In Sunlight by Lferion

In Sunlight

Maitimo had last seen Findekano in torchlight, in the lingering Unlight of the Darkening, before the starlight had returned. The sight of his friend (once-friend, hoped-for friend, cousin) in the red-dyed light, ankle-deep in the red-stained water, had made his heart leap, his blood freeze and burn with joy and horror inextricably plaited together. All the long way up the shore of Araman in their stolen ships, he had been aware of him, leading the other host with his father on the rocky beaches, along the cliff-edges, but they did not see each other, did not meet, did not speak.

Russandol, who had once been Maitimo, did not precisely see his friend from the cliff on the Enemy's stronghold. The dazzling gold-white light had blinded him as surely as the implements of the master of torments, and would heal likewise, no faster. He had heard him, singing; the music kindling a terrified, horrified hope he could not help but sing back to in response. Not a hope of rescue, nothing so simple, but that hope, life, light did still exist, were still possible. The Song continued. (No hope for his hand - he'd known that from the first shock of the hammer, bite of the shackle-spike, then the cruder fire fusing bone to bone to chain and strap, lest he tear away and fall, no message, no hostage, only far too swift release.) Findekano had not known Nelyo could not see him, standing across the impossible gulf of poisoned air that lay between them. But it had been long indeed since he had needed sight to perceive his friend. His heart had leapt, fallen, battered at his ribs; terror, wonder, disbelief and furious, rekindled life warring in his breast. What doom might this portend, well or ill? For doom it was.

Borne away on eagle-back, in furious, beloved arms, a rescue indeed. Then gentle hands, gentle warmth, more healing than he would have thought possible of his hurts of body. By the time he could see again, the lights had names: Isil, moon, Anar, sun, and he well knew, had heard, perceived the gulf that lay still between them. A politic rescue, a necessary ill, his presence. Nothing more than gratitude should bridge between the Prince of those who sailed, and a hero of the Ice. No tie on either side.

But in sunlight, Findekano was only more beautiful, not less.