Weeping.

That pitiful sound in the darkness, chest-heaving sobs of grief, muffled against something. Even so, it cut clearly through his dreams, awakening Eramus to the new twilight that lay veiled against his eyes, throwing reality into a world of shadows and half-imagined light. The elf's pale fingers reached up instinctively to his eyes, to draw away what might mask his sight, but a fleeting feeling of bitter agony swept through him. He could not brush away this darkness. Again, his ears strained, listening to the sorrow that struck so cleanly through his heart. Was he imagining it? Could it be he dreamed again? Feeling his way, Eramus swung his legs over the edge of his bed, his tapering fingers lightly touching the wrinkled sheets, breathing the pure, acidic smells of the medicines Aidan had applied to the elf's wounds. His trembling hand reached forward, searching blindly through the air for the lamp that stood unlit in the corner of the room. For a moment, fear fluttered in his heart, reliving the nightmare that had so haunted his waking sleep, that he might not touch anything, that it would all be darkness and shadows and he would fall into their clutches, lost to the light for eternity. But those heart-shattered cries led him on, and the moment passed as Eramus' fingers curled around the smooth, wooden lamp. From there, he felt for the wall, placing one foot before the other, heading for the door.

Who was it that wept so? Whose heart ached so bitterly that it could scarcely contain its grief? Had Kabira stopped by for a late-night visit? Hers was a soft heart, and she so often cried over the smallest thing. Had one of the others come by? Perhaps Soya, or Kylie, or even the quiet Namir? Who could it be within these walls? Eramus never once considered the truth.

Silently his footfalls fell, the elf's hand trailing alongside the wall, trying to think of how much farther this hallway stretched. He imagined the house as a map within his mind, his pointed ears guiding him as the heart-torn sobs grew louder. They were coming from Aidan's room. The demon had placed Eramus in a room closely to the kerrazi's own, so that Aidan could be there to attend him if he had need. It had only been five days since Eramus had at last awakened, and a whole week since his last day in the Seeing-House, and it had proved that Eramus indeed needed the demon nearby. The elf had been scarred far deeper than his own flesh, and it was apparent how far the elf had fallen, how weak Naomi's torment had made him when he would wake in the silent hours of the night, screaming his voice hoarse. Eramus had been confident, fearless, reckless with his power and his life, and now…the shadows frightened him, and he could scarcely be in the same room with many other people. He leaned heavily on Aidan, for warmth, for comfort, and the demon had never once complained, never once made assumptions or demanded anything from the elf. He had been there, as calm and impervious as a mountain, coming when Eramus had need.

Had the elf ever once considered what Aidan might need?

His fingers touched thin air, and they curled around the edge of the open door, hearing the weeping from within. The willowy frame of the elf clung to the edge of the doorway, hardly daring to breathe too loudly. Could it be…? His own heart wrenched inside of him, his unseeing eyes stinging with a fierce agony of his own. Aidan was…crying. And not simply that; it was so far beyond tears, there was no word for this sorrow, this anguish that wrought such grief from the demon's lips. There was nothing the elf knew of this world that could so bring Aidan to his knees. Quickly, with an almost frantic fear, Eramus walked forward, his hands reaching, his steps a trembling, nervous thing because he moved faster than caution demanded. His knee hit the edge of the bed, and Eramus walked around it, finally seeing in his mind's eye the corner of the room and the form that was surely huddled against it, weeping so. Eramus fell to his knees and lay a hand on Aidan's shoulder, inquiring silently. It spoke much for the demon's state of mind that he jumped at Eramus' touch, having not heard him come in.

"Aidan…"

The demon said nothing, turning his anguished sable eyes towards the elf, puffy and streaked with red as they were. His limbs trembled, his black locks allowed to fall free behind him, and he stared at Eramus, meeting his unfocused gaze as his breath hitched in his throat. Eramus' hand – a hand that had dealt so much pain and received it in turn – was gentle and kind, his fingers tracing a line up his shoulder, across his collarbone, up his neck, and cupped Aidan's cheek so sweetly in its embrace. The elf could scarcely ignore the streaks of tears he felt, or the tears he felt slip down the curves of his own face. There was so much pain here, so much agony and abuse; Eramus felt as if he held Aidan's own heart in his hand.

A kerrazi was a demon born of Death and Darkness, living for the Hunt and the Kill, and dying to serve nothing but its own lust. And yet…he'd tried so hard, had put all his strength and soul not to become what he'd been meant to be. Aidan's heart had rebelled against it, and strived to break free of the chains that held it, the darkness that bound him, tried to mold him and create him into something anew, a demon of blood and pain. Eramus felt it then, felt those long years – those years that had become centuries, and those centuries that had stretched across eternity – of nothing but fighting, of heartache, of loss and pain. And darker still was that shadow of a promise, of the doom that hung over the heads of all the Chosen: an eternity spent in servitude, a life no longer with purpose or meaning, and a soul slowly fading away, unraveling at too fast a pace, dying even as Eramus beheld it in all its tragic glory.

Aidan didn't deserve it.

That thought came as clearly as the sun does rise in the east: whatever sin Aidan had ever done, it could not possibly deserve the living hell he found himself in now. What had broken him so? What blade had it been to have cut so far and so deeply, to have shattered that strength the demon had always carried with him, that silent confidence that threaded the man's very being and – as annoying as it might be at times – lent some glean of calm and hope to others around him, the hope he had offered Eramus? What happened to the warmth, the fiery spirit Aidan had wrapped around him, now so suddenly cold and desolate in its place? The elf could not bear the thought, could not even consider the possibility of it. If Aidan gave up…what reason was there for Eramus to exist?

"Oh, Aidan…"

The demon threw himself into Eramus' waiting embrace, weeping harder as the elf wrapped both arms around Aidan's frame, clutching him tightly to himself. Eramus didn't ask why, neither did he wonder: he accepted Aidan unquestioningly, and loved him with no thought of being loved in return.