#int. w/afshin.troupe1

[witchertorsten]

@afshinxeldar location: Nornwatch Keep notes: there's not much reason for me to use this gif, but here we are

Training was the simplest way for Torsten to keep his head clear. It was a lesson that had been ingrained in him long ago when he was in the Watch. It was difficult to question or overcomplicate a subject when the body was too weary to worry itself over it. The most pressing matters were the road ahead; old records spoke of a path that could be taken through the wastes, one that would see the troupe through the Lostlands and into Lysara. The blight, however, would be underfoot every step of the journey.

Last night, the High King had looked towards one of his guards, and he'd spoken his name clearly and audibly. The implication that this madness that had gripped him was quietly subsiding was little more than a baseless rumor. Still, when fear and hysteria had gripped even the most resolved of warriors - the return of a previously Mad King, in the Iskaran's greatest time of need, was a story that possessed a fervor that could quickly take hold. For now, Orhan's condition was a kept secret within the inner circle, but for the last three years, little birds had sung, and whispers made their way from the royal court, across Yggdrasildal, and perhaps even beyond.

"My prince," Torsten greeted as he set his training sword aside, letting it rest as he took notice of Afshin's lingering presence. Iskaldrik had fallen, their home was in flames behind them, and the future was wrapped in uncertainty. Torsten could guess what thoughts might be running through Afshin's head at present, but he would not.

[witchertorsten]

@afshinxeldar location: Nornwatch Keep notes: The Last Night ( this one is gonna hurt )

Plague was running rampant through the Keep, if the blight did not kill them then hunger and starvation would surely follow. Together with the legion they'd set a course through Hrimthur's Wastelands. The treacherous snow concealed fjords that could swallow a nation, every step needed to be counted and measured and every preparation would be made. When not running drills for the men, women, and children who were made to fight, Torsten kept watch outside the chambers of the ranting High King, or culling the ghouls that cropped up in the night.

For Afshin, Torsten's sword stood at the ready. Drawn to attention and pointed towards certainty, the prince had asked for a tutor and the witcher saw to it that his lessons drove home. He owed it to the prince to not handle him lightly, or with care, Afshin's own request aside, were Orhan alert enough to comment he would all but demand that Torsten take this as seriously as if he were any other recruit. He abstained from exercising the same level of harshness that he'd been subjected to in the Watch: Afshin's body would not be transmuting any poisons, nor would he be roused at dawn to carry buckets of water up frozen staircases.

Battered recruits, starved and thin like rods, bent to unruly limits and snapped back with course strength. When Torsten looked back at all he feared, he only saw himself. Their world was pillaged behind them and Afshin's people were falling one by one, but in time they would move on from this place they only needed to survive a little longer. If they flew too soon then their fate would be sealed, but if they waited too long then the Aetherians would find rot where the Iskarans had once been.

Swords abandoned, Torsten grappled with Afshin until he brought the prince down and pressed him into the cold stone of his chamber floor. The Keep was unforgiving, but here at least there would be no prying eyes to watch as the prince was bested over and over again. Folded and bent, Torsten pressed his forearm against Afshin's throat as he kept his lord down. He breathed into the narrow space between them, forehead bent against the other's as his heart steadily pumped in his chest: Torsten asked, "Does my Prince yet yield?"

[witchertorsten]

@afshinxeldar location: Hrimthur's Outpost notes: the squad is getting ready to roll out.

"Harold is saddled and ready for you." It went unspoken that the drake would protect the prince with his own life; if it meant that Afshin's chances of surviving his journey through the Lostlands were increased, then Torsten would gladly walk beside the King into battle on foot.

Legionnaires had spoken of the swollen numbers of darkspawn, this was not like any single raiding party and would be far greater than the force that attacked them at Nornwatch. This mission could only be doomed, but even if he were not bound by Orhan's oath, Torsten's honor wouldn't allow him to stand idly by while the Princess was held by the broodmother. Tales of what she must be enduring turned his stomach, and he'd already promised Afshin to see her safely home.

Torsten lingered in front of the Prince, so much had been unspoken, but whatever secrets the witcher harbored regarding the other would die within his breast. There was only one that could not be contained; Torsten should have taken his leave then, bowed to the Prince, and wished him a safe journey to Lysara. Good fortune when he stood in front of the Elysian Throne and asked Queen Mordecai for aid in returning his Kingdom to the rightful hands.

Instead, he stayed.

The witcher's body moved of its own accord as he stepped in and brought his lips to Afshin's; the weight of the Kingsguard and his mithril plate pressed against the Prince as the gauntlets he wore cradled the line of the other's neck. Another wandered, slid across the Prince's thigh, and lifted his leg in a single, smooth motion. Lips parted, tongue seeking, he'd thought of little else for the last three years - standing in stalwart observation behind the King while Afshin dined and laughed. Torsten hardly spared the other a look, his duty had to come first, but his thoughts idly entertained what it'd be like to bask in the other's laughter while sitting as a guest. Arm draped across the Prince's shoulders, casually, as if Torsten could have belonged in that world.

He might have, once, had the Norns deigned to deem it so.

[witchertorsten]

If there was a difference between a good king, and a bad king, Torsten didn't draw a distinction. He was a loyal soldier, diligent, stalwart, and faithful to the bitter end. Once, long ago, he'd dreamt of being the sort of warrior that had stood at his mother's side. The huscarl and blademaster who'd held him tight under his wing as Torsten's father pulled at the strings of court. Politics never mattered to him, but they'd brought him closer then to the prince that knelt before Torsten now. Their eyes set together as if to apologize for a slight that was not Afshin's to carry. It wasn't the prince that had scalded him, Torsten had been burning for so long that he could no longer tell when he was standing amid a blaze.

It was only a moment, but for that moment Torsten considered that had his life gone differently, had he not been born with magic... Then he would still have knelt in this position. His eyes still trained on the man who called him an equal; it did not matter what tangle had pulled at the pattern of their past, the wheel weaved as the wheel willed and his sword was always for the prince. Kingsguard or soldier, he would be what the other needed invariably to the bitter end.

Afshin's grip tightened, the other's forehead bent towards his and Torsten sighed - forgetting for a moment that the two of them were not alone. There was no room in his life for love, but a witcher was carved into the shape of perfect devotion. That would have to do. Afshin stood, and Torsten followed. Without a word, Torsten decided then that he would follow whatever path Afshin walked. Oathbound or not, his sword would fix itself to the prince's side. Afshin had requested Torsten's finest, but in act of calculated defiance, he grabbed his favourite instead, offering it to Afshin as he procured another. "Then we have nothing but today to begin, my prince."

Torsten remembered the words of The First as they'd bid the young warrior to rise despite the weight of his battered bones. The quite groan of his complaining body, bruised and bloodied. I must not fear. Came the harrowed whimper. Fear is the mind-killer. Small hands gripped the short blade even as his arms quivered. Fear is the little death that brings obliteration. He'd watched initiates butchered when they'd turned to flee, others beaten into unconsciousness when they couldn't stand any longer. I will face my fear and I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn my inner eye towards its path. Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

Torsten turned his sword over in his hand, "Just as still waters turn foul, stagnation leads to decay. A warrior who carries that blade must remain ever-drifting." He took a stance, a smile graced his features for the first time since their exchange had began. Short, light, not enough to show his teeth but enough to halt the groan of Torsten's stalwart brow. "Come at me with everything you have, my prince. It will take that, and more, to land your blow."

What was that feeling that he felt right now? Afshin was sure that he had never felt it before, but he felt it when he looked at Torsten. The witcher was not allowed to have a life outside of the one that had been made for him. The changeling didn't feel sorry for him. Pity was a horrible thing to have for someone so he would never say that. Perhaps it was the fact that they had once been friends a very long time ago that had Afshin feeling some sort of remorse for the life that the other now had to live. Torsten had been conditioned to believe that he was supposed to have no family, no friends, no love. All the other had was what he gave as a Kingsguard, as a witcher. They had poisoned the witcher's mind just as much as they had his body. He wanted to take it away. He didn't much care about how it had affected these other witchers, but he did care how it affected Torsten.

A moment passed as he looked down again at the man that had placed himself on his knee to prove a point. Their lives would never be equal, that much was true. Yet Afshin had offered the other a seat at his metaphorical table. When he would become King, either sooner or later, he would hope that Torsten was there at his side. He would hope that the witcher made it that long. As he gazed down at the man, he wondered how much longer of a life the other had. How much time did either of them have? Torsten had poison running through his veins that had shaved off several years of his life. Then there was Afshin who had an entire side of him that he had to be careful of lest several years of his life be shaved off as well. If his father was to recover from his ailment, that was. The two could not be compared. If he could have picked one of them to live, he would have hoped it would be Torsten. That was something they didn't have to worry about for now. If the other's words rang true though, the witcher would be taking a fall for the changeling. For a much different reason than he could ever expect.

Without letting go of Torsten's hand, Afshin got down to his own knee. He had been wrong to doubt the other and he knew that so this was his one apology. Now that they were at the same level, he let their eyes meet. "I do not regret words that I speak." He paused and gripped the man's hand tighter. "I do not lie either so know that what I say next is the truth: I have never, and will never, think of you as beneath me." Afshin pressed his forehead to Torsten's own. "I may not be as strong as my father, but I will be a better King." He pulled his head away to let their eyes meet again. "You will stand with me now. I have entrusted you to make sure that I am better. Iskaldrik may have fallen, but I will not." From his knee, he finally stood back up. "Now, stand."

[witchertorsten]

It would take steel to survive the days ahead, steel that Afshin lacked. He was not a creature of resolve, but one of circumstance and whatever he did not possess, Torsten would make up for. If dissent was whispered among the people, then the witcher was resolved to see the treasonist's tongue cut from their mouths. The sword was pointed in doing precisely what his job entailed, no more, and no less; yet here he sat on his knee in front of an impudent prince that Torsten owed nothing but his protection. Kissing the ring of the man's ego to balm the other's imagined offense.

"My eyes are too low to look down on you; I am oathbound to your father, body, and soul, but a witcher cannot lie so know that what I say next is the truth: I will die an honorable death if my end is met to protect you because my life will never be equal to yours." For a prince without a crown, pushed from his home, he was right to believe that there were serpents ready to coil around his throat at any given moment. Correct in thinking that even before Iskaldrik fell, there would have been many ambitious Jarls waiting to challenge the limp-wristed prince to a Holmgang. The powerful only respected the powerful, and Afshin was not his father.

Dark eyes fixated upon his palm as Torsten considered every callous and scar. Every beating that had broken a boy to create the impressionable man who saw himself as deserving of the prince's mistreatment. He'd spoken out of turn and where Orhan had once welcomed his council, it was clear that would not be the case with the heir. The blades he'd spent his life earning, the status he'd fought tooth and nail meant nothing to the man above him who'd gladly take them away if he could. These things were all Torsten had in the world, no family, no friends, just this. "I will see it done."

In his best interests. Oh, but of course. Afshin shouldn't have, and would never, expect anything less. Torsten had been molded into a loyal soldier. He'd been plucked from his home and poisoned over and over again until it didn't hurt anymore. Most wouldn't consider that to be a reason to be loyal to anyone. But here the witcher was. Here he stood in front of Afshin boasting of being the Kinsguard. Torsten was about duty, that much he could tell just from this one conversation. He wondered how the other would have turned out under different circumstances, if he was lucky enough to be in the changeling's shoes. Because that was what Afshin was, wasn't he? He was always just lucky. It was a blessing and a curse, but for now, it was definitely more of the former.

"You act in my best interests yet you look down upon me. You demean me." His jaw clenched as he spoke. "You think me weak. Because I do not wield a sword or train with Aytaç or the Huscarl or even my father. I know where my enemies stand because everyone is my enemy. I know where my allies are because I have few. And I know where my shield is because I only have one. As you have so graciously stated before, you are my father's Kinsguard. Therefore you are his shield. Not mine." It was all delusions, delusions whispered into his ear in the middle of the night or when he looked into a mirror. Eldar always told him to always look over his shoulder and never to trust anyone that wasn't his sister or the elvhen side of him. Of course Afshin listened when the other spoke to him, too. Eldar held his best interests. Why wouldn't he? They were one and the same, weren't they?

As he opened his mouth to continue speaking, Torsten was already down on his knee, lips pressing to the ring upon Afshin's finger. It took him a moment to gain his composure back, but he couldn't let something like that change the trajectory of how he felt right now. He was always tired of disrespect and it seemed that people loved to toss it in his direction. Maybe he read too much into things right now though. His temper was flaring up due to the circumstances of losing his home and being within a place that he shouldn't have been in. He wasn't cut out for this and maybe that was the problem. Afshin should've been cut out for this. Yet here he stood taking it out on someone that had clearly stated he acted in the prince's best interests. And he would still do so because he had never been taught to apologize. "Look who's being looked down upon now." He gripped Torsten's hand to turn it palm-side up. His gaze flitted across the other's calloused fingers as his own drifted across them. He spoke without looking back to the witcher's face. "If I am to surpass all King's before me, then I require your best sword. I think that will suit my grip best." His gaze flitted back up to meet Torsten's own. "Don't you think?"

[witchertorsten]

"The prince will do what the prince wants, but I only act in his best interests." Lowering the other's station or placing Afshin under any undo scrutiny was something that Torsten would not permit. Not for his own ego, and not for Afshin's, but at whatever ceremony or celebration that persisted - Torsten would be watching. He could do his duty best by standing over the other, or watching the door, or reminding those who entered High Hall that they were in the presence of greatness.

The High King did not appoint the Kingsguard but Torsten could see the nerves firing as Afshin spoke. Torsten's approach had been pragmatic but the heir was anything but practical. "I would never threaten you. It was only a warning: your enemies surround you even now, I am your ally, your sword, and your shield and I will protect you with every breath I breathe." Jarl Freydis was proof enough that a woman could rule if she was willing to do what was necessary to take it, and the princess, was undoubtedly willing to do whatever it took. They three had been friends once, but she was more like Orhan than Afshin would ever be, and it would be easy enough to justify why a victory in a Holmgang that pulled the changeling son from the public eye would be the best course to guarantee his safety. Torsten would be inclined to agree and tradition was what tradition dictated.

"I have many. I'll have them brought here so that you might pick which favors your grip best. When we are done, my prince will be a King to surpass those before him." Without missing a beat, Torsten had sunk to his knee, Afshin's hand in his own as he bent his lips towards the prince's ring. Afshin's temper had flared, but it had simmered just as quickly as the steadying breaths of the other rang overhead while the witcher remained stoic and undaunted. A royal temper at the edge of the world could only be expected given their circumstances, and given the concern Afshin might have over his father's condition. "It was not my intention to cause offense." Torsten offered as he looked from the prince's ring, towards the face of the man that stood over him. "I'll freely give myself over to whatever penance my future King deems necessary."

Now Afshin was just starting to get frustrated with this entire conversation. Around and around they would constantly go, it seemed. He wasn't sure why he was even listening to Torsten's opinion anyway. The witcher had said it himself. People like them didn't belong in the same room as people like Afshin. Stood in front of or stood behind? Yes. At his side? Never. Maybe he had been too decent towards someone he had considered his only friend once upon a time. Afshin didn't usually give people the courtesy of speaking so many preposterous things to him as much as he had with this one witcher. Again, maybe he had been too decent. Maybe he had made Torsten think that he could be stepped over or disrespected like what had just been done. He was not to be disrespected. He was the fucking Prince of Iskaldrik. He was going to be the fucking High King. Nobody, not even a witcher, was going to tell him how he should be acting.

"If you think the next High King's throne will not be safe because I have asked you to sit at my table, then you wouldn't be a very good Kingsguard, Torsten." He moved closer again. "Perhaps the next High King should look for a Kingsguard that will not speak down to him. Perhaps the next High King should be much more brutal than any of you give him credit for, hm?" He lifted his head slightly to look into the other man's eyes. "Most would have taken that as a threat. Should I have taken that as a threat, Torsten?" Maybe frustration was no longer the right word. Anger seemed to be more fitting than that. He was angry. Afshin was angry that people thought so little of him. Angry that the one friend he'd had that he just got back thought so little of him. Angry that nobody respected him. He could lord his title over people every single day, but it would mean nothing. Maybe he should have listened to Eldar more. People responded better to brutality than they did to words.

"Do not insult me, Torsten. I will use your sword. You can find another for yourself, I'm sure." Until he had one of his own made for him when they were out of this Keep. "You will show me how to use your sword until I am satisfied with the results." He paused. "As the High King requests of you, of course." He let out an angered breath, eyes closing momentarily as he collected himself. Emotions were not to get the best of him. He couldn't allow that. Not now. Especially when they were in such a precarious position. His feet dragged backwards again to put space between them followed by his hand lifting to the witcher's lips. "You can kiss my ring now."

[witchertorsten]

Personal beliefs aside it didn't matter what Torsten wanted, it had stopped mattering the moment he landed in the Watch. When he rose from his graduation ceremony there was only one course ahead of him; a violent life with an undoubtedly violent death. Afshin wished to treat him in the same manner as a highborn son, but Torsten was not the boy that he had been decades ago. He had no right to it and there were far too many that would not abide by the sort of privilege that Afshin was offering the very creature that their laws were created to protect against. It was the simple offer of a prince who had never thought of anyone but himself, but it was cruel to live in a fantasy.

"My place isn't at your side, at your table. It's behind you, or in front of you. We are not the same: the next High King will have to understand that if he hopes to hold his throne for long." This blood that flowed through Torsten's veins was polluted, a statement of reality that was invariably true. Conceptualizing a world where Iskaldrik was not theirs remained beyond Torsten's ability but as skilled or adept as he was, the witcher was still young and had been molded into this shape that was so ill-fitting to those around him. Amid these refugees were treasonists, supernatural, and if the Legion was to be believed, potentially darkfriends as well. They stood in a nest of vipers and Torsten would not afford to be seen as anything less than a predator among snakes.

Afshin pressed Torsten's tunic against his chest and reflexively the witcher reached for it. Their fingers touched and static charged its way under his skin, but just as quickly as they had connected, it was over and the witcher was pulling the tunic back over his head. The fabric settled against his skin, his post was generally in the High King's chambers, trading watch but his shift could be covered easily enough by another. "As his highness commands, would you prefer a training sword or should I find the prince a weapon?"

It was never hard for Afshin to see how people saw him. Iskarans were people that sure as hell didn't mind telling people exactly what they thought of others. It was one thing he did so admire about the people he would come to rule one day. The only problem with that was that he knew that they would not respect him. He may have been the son of Orhan, but the difference still remained. He was not his sister and he was not his father. Everything about him just said that he was a spoiled brat that didn't know how to wield a sword properly or fight the way any of his ancestors did. He wondered what they would call him. High King Afshin the Weak. That was what they saw him as at least. The key to a good King was not that said king could fight or speak. A true King looked out for his people. And, as much as he spoke of people that were beneath him, he still wanted for every Iskaran to be safe. Maybe he would make some sort of difference. He would have to given the circumstances of his nature. Eventually though. For now, his father was still the High King, mad or not.

"My time is spent the way I choose to spend it." His mouth downturned slightly as he shrugged. "Plus, I simply offered you a seat at my table and you so graciously declined. Speaking of your lack of pillow talk seems redundant now." Afshin would not beg nor would he continue to butter up someone that was not interested. As much as he would have loved one night, or maybe two depending on how the first night went, he was not going to press the issue anymore than he already had. Witchers were meant to be lonely individuals given their short lifespans. It seemed that Torsten was perfectly fine with the lot that he had been given. Perhaps that was where their differences started. Afshin could not be fine with his lot in life because it went against everything his father and his father's father had taught every Iskaran. He guessed he should have taken a page out of the witcher's book and been fine with that as well. Maybe he would be better off.

Still, his hand dropped from where it had been placed upon Torsten's chest. As he did, he backed up slightly and pressed the other's tunic where his hand had been just a moment before. Had he known what to say at that very second, he would have, but he was left with no words for the time being. If this were anyone else, then he would have given them his title. Perhaps he would have had them kiss his ring, too. Alas, Torsten had stated his business. He answered to the High King. He answered to a mad man that would probably be gone sooner than he would be. Afshin would accept that. For now. When he could finally figure out what to say, it came out blunt with no hint of the flirtatious inflection his voice had held before. "I require your presence later tonight. If you answer to the High King, then you will meet me here, sword in hand, and make time to teach me something worthwhile."

[witchertorsten]

It wouldn't be appropriate, and neither was it earned. Torsten did not resent what he was, what he'd been through, or what his training had ultimately made him. In fact, he agreed with it; he agreed with the Iskaran practices with every fiber of his being. The world had been broken because of reckless abandon, because of the very magic that ate away at both the best and the worst. Afshin was an example of how easy it was for a life to be destroyed by the blight's chaos. The ground they stood on was further proof of it; this crumbling Keep and the Aetherians that had taken everything from them. "There's never been much point in me staying beyond that. You're the Iskaran heir; I can only assume your time is well spent wherever you are."

It was hard to see the resemblance between Afshin and Orhan; if only Aytaç had been born a male, perhaps she would have stepped up and been the leader the Iskarans needed. Afshin was spoiled and delicate in his own way, two words that had never been used to describe Aytaç or Orhan. For now, they still had Ormir, but even now, the Iskarans wouldn't follow a huscarl forever. Not unless something dramatic were to occur, but so long as Afshin drew breath, there'd be no more legitimate claim to the throne than his. Torsten hoped but doubted that Afshin knew how precarious his position was - and how desperately forces within the Iskarans and without would want to bring him under their control.

In the end, it did not matter if Afshin was pampered where his family was brutal, that he was the son of a blademaster and the brother to a shieldmaiden but preferred to spend his time gawking or commissioning new boots - he would someday be their king. "I answer to the High King, my prince. Not to you." Torsten said instead. As it stood, Orhan was still the rightful ruler of Iskaldrik, despite what the court might whisper, and the witcher was bound to him and the First before any other. The proximity was- what it was, but Torsten did not shy away. Instead, he breathed into the space and looked down at the prince who'd left his knuckles pressed against the witcher's chest. His voice was lower now, possessed with something he didn't recognize as he swallowed what had dried at the back of his throat. Torsten could feel the eyes of others upon them - it wasn't as though they were alone. "Not yet, anyway."

Afshin was only slightly distracted by the way the witcher moved when he trained. It was fascinating to him actually. Growing up, his father had always placed a sword within his hand and told him to fight. The prince had done it every single time, but he had never really been interested in all of that. Why would he bother if there were so many others bending over backwards to make sure that he was safe? There were people like Torsten waiting in the wings to throw their life down for the Gökhan family. Yet he felt that it was necessary for him to know how to defend himself. He couldn't depend on Eldar every single time. Well, he could, but that would probably open a can of worms he certainly wasn't ready to open right now. So maybe he would ask the witcher to train him one day. Not now, but one day.

Nevertheless, Torsten's answer had his interest piqued. Witchers never did last very long lives. Afshin had seen firsthand how young some of them went. It was quite tragic, but there were always more to come out of the Watch. There would always be another. However, he didn't really like the idea of the same happening to Torsten. Regardless of how long ago their friendship had occurred, losing the only person he had ever actually called a friend that didn't need to be his friend would hurt a lot more than he would have liked to admit. Again, something he didn't want to think about much. "Oh, I see. So you don't smother your partners. You just fuck and leave." He shrugged again. "Maybe I should focus my attentions elsewhere then." His fingers went to twist the rings on his other hand as he watched the witcher still.

"You keep saying that. Your prince." He held a hand up for Torsten to stop as he walked closer. "And yet you tell me what dishonors my future throne. Hm," he stated with a slight tilt of his head. Afshin was oh so fascinated by, not only the way the other fought, but by the way the witcher's mind worked. Surely the point had been gotten across, but they were indeed in the middle of this Keep in the most horrible quarters in a terrible situation. In reality, Afshin should have been more stressed about that. Yet here he was. Talking to a witcher. As he finally got closer to Torsten, his fist pressed to the man's chest. "You'll make your prince more comfortable by having a seat at my table. Do I make myself crystal clear?"

[witchertorsten]

As inhuman as witchers could appear, at their core, they were just as mortal and sensitive as those around them. Torsten might have been perceived as a monster, a creature bound by oaths, duty, and cruelty - but he had needs just like anyone else. It wasn't as if he never fell into bed with someone; quite the opposite, fighting and fucking were as ingrained in Iskaran culture as the ancestral practice of raiding. It was good for the virtues, but he didn't enter someone's thighs hoping to sew an heir.

"You and I lead very different lives, my prince: there's no need for me to remain and converse once the deed is done." Torsten remained light on his feet, moving with practiced ease and formation. Witchers could not hold any land or title; marriage was a social union designed to guarantee the distribution of wealth along hereditary lines. Torsten had no reason to marry, have children, or put much thought towards beginning a life with someone when his own fate was already set. He was young, but as he was in his prime and at the height of his skill, there would be a decline over the next few years as the toxins he'd taken throughout his youth caught up with him. A short life was no life to offer someone else; Torsten had his duty, his ambition, and little beyond what he could hold in his hands.

Again, the witcher paused as if their lives were so simple or could be boiled down so easily. "I've no right to a seat at your table; it dishonors your future throne when you suggest otherwise." He remained rigid and stalwart, "But the gesture is not lost on me. Rest assured I will be there, but not as a guest. As your father's guard, and yours." The mad King who was confined to his chambers, "In Lysara that won't change.... But I'll see what I can do to make the prince more comfortable. "

In reality, their friendship was a mere blip in both of their lives. When they were younger though, Afshin had seen Torsten as his only friend. Maybe it had to do with an inkling that they were alike. Not that either of them could tell at the time, but perhaps that was what had drawn the prince to the now witcher. Back then, he'd been beside himself at the thought that the silver-haired man was something supernatural. So much so that he had forgotten that he was exactly the same. It was a thought that he'd always had, that he could just forget about it and nobody would be wiser. The problem with that was that he was not the only person sharing this soul. He wasn't allowed to forget about Eldar if he tried because he saw the man in his dreams. Everything he had been told growing up was going to work against him eventually. Right now, it was just a matter of if that happened before or after he had the throne.

That was all something he couldn't worry about right now though. What he could worry about was how nice it was to watch Torsten train. Even if there wasn't a clear attraction to the witcher, he was sure he would find it entertaining. Still, he didn't want to seem like he was that desperate. The last thing Afshin wanted was for the other man to think he was pathetic in any capacity. He was to be the High King one day. He had a reputation to uphold, a very prestigious one at that. As a matter of fact, maybe it would be best for him to lift a sword once in a while instead of having others do his fighting for him. Oh, but Torsten did look great defending him. One day though, when they got out of this mess, then he would get back to that training. Only then though.

"I'll be sure to invite you to the next feast then." A corner of his mouth lifted up. "I sure do hope your pillowtalk does not include smothering people. I fear for your partners, Torsten." A sigh left his mouth. When they made it to Lysara, perhaps the both of them could relax. They were both stressed for very different reasons so it would probably be nice to not think about the bad and start focusing on the so-called good. "Lysara. I have a strange feeling that they will not be so welcoming to me upon meeting, let alone invite me to a feast." His hands dropped, one lifting to brush against his jaw. "If you do get any word from the Legion though, do let me know. A comfortable bed would be better, but I will take what I can get for now if you can make it happen. Then I will definitely be sure to invite you to that feast."

[witchertorsten]

As the witcher returned to his trials, he focused a portion of his attention on the prince. Habit, really, but proximity did not hurt either. Despite their history, the two lacked any real familiarity, but that was due to the nature of time and distance. Torsten had no way of comprehending what it would be to stand in Afshin's shoes, and the prince had only recently come to learn what it was to go hungry.

The prince had a charm about him that Torsten lacked, The Sword was inherently blunt and to the point. Following orders without mincing his words, though the truth that he spoke was often not the truth that people heard, it was honesty just the same. Some were good at twisting their words into knots, careful and measured, but it was a skill that Torsten didn't care for, one that he avoided any instance that necessitated its use. Ignorance was bliss for a man who could not tell any lies.

"Even when we weren't settled at the edge of the world, I'm not sure I ever had the means: it's been a long time since I attended a feast as a guest, and it'd be too easy to use a featherbed to smother someone with." Witchers couldn't make weapons, inconvenient, considering there were few things in this world that couldn't be used as a weapon one way or another. "When we make it to Lysara, I've no doubt the Queen will receive you and your family well. You'll have your bed and your feast until I can return you to the throne that will someday be yours." There was a beat. "Until then, I can speak with the Legion; perhaps there's something here more suitable than the rations they've provided." If not, Torsten would hunt when he had his next reprieve - there had to be some worthy game in this place.

Being royalty had its perks. Afshin often took advantage of that fact. People were supposed to listen when he spoke. They were supposed to follow what he said down to the letter. Of course, he wouldn't have really said he preferred if Torsten did the same. The witcher was the Kingsguard, meant to protect the changeling's father. That same father would have probably screamed to the gods about how his only heir was someone their entire family had spent their whole lives hating. Torsten was supposed to protect that man that would hate everything about his own son just because that was simply how Iskaldrik was. What would the witcher say if he found out that Afshin wasn't what he said he was? Witchers were supposed to follow those rules that had been beaten into their heads from a young age. He didn't expect Torsten to suddenly forget all about that just because the two of them had been friends a long time ago.

That was something to think about later though. For now, he was safe. There were three people watching out for him just so he could watch Torsten's shirtless frame go about his training. Tunic in hand, he moved to toss the fabric over his shoulder to fold his arms over his chest. "Perhaps the prince will." A shoulder lifted into a shrug. "Or perhaps you will simply have to teach me one day. I have always learned better with a more hands on approach," he stated as he backed up slightly to watch the witcher go back to his training.

"Are you offering to make that feather bed and feast a reality? I would so love to see how you would do it. Perhaps you would get the feathers from your personal ducks and geese? You could kill two birds with one stone." Afshin knew luxury was not in the cards for him at this dreadful place, but he would always make do with what he had. Not that he ever really had to worry about that anyway. Usually, things were simply handed to him. Not having everything he wanted at his disposal meant that he had to figure it out. Maybe he would need to find his sister so that she could help him switch over to Eldar. His elvhen side was much more fitted for this kind of situation than he was. Oh, but then he wouldn't be able to speak with Torsten. Decisions, decisions.

[witchertorsten]

This was as close to close quarters as they had ever been; the truth was that at any moment, the Norns could demand that Torsten lay his life on the line to defend the King or the royal heir. For the Kingsguard, there could be no greater honor than dying in battle for the sake of protecting the future of Iskaldrik. By any standard, Torsten was still young; they both were, but somehow, duty had aged him beyond simple manhood. The world's weight sat upon the witcher's shoulders, and before he could age to greater maturity, he was likely to perish by his own nature. The lives of him and his kind were brief and fleeting, with no lands or titles, no reason to ever marry, and nothing but contempt from those they lived to protect.

For a moment, Torsten hesitated before he placed the tunic in Afshin's hands. "Then watch." This was as close to playful as Torsten ever treaded; given their circumstances, it was a leap and a bound from his usual vantage. "Perhaps the prince will learn something." He did not often speak of their youth, only in curt exchanges in the late hours when no one was in earshot to reveal what was not a secret; a lifetime ago, the two had known one another. They were friends then, now it seemed impossible to consider the man he served as anything but the heir above him.

Torsten extended his arm in gesture for the servant to return the sword to his hand, a blade that was more an extension of his being than anything else. It felt familiar in his grip, like an old friend whose palm had been missing from his own for too long. He turned the side over and turned his attention towards his opponent again. He turned the blade over, acutely aware of the prince's eyes upon him as his regiment continued. "Perhaps the prince would be more comfortable in a feather bed, with a feast prepared in his honor." Torsten goaded Afshin now; there was no luxury here, but that was to be expected, all things considered.

Nornwatch Keep was, for lack of a better word, fucking disgusting. Everything about it made Afshin's skin crawl and he almost felt like a better option would have just been to go back to his home and let himself be at the mercy of those invaders. Maybe not though. He still had a role to play in this. The changeling just wished that his role didn't include this dastardly place. There was no space for him to have quarters of his own so Eldar was getting pissy about it and then there was barely any food for everyone. Really, it was all the worst possible situation and he had never actually been in this situation before. He wasn't some peasant that had to be fighting over scraps. He was the Prince of Iskaldrik, son of the High King Orhan Gökhan. He did not deserve to live like this in any capacity. The only good thing was that his sister was here. Well, second only to the fact that he was very pleased to see his very dear friend shirtless. Was he supposed to not look?

"I do not. However, watching is something I am always entertained by," he stated as Torsten grabbed his tunic. "Aht aht aht, you certainly do not need to do that, do you? I can only imagine how restricting that tunic must be for you." He held his hand out. "I can hold it for you so it does not get lost."

Whatever these Legionnaires were up to was of no concern to Afshin at the moment. In all honesty, it felt like it didn't really matter in the present time they were in. Nevertheless, they were at Nornwatch. They were here for sanctuary. Afshin wasn't sure that he would classify it as sanctuary given the state of the place, but this was their only place to go right now. To say that was an eye opener was an understatement. Maybe he should have let Eldar take the reigns and save him from the hell of this place. "I am keeping as well as anyone would in these conditions. They do not exactly live in the lap of luxury."

[witchertorsten]

An undeniable truth hung between them; long ago, Torsten had seen something with his own eyes that he had never spoken aloud again. A witcher could not lie, but he'd been a child, prone to daydreams and an overactive imagination. He lacked the certainty that he had now; who was to say that the light had not deceived him? That the world had not been obscured by a brief moment of delusion? If he were to ask what his heart honestly thought of that moment, there was no other recourse but honesty, but from a child's perspective, twenty years now removed, it was easy to blur the lines of truth when memory was something that all found fallible.

"I don't remember you ever having much interest in swordplay." With his Training sword set aside, he reached for the discarded tunic to spare the prince any of Torsten's indecency. It was said that when Orhan was a young man, he could best ten fully armed men with nothing but a wooden sword. Afsin was the Iskaran heir, but he was not his father. Rations were short, the blight was rampant, and quarters were tight. The prince was... particular, but that aside, his safety was Torsten's utmost priority. "The taint is rampant here; the ground beneath us is dead; the animals and the trees carry it; it's a wonder these Legionnaires yet live at all. How are you keeping?"

This was quite literally the worst thing that could happen. Afshin had had a long talk with Eldar about this where it felt like he was just going back and forth with his elvhen side only for the other to end up always winning the argument. The prince had long since tried to fight it. Eldar was right though. This would be a good thing. All they had to do was bide their time and Orhan would eventually lead himself down his own bloody path. Eventually, the old man would be gone and Afshin would have the crown. He had to have patience. Unfortunately, that was something that he knew damn well he did not have in the slightest. Why would he ever need to anyway? He was royalty. And royalty was not supposed to be living like this.

At least the view was nice though. Having not seen Torsten in what felt like a long time, it was refreshing to see that flash of silver hair in his vicinity again. Even better was watching the man train. Shirtless. That was the only thing keeping him going and now the witcher had turned his attention over to Afshin. He leaned up off of the pillar he was stood against and slowly walked over. "My prince," he repeated under his breath with a bit of a smirk. "Torsten." He paused before continuing. "Please do not stop on my account. You have to be battle ready, do you not?" He looked down at the sword then back at the other as he stopped walking. "I insist."

[witchertorsten]

Torsten's relief couldn't be mitigated by what he'd seen and the thoughts that had been regrettably confirmed. There was a changeling writhing around in the marrow of the prince's bones, a blight that would consume the man eventually. Cursed, the Amulet of the King would never rest upon the prince's chest. At least, not as it was. Torsten was sworn to the King, but there was no oath that kept him from the King's possessions: for all his training, Torsten was still born a witch, and as a witcher he was supernatural. It stood to reason that the amulet would destroy him too, but it was arcana, and the witcher had his advantage against it. Returning the force upon it might destroy the Amulet completely.

But these thoughts were reserved for another time because for all his confidence that he would not fail in seeing the princess to safety, Torsten would put her life above his own to do so.

"No army could keep me from you." Not even the Dark One himself.

Afshin appeared rested, and given the fact that he was a changeling, he'd likely spent the night gathering his strength. This would be telling for anyone who looked to the prince for signs of struggle or exhaustion. Better to keep him enclosed for now. "Dawn is rising over the Keep, we witchers will gather and count our dead and prepare to move before the sun falls over us again. The prince should get some rest, there are many weary miles to travel, miles best taken in my saddle." Harold could accomodate a second passenger, and given the events of the night, Torsten had no intention of leaving Afshin for any longer than was necessary. "I'll return when it's time to march."

Afshin couldn't expect Torsten to process anything fully at the moment. He was a witcher. Emotion was something the likes of them had to push down because of everything that came with that title. Maybe he should have taken a page out of their book. Maybe he should have been sent off to Witcher's Watch himself. Then he wouldn't be like...this. He wouldn't have gotten that look from Torsten when they had just seen each other a few moments ago. When they had last been together, Nornwatch had been attacked. Now? Well, now they were down several people and the witcher had seen something he wasn't supposed to see. If he could have, he would've taken the memory away from the other, but he was more curious about why action hadn't been taken yet. Best not to think something into fruition though.

When Torsten stepped forward, Afshin didn't make a move to step back. He should have for the simple fact that he shouldn't have been letting anyone see him falter. They already thought him weak. Showing emotion like this was not going to be a good look for him. Still, he stayed where he was as the witcher's body closed in towards him. Then a hand pressed to his cheek, a moment that normally would have sent him running for the hills. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment before they opened again to let them meet Torsten's own. Lifting his own hand, he gently grabbed the witcher's to pull it from his face, but he did not let go of it as he did. "I trust you to make sure she makes it back to me." His gaze fell to the other's hand in his own, brows furrowed. "Which means you have to make it back to me, too." He couldn't lose Torsten again. Both of them had to come back.

[witchertorsten]

Urgency had seen Torsten tearing through this place, one foot in front of another as he searched the face of everybody that he'd passed. Fear was rampant as the adrenaline throbbed with the rampant pulse that ran the ichor in his veins. Every broken, pale face was another dead Iskaran but Afshin was nowhere in sight. It was a double-edged sword because if Afshin was not among the living or the dead then he could only be in the tunnels with the darkspawn below.

Had Torsten found Afshin among them, he wasn't sure what he would have done. How he would have felt. Numbness was the dull, dissociative familiarity that the witcher knew all too well. A welcome friend amid a mind that successfully compartmentalized who he'd been, what he'd endured, and what he faced today. Duty would have called him a failure for allowing the prince's demise, but that the other was doomed from the start haunted a different truth that Torsten lacked the range to process.

"The darkspawn took prisoners. We'll find her and the others: I swear it." The princess did not deserve to die at the hands of those monsters, but beneath that beautiful exterior, there was steel stronger than any darkspawn's blade. Afshin had put a pace of distance between them, but Torsten only stepped in again. "I told you to stay close to me." True to his character there was nothing warm to his tone, more sword than a person, the only emotion came from the heat of his stare as he looked down at the prince. "I looked for you. I-" Torsten cut himself off, Afshin was alive, the High King was alive, but the princess was gone. Now was not the time. Against his better judgment, Torsten's hand moved to the other's cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing the soft skin beneath. Lower now, barely above a whisper, he promised again. "We will find her." The darkspawn had taken her alive, whatever fate awaited her, she would survive and see them on the other side.

Something about Torsten felt cold now. Afshin didn't want to believe it was what he thought it was. He didn't want to assume the worst if that could very well not be the case. It could have just been exhaustion because of the long night that had been had. Of course, the prince had not been there for it, but the remnants of the night remained on him. Blood had splattered onto his clothes and he was far too focused on everything else to focus on that one little mess. There was so much more for him to worry about than that.

Would he have preferred that Torsten not give him the cold shoulder? Yes, he would have. However, he was more upset about the situations with his sister and his father. Both were horrible situations and he just wished things could revert back to how they had been. It was wishful thinking, but that was his one hope. How had he ended up in this position where his sister was gone and he was left with his father who was...just okay? And now the witcher before him seemed to not really even want to look at him.

The few steps he had taken towards the other had been backtracked to put a few feet of space between them. Slowly nodding his head, he let out a sigh that felt like he was letting so much off of his shoulders. This was not how he wanted things to go, but he knew that it would be easier for him to just pretend everything was fine so he didn't just break down. That was how Afshin always handled things anyway. Another sigh fell from his lips soon after the first one before he cleared his throat and let his gaze settle on the floor between them.

Another breath. In and out. That was all he had to do. What was he supposed to say here? He couldn't figure it out and he wasn't supposed to break down in front of anyone. Let alone someone that had that same look of disdain that Ormir always did. He couldn't focus on that though. Focus on his sister. That was what he had to do. Except that seemed to hurt the most. He wiped at his face and cleared his throat again.

"Um..." He paused to try to figure out what he was even supposed to say and then just shook his head. As much as he would have loved to pretend that his sister was going to miraculously appear in front of them as war-torn as ever, there was a chance that wouldn't be the case. And he couldn't lose her. He wouldn't. Wiping at his face, he pushed any sadness to the side, brows furrowing as he spoke again. "We have to...We have to find her."

[witchertorsten]

There were questions reeling through the witcher's mind already: how had the darkspawn gotten in undetected? How had the gates not kept them out? How many of them were there? Nornwatch Keep bellowed as the ground shook beneath him; siege weapons lobbing projectiles from their ballista were just as likely to fell the High King as a darkspawn's blade.

The grip Torsten held on his sword tightened as he placed himself between Afshin and the door. For a moment, the witcher turned to speak over his shoulder, tone grave as he remembered the boys they had been. The laughter that had defined their childhood was traded for something else, years of division only to bring them back together - prince, and knight. "Stay close to me, and cover your face." Torsten left little room in his voice for argument as he wrapped clean fabric over his mouth to keep from accidentally ingesting some of the blighted blood. "I won't let anything happen to you."

Beyond the prince's chambers, chaos could be felt in the bones of the Keep. The distant bellow of a monstrous roar lifted a chill across his spine as the small hairs at the back of his neck stood on end. Torsten recognized this feeling well, no man could stare into the dark without fear, fear was the mind-killer, and as the witcher spared a look towards Afshin over his shoulder, he unsheathed a second blade, a shortsword to compensate for his missing shield. Down the hall there was the roar of a hurlock, flanked by genlocks, they charged towards the two.

Leveraging a barrel, Torsten's boot struck it with a sharp kick as he watched it crash into the beasts that charged ahead. One of the genlocks was thrown off course as the barrel rolled at the knees and brought its head into the cold stone of the Keep's floor. Already with his feet off the ground, Torsten's shortsword drove into the thinner bone at the base of the creature's skull, puncturing the gray matter of its mind as one boot landed in the hurlock's gut.

Lighter and more nimble without the weight of his armour, Torsten's blade moved faster, sliced with greater precision, and moved like a streak of silver through the air. Parrying the dark, and cutting through the delicate musculature that was left exposed in the short gaps of the darkspawn's armaments.

Chaos descended quickly, more of the beasts flooded the corridors as the Iskarans, roused from their chambers, were pulled into the sudden assault. Armed but pushed into the thick of it, Torsten called them to action as he looked behind himself again, but did not see Afshin.

"Afshin!" Came Torsten's shout as he doubled back, driving the pommel of his blade into the gut of a darkspawn to stun it before he cleaved its head clean from its shoulders. "Afshin!" Torsten shouted again, more frantic this time - he had promised only a short while ago that he wouldn't let anything happen to the prince. The hall where they traveled was littered with far more darkspawn than Iskarans, but Afshin was not among them.

Louder now, Torsten screamed, "Afshin!"

Things were finally going his way. After everything that happened, he would have hoped he could at least have this. But of course not. Because why would anything every be easy for Afshin? He was a damn changeling in a kingdom that hated magic. His entire home had been taken from him. And now he couldn't even get fucked the way he wanted to. Everything was just going to keep going to shit and, at this point, he almost felt like he was cursed. If anyone would have heard those thoughts running through his head, he was sure they would roll their eyes. What did he have to complain about? Well, everything. Just when he had gotten Torsten right where he wanted him, right where they both wanted to be, then all of a sudden the Keep decides to get attacked? The gods were playing tricks on him and he was really starting to take it personally.

Anyway, the point was that the empty air that was now above him because Torsten had gotten up seemed to be really fucking thick. How was he supposed to focus at all now? He would have to, but...actually, no he would not have to focus at all. It would be so easy for him to just let Eldar deal with all of this. Afshin himself was nowhere near prepared for any of this and he wasn't going to pretend to be. If they were going to survive, it would be much easier for them to switch out for now. The only problem was that the witcher was with him right now. No longer shirtless, but still with him nonetheless.

"Yeah, I can tell now," he stated as he got up off of the floor with a heavy sigh. And of course there was an ogre. Because why wouldn't there be? Why wouldn't there be another monstrosity to deal with right now? Afshin quickly moved to grab Torsten's sword and tilted his head towards the door. "You go first. I'll follow." He didn't know how the witcher would take that command, but he had to figure out some way to separate from the other. Not that he really wanted to, but he actually wanted to survive. As much as he would have loved to see Torsten in action, he wasn't about to risk his own life because he was...flustered. As he heard the ogre roar again, he took a deep breath and muttered under his breath.

"Oh, Eldar. Good luck, my friend."

[witchertorsten]

Would that he could pour the wealth of desire that brimmed beneath the fiery surface of the Kingsguard, then he'd burn this tower to the ground and still have the embers needed to keep Afshin warm.

Reciprocation incensed him further as Torsten's pulse quickened, his tongue mapped the other's as he did everything he could to commit the Prince to memory. This was who he intended to remember when he marched beside the King, when he drew his sword at the close of the day as night hung over his eyes, and when he drew his blade to charge into certain death. Torsten would think of Afshin, and go happily knowing he'd been honest with himself, even if it was just this once.

Their lips parted and Afshin made his ask- no, demand. Torsten had no choice but to return and as the Kingsguard's forehead rested against the prince's, he couldn't help how light his features went. There had been a moment there where he'd been permitted to lie, to act as though there wasn't a chasm between them. To think that he could have any place with the Prince that wasn't buried in the dark. Even if he survived the days ahead, the shadows were all Torsten could ever hope for. It was all a witcher could earn.

Torsten could not bring himself to say the words, because he did not believe them, and the witcher was incapable of telling the Prince a lie. He would make sure that the Princess was returned, and would stop at nothing to protect the King, but either of these might require the witcher to sacrifice his own life in the process.

This was what Afshin did not seem to get:

this was goodbye.

The calloused pad of Torsten's thumb brushed against the height of Afshin's cheekbone. Loyal to a fault, indebted to the crown, and reverent of every King that had ever held the Iskaran throne, he did not say these next words lightly.

"Be better than every King who came before you: farewell, my prince."

Torsten dropped his hand and moved to join the King's march outside.

"Yeah." That was all he said at the mention of Harold because what else was he even supposed to say? Afshin felt pretty damn useless, but his father had made it clear. His only heir would stay behind. What would the changeling be able to help with anyway? He was nowhere near trained enough to even bother going on and trying to fight darkspawn. Maybe he could have switched to Eldar at some point, but the prince needed to show his face around at times like this. It was the least he could do if he wasn't going to go running into battle like everyone else.

This was fine though. As long as everyone made it back, everything would be fine. His sister needed to come back and so did Torsten. The witcher had promised him. As he looked over at Harold, he felt like that wasn't going to be a true statement. Why would Torsten not bring the drake with him? There was no way it was going to do anything other than help. The witcher knew better than him about these kinds of things though. Afshin had to trust that. He kept telling himself that he had to trust that all of them would make it back, but his stomach felt like it was in knots about the whole thing. A breath left his mouth as he looked back at Torsten.

It felt like they had looked at each other for far too long before an actual action had been taken. He didn't expect for Torsten to lean in. Even more than that, he hadn't expected their lips to meet as soon as he did. It had been a thought in his head for so long. Ever since he had seen the other become Kingsguard, he felt like he was looking forward to this exact moment. It had almost happened the night the darkspawn attacked. At this moment in time, it felt like Afshin wasn't supposed to enjoy it. It felt like he was supposed to be thinking of everything else. However, when Torsten's lips met his own, all of those knots in his stomach seemed to untangle.

After a moment or two, his hand lifted to the back of the other's head as he pulled away. It was only enough that he could rest his forehead against Torsten's own. Eyes closed, he shook his head. "I wanted you to come back before, but now you absolutely have to," he stated with somewhat of a breathless chuckle. It was the only semblance of happiness he'd had for quite some time so he would revel in it.