to wrap him in layers of magic and hide him away where nothing could touch him. Not armies, not mysterious messengers, not the weight of family legacy.

But Silas would never forgive him for that.

A soft knock announced Kai's arrival. Thorne didn't turn, trusting his senses to identify friend from foe.

“I'll watch him,” Kai offered quietly. “You need to patrol.”

Thorne hesitated. Leaving Silas, even with Kai, felt like abandoning a piece of himself.

“Go,” Kai insisted. “You're practically vibrating with tension. The forest needs you functional, not wound tight enough to snap.”

With a last lingering look at Silas's face, Thorne dissolved into shadow and starlight, letting his consciousness expand through root and branch.

The transformation always felt like coming home. His awareness spread through the Eldergrove like blood through veins, touching every leaf, every creature, every whisper of wind. Here, he was more than the humanoid form he wore for Silas's sake. Here, he was the forest itself, ancient and vast and powerful.

The human military camp pulsed at the edge of his territory like an infected wound. Two hundred soldiers, their metal weapons scraping against his senses. Worse were the mages with their ritual circles, their magic stinking of iron and death. But most concerning were the blank spots, areas where his awareness simply... stopped.

Foreign magic. It tasted familiar yet wrong, like Ashworth power filtered through something darker. Someone was deliberately blocking him, using knowledge of guardian weaknesses that shouldn't exist outside the oldest grimoires.

Thorne pushed deeper into the forest's heart, seeking counsel from beings older than his guardianship. The First Oak waited in a grove untouched by human feet, its roots diving deep enough to touch the world's bones.

“Guardian,” the Oak's voice rumbled through earth and air. “You come seeking answers.”

“I come seeking understanding.” Thorne's form solidified near the ancient trunk, more tree than man in this sacred space. “The humans gather. They bring magic they claim doesn't exist. And now...” He couldn't finish, couldn't voice his fears about the letter, about patterns repeating.

The Oak's branches creaked in something like sympathy. “We have seen this dance before. A crown split in two. Thorns weeping blood. Shadows wearing beloved faces.”

Visions flooded Thorne's mind. Not memories, but possibility. Warning. He saw himself corrupted, saw Silas's face twisted in betrayal, saw the forest burning while brother fought brother.

“No,” he growled, bark-skin rippling with denial. “We are not them. Silas is not Marcus.”

“Are you certain?” The Oak's question carried no judgment, only ancient curiosity. “The patterns run deep. Blood calls to blood.”

“Silas chose me. Chose us.”

“As another once did. Before fear poisoned love.”

Thorne staggered, his form flickering between shapes as memories he'd buried or lost surged forward.

Two figures with Ashworth features, but distinctly different. Brothers. Arguments echoing through these very groves. Accusations of betrayal, but not from Marcus alone. Between them. Brother against brother, and Thorne caught in the middle.

“Lysander,” he whispered, the name tasting like ash and regret.

The forest shuddered with his realization. Leaves fell like tears, carpeting the ground in premature autumn. Birds took flight in startled flocks.

A pulse through the crystal snapped him back to the present. Silas. Awake and radiating distress.

Thorne didn't bother with physical travel. He tore through space itself, materializing in their bedroom in a whirlwind of leaves and shadow. The sight that greeted him stopped his heart.

Silas sat on the edge of the bed, paper crumpled in white-knuckled fists. His face had gone the color of old parchment, and his whole body trembled.

“Silas?” Thorne crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees before his lover. “What is it? What does it say?”

Wordlessly, Silas held out the letter. His hand shook so badly that Thorne had to steady it to take the paper.

The words burned themselves into his mind:

To the Guardian's Beloved,

You don't know me, but we share blood. I am descended from Lysander Ashworth, brother to the betrayer, who chose exile over treachery. The stolen birthright your family claims was built on his sacrifice.

Lysander loved as you do. Loved a guardian as you do. For that crime, he was cast out, erased from history. But we survived. We remember.

The crown and your father know of your bond. They plan to use it as Marcus did, to break the guardian's power through his heart. History spirals toward repetition.

Find us. Before the moon turns. Before love becomes weapon once more.

Look for the thornless rose.

- N.

The letter slipped from nerveless fingers. Ancient grief crashed into fresh terror, and Thorne's magic responded to his turmoil. Wind howled through the manor, rattling windows in their frames. Branches scraped against glass like clawing fingers. The temperature plummeted until their breath misted the air.

“Thorne,” Silas's voice cut through the chaos. “Thorne, look at me.”

But Thorne couldn't. Couldn't face the possibility that everything he'd built with Silas was just another iteration of an old tragedy. That love would again become the weapon that destroyed him.

Strong hands cupped his face, forcing eye contact. Silas had moved to kneel with him, heedless of the magical storm raging around them.

“I am not Marcus,” Silas said fiercely. “And you are not whoever you were then. We are us. Here. Now.”

“The patterns,” Thorne choked out. “The Oak showed me. Blood calls to blood.”

“Fuck the patterns.” Silas's vehemence startled a laugh from Thorne. “Fuck destiny and bloodlines and ancient feuds. I chose you. I choose you every day. That's what matters.”

He punctuated each declaration with a kiss. Forehead. Cheeks. Lips. Each touch carried warmth that pushed back Thorne's spiraling despair.

Gradually, the storm calmed. Wind died to whispers. Branches stilled. The temperature crept back toward normal.

* * *

Thorne led Silas into the deepest parts of the Eldergrove. The path wound through increasingly primordial forest until they reached a grove that looked ordinary except for the way reality seemed to fold around it.

“The Archive Grove,” Thorne explained. “Where the forest stores memories.”

Each tree bore marks like writing, though no human alphabet could capture their meaning. The bark held centuries of history, preserved in living wood.

“I haven't been here since...” Thorne's voice failed him.

“Since the betrayal,” Silas finished gently. “I understand.”

“Do you?” The question came out sharper than intended. “This place holds everything. Every moment of trust before it shattered. Every lie I was too blind to see.”

Silas took his hand. “Then let's see it together. All of it. The good and the bad.”

The ritual required constant physical contact. Thorne positioned Silas before a particularly ancient oak, then pressed against his back, arms encircling him. Their joined hands rested on the bark.

“Open yourself,” Thorne murmured against Silas's ear. “Let the memories flow through you. Don't try to hold them, just... witness.”

Power built between them, Thorne's ancient magic mixing with Silas's Ashworth blood. The combination created something neither could achieve alone, a key that unlocked centuries of stored memory.

Images flooded their minds.

Two sets of lovers meeting in secret groves.

Thorne and Marcus, planning and plotting; Lysander and his beloved, simply loving.

Arguments that shook the forest — Marcus insisting on duty, on using their bonds for power, while Lysander refused, choosing heart over ambition.

The final confrontation of brother against brother, with words that cut deeper than swords.

Through it all, Thorne saw what he'd missed through pain-clouded memories — that Lysander hadn’t just refused to betray his lover; he had actively tried to stop Marcus. He had warned Thorne, though the warning had come too late.

Tears streamed down both their faces as the memories faded. Thorne realized he was holding Silas too tightly and loosened his grip, but Silas turned in his arms instead of pulling away.

“He chose love,” Silas whispered. “Like I did. Like we did.”

“And paid for it.”

“Did he?” Silas challenged. “His line survived. Thrived. While Marcus's legacy is what? Corruption and lies?”

Lysander hadn't lost. He'd chosen differently, and that choice echoed through generations.

“We need to find them,” Thorne decided. “These descendants. These allies we never knew existed.”

Back at Thornhaven, they spread maps across the war table, marking locations mentioned in the tree-memories. Ancient paths between forests, hidden groves in distant lands, places where guardian magic still thrived untainted.

“If Lysander's line maintained guardianship,” Silas mused, tracing routes with his finger, “they'd know things we've forgotten. Techniques for protection, ways to counter corruption.”

“And they'd understand our bond,” Thorne added. “Not as aberration but as tradition.”

Their planning shifted seamlessly into preparation. Thorne began teaching Silas advanced magic required for traveling between territories. The lessons demanded intimate contact, skin to skin for proper power transfer.

“Feel the flow,” Thorne instructed, chest pressed to Silas's back, hands guiding his lover's movements. “Portal magic isn't about force. It's about finding the spaces between.”

Silas's concentration wavered as Thorne's breath ghosted across his neck. “Hard to focus when you're doing that.”

“Doing what?” Thorne asked innocently, teeth grazing an earlobe.

“You know exactly what.”

“Perhaps you need a more... thorough lesson.”

What began as instruction dissolved into exploration. Hands mapped familiar territory with new purpose. Magic built between them, wild and uncontrolled, until they were forced to stop or risk setting the room ablaze.

“Later,” Silas gasped, pulling away with visible effort. “We have work to do.”

Thorne growled but acquiesced, channeling his frustration into summoning ravens. The great black birds gathered on the windowsill, intelligent eyes watching as he imbued them with complex messages.

“Find the others,” he commanded. “Carry word of what comes. Ask for news of exiled Ashworths who chose love over duty.”

Silas added his own magic to the messages, marking them as coming from a united pair. The ravens launched themselves into the fading light, wings cutting through sunset like living shadows.

As darkness fell, they retreated to their chambers. The day's revelations had left them both raw, vulnerable in ways that only intimacy could soothe.

“I'm frightened,” Thorne admitted as they undressed. “Not of battle or death. Of facing what I buried. Of learning how badly I failed those who trusted me.”

Silas paused in removing his shirt. “You didn't fail anyone. You survived betrayal that would have destroyed most beings. And now you're strong enough to face the past, to build something better.”

“Because of you.”

“Because of us.”

They came together slowly, like the settling of storm winds after a long night. Thorne moved with reverence, not caution — tracing the sharp lines of Silas’s jaw with a hand that had once ended lives, now trembling with need. There was no ceremony in the way he kissed him, just hunger wrapped in tenderness, centuries of loneliness unraveling in the press of mouths and the heat between their bodies.

Silas's skin was warm, flushed, alive beneath Thorne’s touch, and it felt like touching the sun after a lifetime in shadow. They undressed one another without hurry, clothes stripped away like secrets, laid bare not just in flesh but in soul. Thorne's fingers skimmed across Silas's ribs, his hips, the delicate curve of his spine, and each breath Silas took was a silent yes.

When Thorne entered him, it was slow, deliberate. Not a claiming, not really — more like answering a call. Silas arched into it, meeting every thrust with a gasp, a moan, a whispered curse that melted into Thorne’s mouth. The rhythm they found wasn’t perfect, not at first. It stuttered, caught on the rough edge of emotion, on Thorne’s trembling control. But it built. Gods, it built. Like the pull of the moon on tide, relentless and inevitable.

Thorne’s cock slid deeper, slick with spit and need, and Silas clenched around him, eyes wide and blown with something close to awe. There was no pretense in this. No performative beauty. Just the raw, messy kind — sweat and teeth, nails in shoulders, the slap of skin on skin. Silas opened for him, legs around Thorne’s waist, voice rough as he said, “More. Don’t hold back.”

So he didn’t.

The bed creaked, sheets twisted beneath them, and Thorne pressed him down, forehead to forehead, trying to anchor himself in the moment. Magic thrummed between their bodies, ambient and heady — Silas’s forest magic blooming like vines across his chest and arms, reacting to Thorne’s own immortal energy. It sparked in the air, glowing faintly, and it smelled like pine, moss, sweat, sex.

Thorne fucked him slow and deep, every thrust a silent promise. He watched Silas fall apart beneath him, eyes fluttering closed, then opening again like he couldn’t bear to look away. His hole stretched around Thorne’s cock, greedy and slick, taking him to the hilt, again and again, until Thorne thought he might unravel completely.

And still, they didn’t rush it.

Because this wasn’t just lust. It was a declaration. A breaking of curses, old and quiet and clawing at the edges of Thorne’s mind. He was terrified, not of the magic, not of the sex, but of how right this felt — how goddamn real it was.

“You’re beautiful,” Silas whispered, between shallow breaths, one hand tangled in Thorne’s dark curls. “Even when you’re being a dick.”

Thorne barked a laugh, teeth flashing in the low moonlight. “You love it.”

Silas grinned. “Yeah. I really fucking do.”

They came together like that, Silas first, with a shudder that made the light spirits dancing around the ceiling flare brighter. His orgasm hit like a wave, soaking both of them in the sound of his moan and the sharp, involuntary way his body tightened around Thorne’s cock.

Thorne followed a moment later, buried to the root, eyes locked on Silas like he could carve the image into memory and keep it there forever. He spilled inside him with a curse, breath catching in his throat, the world narrowing to the tight, perfect heat of Silas’s body and the sudden aching peace in his own chest.

After, they lay tangled in sheets that smelled like sweat and forest magic, the last remnants of moonlight sliding across the ceiling. Thorne created light spirits without thinking — they flickered into existence lazily, like fireflies caught in syrup. They drifted above the bed, casting slow-moving shadows on the walls, soft and golden.

Silas ran a hand down Thorne’s arm, thumb dragging across the raised edges of ancient scars. “Do they hurt?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Only when I think about them.”

Silas didn’t reply, just nestled closer. Thorne pulled him in, chest to chest, one hand cradling the back of his head like he was afraid he’d vanish.

“What if they don’t come?” Silas asked eventually, voice so soft it barely touched the air. “The allies. The ones we’re hoping for.”

“Then we face what comes alone,” Thorne said. He pressed his lips to Silas’s hairline, tasting salt and courage and a future that wasn’t written in blood for once. “But we won’t be alone. Not really. Not anymore.”

The crystal on the bedside table pulsed faintly, its rhythm matching their heartbeats — a steady glow in the dark. Outside, the forest murmured in a language older than cities. Inside, the silence stretched comfortably, filled with breath and body and the undeniable truth of this — whatever it was, whatever it meant.

Silas was already half-asleep, his fingers twitching slightly against Thorne’s ribs. His lips moved. “Tomorrow we change fate.”

“Ambitious,” Thorne murmured.

Silas made a low noise of agreement. “Necessary.”

Thorne smiled into his hair. “Damn right it is.”

And then Silas was out, breath deep and even, completely at peace in a way Thorne had never let himself be. Not since before the betrayal. Not since the blood-soaked years of silence. And maybe that was the thing — this wasn’t just about them. It was about undoing what had been done. Not through vengeance, but through connection. Through love, however terrifying that word still felt on Thorne’s tongue.

He looked up at the ceiling, watching the lights drift, and for the first time in centuries, he didn’t feel like a monster. He felt held .

Tomorrow would be war. But tonight, just for this sliver of time, they were whole.