IV. Volume of Forgotten Lore [1]
Somewhere outside London, hidden away in a small forest


The night had been long, the travel hadn’t been kind, and though their prisoner had been kept with the upmost important care; Darian was not the only one. The full moon was still nearly a month away, but ever the cautious and unyielding men dared not travel alone in the night. They would wait in hunting parties, finding themselves in the faces of strangers and adapting them into their lives and welcoming them home. Men, women and children alike who often hadn’t places to run found sanctuary in the well weathered worn hands of a stranger, and the half painted face of a clown.

The Cirque de la Lune was more than it appeared as far too many traveling shows were, and though their life of smuggling drug ring was over. Jean-Luc did well enough to provide a new life for outlaws on the run. Werewolves everywhere were welcome, and amongst their rank were desired for their hard earned reputation. Laws of both the muggle world and that of the wizarding, often left them untouched, and a new set of commandments kept the rules of the road alive.

Thou Shall Never Dethrone Thy King

Very few had tried, and to this day their skulls remained on the large oak desk that moved from city to city with candle wax running over the split in their bone like blood, and often acted as perches for the black birds that often carried his insignia behind sealing wax.

The camp was set up much like that of a medieval war ground, tents of a much smaller variety rose in circles and in rows. The caravans acted as a protection from an invading nation, and a smaller version of the black and red circus tent met the treetops but hardly reached the stars. Animal cages, with their golden bars and red painted carts had come from the tracks where their small train waited patiently for the next time it would need to come to life, but for now London would be home for the traveling band of misfits as they tried to get their feet off the ground.

Darian, had slept the day away, removed of his things so that they could be washed, Jean-Luc had arraigned for his captor to be treated like a prince and given his bed, with it’s red drapes and red sheets, and though the day had gone on without him—Jean-Luc felt the boy was missing out. The day wasn’t the same without Darian’s little quips or his cat like movements that made the illusionist wonder if he wasn’t born to be right here. However, seeing him sleeping there, with his near flawless skin and peaceful features, he knew that this sort of living wasn’t anything a Morgan would ever desire.

“It is no wonder he came so highly recommended then?” A voice asked the Romany King as she came around and refilled his silver goblet and sat out the plate of cheese. “He’s very beautiful.” Her ruby red lips curved into a rather wicked little smirk as she placed her hands on her small waste, and over the full curves of her body. The corset was tight, laced up so that she could get used to it while performing, and though the tights she wore were for her practice routine they had absolutely no sign of wear.

“I think so, but it’s a shame he’s not to my taste.” Jean-Luc’s own lips curled, and though his skin was rather pale he very much radiated the heat from the wood burner that kept the tarp interior so warm. The night air was cold outside, but in here he could hardly stand to be clothed at all. The lacing of his shirt went down well past where it should, and his coat was forgotten over the back of his throne. He could have sat here all day and simply waited for the young man to wake on his own, but now that the sun was setting again he knew it was time.

“Oh now, don’t tell untruths, Jean-Luc,” the woman grinned as she came around the back of his chair to put her arms around his neck and trail a warm line of kisses over his olive skin, “I saw the way you watched to make sure they handled him with care. You can’t deny me this much in the satisfaction of knowing where your interest lies.” He mused her words a moment while running his fingers through her bottled blonde hair as it spilt over one shoulder, and idly turned to answer.

“Wake him on your way out?” Came his voice calloused and cold.

“Of course,” The woman smirked again as she sauntered over to the young man dressed in Jean-Luc’s sheets like some roman royal, and removed her wand to tap it across her hand. The spell was cast, the charm she hardly remembered anymore, but at least could preform it well enough that the sleeping spell should wear off soon enough. And with that she made her exit, to the stage right where the rest of their kingdom waited.

1.	Rated 'M' for mature content.

The spell snaked its way around his conscious. At first he felt nothing but a distant confusion, nothing particularly alarming about waking in a bed not his own. He had some dizzy recollection of stirring once before, then sinking under the sleep spell that slipped from him now. Finally the last curl of magic left him, his eyes moving underneath his closed lids and then flaring open.

Darian rose out of the bed like an avenging angel, his hair a wild halo around his incandescent face. His mind was clear, his eyes blazing, and all his focus narrowed to a single fixed point: Jean-Luc.

"Necto tensus," he hissed, throwing out a hand. Jean-Luc's wrists were dragged into the air and fixed to the back of his chair, invisible bonds bending awkwardly the jut of his arms. A moment later and Darian was on him, straddling his lap to keep the man from bucking or kicking. His fingers went instantly up Jean-Luc's arms to test the magical bonds, needing the facilitating focus of touch for the only kind of wandless magic he had ever mastered. "Sensit paelliculum, eia age, praeligo aer effugere." Jean-Luc's skin roared into sudden awareness, the previous prickling of discomfort from the binding increasing to a hot, urgent burn. Around them a certain heaviness crept into the air around the tent, its texture reminiscent of a muffling charm.

His weight on Jean-Luc's legs - the power and closeness of flesh - gave him what he needed but not as much as he would have liked. Darian's mind churned with possibilities. Though most of this magic was meant for pleasure and not pain, its very nature made it easy to corrupt. But did he have enough power without his wand to push it over that edge...?

His lips drew away from his teeth when his brisk search of Jean-Luc's clothing revealed no wand. What kind of wizard didn't carry a wand! Didn't he know that Darian needed it? He straightened and looked around. His eyes lit with cold intent on the bed, the table next to it, and then down at himself. He had nothing on him that was his own; even his earrings were gone. This annoyed him, as since the alley encounter he'd charmed a few of his everyday items to conceal a nasty surprise in case he ever needed the extra protection. Those kind of spells weren't easy to weave, and he did not appreciate their taking. Here there was only ink, parchment, a set of knives on a nearby table... oh, rope! That he could use, and use well. Properly bound, Jean-Luc would be one less dog worrying at his heels when he left. Still, there were a few choice spells he had in mind for his host that rope could just not convey. Improper circulation was a lazy man's revenge, and Darian had always been driven.

"Where are my things?" he demanded, looking back at the ringmaster. There was something fierce and sharp to the movement, the same vicious proficiency that had filled all of his movements since waking. His hands flexed and twitched at the junction of Jean-Luc's shoulders. Despite their position, his expression was nothing like amorous. "And my wand?"

Watching Darian like this truly made the work to get him here worth it, and where perhaps one should have worried of a big cat’s claws—Jean-Luc was simply amused. He watched the boy think, rode his train of thought with him, and surfaced the deep dive to only breathe him in. As Darian cast his spells he didn’t struggle, he didn’t fight back, but laced his fingers as if to get comfortable and even went so far as to cross his feet while he waited for his little Hell Cat to be finished.

’ "Where are my things?" he demanded, looking back at the ringmaster. There was something fierce and sharp to the movement, the same vicious proficiency that had filled all of his movements since waking. His hands flexed and twitched at the junction of Jean-Luc's shoulders. Despite their position, his expression was nothing like amorous. "And my wand?" ‘

Amusement played across his face, the sort that seemed far too intimate, and came with a deep heartfelt pleasure out of this entire ordeal. He didn’t fear death, or even of what Darian would do with that wand when found, but what rattled him would have been in the way Darian seemed so undone.

“Do you really think that I would tell you so easily? Bring you all this way, keep you in my cage, just to see you released that easily? Oh come now, Mon chat you should know me better than this.” He gave his lips a little pout, the sort that came with chastising a child, but peeled them back with a devious smirk as he felt the air heavy—his skin burning. And finally, in one fluid motion he threw his head back with a little bit of sadistic laughter—enjoying.

“Oh come now, you can’t be that cross. Surely you would know that I mean you no harm in allowing you to wake in my bed, and not in my lion’s cages? It could have been worse, Mon petite. There are elephants out there you know.” As if on command the roar of a great beast broke through the otherwise muffled sound of tree top tents, and demented nearly tormented laughter followed.

“Step out there, I dare you. My Kingdom awaits it, as once you step outside these walls you belong to them. And I can not protect you.” His midnight blue eyes, nearly black coals, now burned like embers as he surveyed the man. Talented little trickster this one, he can’t say he saw this coming at all, but did enjoy it so.

“And if I return you your wand, Darian. What is it you wish to do with it?”

He watched Jean-Luc's face as the other man relaxed under him, his own expression flat and unimpressed. Now that he was sober he realized what a stupid thing he'd done the night before. He'd had only half the mind to be cautious, enough to make himself shallow and over-bright and easily understood (good) but not enough to apparate out as soon as he realized his company (bad). Now Jean-Luc did not find him intimidating, AND he'd been enticed enough to want to bring him home. Such habits were hard to break. Darian had spent the last decade being enticing, inviting people to touch, to want, to wonder. But never, ever did he invite them to simply take. With this in mind he pinched hard Jean-Luc's inner thigh, a cruel twist of flesh that was both warning and rebuke.

When the elephant trumpeted he jumped, though he killed the impulse that would have him whip his head around too. He did indeed look at that moment like a cat, albeit one dunked in a bath - bristling, unhappy, and liable to bite.

The agitation was not smoothed away when he spoke again. Darian used it like he used all things about himself; there was nothing that unnerved like a little wildness. Though it was possible for him to hide it, it would not be believable - and no actor'd gotten anywhere by without being believable.

"I like elephants," he said, pressing closer with his eyes alit. His hands slid past Jean-Luc's shoulders to scrape at the wood of the chair, making tiny tapping scritches with his blunt human nails. "You have remarkable ideas about what constitutes protection."

“And if I return you your wand, Darian. What is it you wish to do with it?”

He laughed at the question which was just absolutely darling. Nothing Jean-Luc would like, for certain. The man surely knew that, just as Darian knew he wasn't going to just give back his wand. "If you're so desperate, we could have a little chat," he said. "Then I'll leave. Well, I might stop to see the elephants first." There was really no point in waiting for Jean-Luc to say no. Darian was running on a tight schedule here, linked to the time he had before someone stepped into the tent to check up on their leader. He supposed it was all right to rush the formalities a bit.

One of his hands on the wood curled now around the nape of Jean-Luc's neck. Darian held him in the curve between his index finger and his thumb, seeking out Jean-Luc's pulse with agonizing tenderness. His other hand slid down to Jean-Luc's stomach, neither promise nor threat but simply there. With this open shirt, he had made it very easy to establish the necessary focus of touch. How pleasant of him to have anticipated all of Darian's needs.

Most of Darian's needs. Nearly all, anyhow.

Now there came a most curious and uncomfortable pressure - somewhere below Darian's hand, in the most intimate of places. There was nothing visible to this magic other than the moving of the designer's lips as he wove it. The pressure just circled there, tightened, and waited.

His back arched, and the howl that parted from his lips sounded much like a wolf when Darian twisted his skin, he became the full moon, but it was the burn of his anger that kept him closer still to the Sun--and still very amused.

The once great Son of France often found himself in sitiations where he relied heavily on the outcome of his survival, but so few times was he left surprised. Darian did everything right, everything about him just was determined to claw his way out, from his angry hiss to his wandless magic, and if he were afraid Jean-Luc could not tell.

"Oh, My Dear, not so tight?" He pleaded with the boy, and filled his chest with air to try an suppress his undeniable agony. However, when he finally freed the breath he was holding, Jean-Luc released a bit of laughter.

'And I like elephants,'

"Ah, then you are in luck, Mon Prince. I have two.” He closed his eyes a moment, letting the pressure sink in, and allowing the weight of the man’s actions to break through his defences if only long enough to show how tired he felt. Darian couldn’t be to blame for the lines around his eyes, the dark circles beneath the glassy surface of the dark blue, nor could he the way his body ached with old age as the years flew by one by one. But, there was something to be said in this wild minx, who used spells of pleasure to gain his freedom, and Jean-Luc loved every moment of it.

"If you're so desperate, we could have a little chat," he said. "Then I'll leave. Well, I might stop to see the elephants first."

“Mmmm, I would not think it desperation, not yet at least. Though, it is not beneath me.” He opened his eyes to meet the younger man’s, his voice much calmer and quiet, “I have just never been pushed that far.” It wasn’t a whole truth, but it certainly wasn’t just half either. Jean-Luc got what he wanted one way or the other, but his attention shifted more than the sea and there wasn’t much room for the negotiations in between.

Darian’s hand on his barrel chest wasn’t necessary unwelcome, but the touch that followed in behind it made his body burn with the primal urge to remove the boy from his lap. He could see where some would find endless pleasure in the wild man atop him, but Jean-Luc refused.

"Let me go, Son." He spoke, his voice only half a command, while the rest of him wasn't willing to be as cross with Darian as he wished. "I will return your wand, we will go see your elephants, and I will see you home myself."

From a cat to a prince, and all it'd taken was a little bit of pain. Funny how that worked. Darian was feeling vengeful. He didn't need to push the man to desperation if just the warning would suffice, but it was true right now that only desperation would sate him. It was a typically Slytherin weakness, that hot desire to stand over one's enemies or catch their eye across the room so they'd know who made them suffer, to be there personally, to see. He did not intend to indulge it, because it was also an incredibly stupid weakness that generally lead to being caught. He should leave here as soon as possible, no matter what he really yearned to stay and do.

"Let me go, Son. I will return your wand, we will go see your elephants, and I will see you home myself."

Oh, cute. The man must think him a Hufflepuff.

Again came the flash of his teeth as he laughed. "Tell me," he purred, "Is that anything like, 'just follow me outside'...?" Now it was his turn to look amused. He draped himself over Jean-Luc, playing on the discomfort he caught in his expression - a mix of disgusted and aroused that was instantly familiar. Darian reacted to it without thought as he paused, eyes drinking in the other man's face. The realization bloomed in him suddenly hot and surprising. Jean-Luc, he of the little touches, the lingering gaze, the straight-out-of-a-naughty-wizard's-mag red sheets, was straight.

He could have lingered on that for a while, some dizzy internal rumination on sexual pleasure vs. the pleasure of control, whether there was a difference - was there a difference - not if one listened to Mr. Wilde.[1] Everything had just become so much more delightful, from the nature of the game to the really darling look on the face of the man on whose lap he sat. There was tension in his shoulders and tightening his voice, oh, Darian just drank it all right up. Negotiations. Begging. One was never far from the other. Though he knew he wouldn't see it, the fantasy pleased him more than reality could.

He could use this disgust just as easily as before he would have used desire. The sooner Jean-Luc gave him what he wanted, the sooner he could stop touching him.

"I don't think I'll be trusting you to escort me anywhere," he said quietly, toying with the laces on Jean-Luc's shirt in a way he now thought might well annoy. "All I want is my wand. Is that so much to ask?" His wildness had dwindled away in the face of his revelation. There was coyness in him instead, a deliberateness to the way he lounged and a slyness to the way he held his neck. His viciousness, however, was not so easily dispatched. This faux-languid lightness lay over a chasm, visible and tenuously patched, which could easily lead to another explosion of hissing, blazing heat. He was not afraid to show this. Though the core of him was untouchable, he was not feeling particularly detached. "You wasted the time you might've had in talking by making me bother with this instead. Oh, it's a shame, but I can always drown my sorrows at the local zoo."

Now it was time to seem otherwise, to grindingly tuck his sharp edges away. It was hard, far harder than it usually was to tuck whatever real emotion, whatever quicksilver thought, behind the distracting dart of pretty eye and curve of pretty lips. Darian did it, he threw himself into the act of remembering with a mental whimper-whine of don't want to. "Safe passage through your world," he murmured reluctantly. The ring slowly retracted its pressure. "You said you had a favor to ask of me." He'd been asleep, and to the letter of that promise he'd been safe. This dangerous little fit was nothing compared to what would have been if he'd woken to any part of his body aching of abuse. But still... "There are less alarming ways of transport."

He appeared to soften with the realization. Sitting up, he retracted his arms and his hands and his tickling hair to look Jean-Luc keenly in the face. "Tell me where it is," he said again, this time losing that hard edge held under his voice. "I am at enough of a disadvantage here. Leave me that, and I'll follow you for a time and hear what you have to say."

1.	"Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power."

His blood was made of fire, this much Jean-Luc had known for many years. A time long gone since he had learned to live by such torture, the Illusionist could almost dance as well with the Devil as he could any belle. Long gone was his carefree smile and musical laughter; his face a complex mask of only the finest porcelain, and painted with an ever stoic flat frown. Jean-Luc wore many faces, for many occasions, but this boy…this wild minx of a man, whose youth was very much the spirit of nearly ever occasion, had him completely by the ends of his magical rope. Laughter came, spirited and full of passion, and with it something woke in Jean-Luc he’d thought died a very long time ago.

“Mon dieu, Son, let me go. And I will return to you what is yours.” He smiled and in an attempt to meet the youth’s eye he lowered his face to better see Darian in only the way he could, and just as the lanterns painted his skin his warm words followed in the wake of a whisper,

“It’s exactly like ‘just follow me outside’, but you won’t be able to keep from knowing can you, Mon Chat? Sweet, curious boy…has always been your undoing hasn’t it Darian?” Jean-Luc sat back, at best he could, still held to the chair, but far more relaxed now. His body went flax against the seat of his throne as he just simply watched Darian there on his lap, and in a world where illusions were everything he did very little to hide his interest—even as a pair of well worn performance shoes clicked across the boards that made up the makeshift floor.

“Really, Jean-Luc, you are keeping me waiting for this?”A woman came, her body in a perfect hour glass, her hair bleached, and her make up seeming as though she hadn’t removed it from the night before—but still wore it like war paint. She acted as though this was nothing out of the ringmaster’s normal, and looked beyond Darian as if he were simply a pest. Her hands planted firmly on her hip, she rolled the fur cape she wore over one shoulder.

“We have much to—“ She was cut off by the man raising a single finger, and fell silent.

“I would expect to be finished in a matter of moments, My Darling, let us not rush the night. He is a friend of my Rossignol.” He answered, but did not once take his eyes off of Darian—rather enjoying this quieter—calmer side.

“Oh, I would not expect it to last more than a matter of moments.” She hissed in a rather dry tone, and finally looked at Darian, “I’m sorry, Dove. But he is getting old. I wouldn’t expect much.” Her attention returned to the Romany king, “And to bed your son’s friend, Jean-Luc, might be a new low.”

“Oh, it’s not the first time,” Came his answer with a coy little grin.

“Nor the last,” With that she turned on her heel and left, but Jean-Luc threw his head back in laughter. The affection clearly written on his face for the viper like woman, but nothing of the sort that would pin them as lovers; no they didn’t warm the one another’s bed.

All the tension and discomfort of moments before disappeared, whisked away nearly instantly in reaction to Darian's winding down from a hiss to a purr. Jean-Luc thought he had some control again, or had decided to enjoy this. But instead of being charmed by Darian's soft-voiced and vulnerable appeal, he had only reinforced the convictions of his alpha male mindset. Smarmy bastard. If he hadn't been bound Darian just knew the man would have raised a hand to stroke back several strands of his curling red hair.

"Somehow I'll survive," he said, a little tartness creeping back into his tone at being talked down to. Sweet as he was, he'd give a kiss that would eat right through Jean-Luc's smiling cheek!

Before he might even try, a woman came in. He melted back against Jean-Luc, instilling his limbs and his hooded gaze as he glanced over his shoulder with a languor that hardly seemed a threat. He had his own pretty lies to hide what was happening here, lies he perpetuated with his eyes and his body, but without his wand no way of taking Jean-Luc's speech to keep him from ruining them. To his surprise when the ringmaster did speak it was to voice a similar deception to the one Darian had planned. He met his steady gaze, the single quirk of his brow broadcasting yards of haughty amusement, and let Jean-Luc laugh his way out of anything seeming suspicious.

He only smirked when the woman directed her comments to him, giving a careless bare-shouldered little shrug. Age, this gesture seemed to suggest, would not be a problem.

It was at the least a valuable exchange. He came out of it with both the other's man name and a hint towards what was apparently a mutual acquaintance. Though he had a wide social circle, full of singers who might classify, it was too much of a coincidence that little French term for him not to think immediately of Gale. It was good he'd done some asking around of his own, otherwise he never would have learned the man's full name. Nightingale! How beautiful it was. Like Tapendra, the full thing was too lovely to shorten as it tripped off his lips. The man had shared with him backalley experiences and an intimate moment in Libertine, the former of which Jean-Luc had spoken of and the latter which gave him some insight into Gale's scattered childhood. A traveling family, a father from France. It was too much of a coincidence to be just so.

As soon as the woman had left he swung his leg over Jean-Luc's lap and withdrew. It was no fun anymore, he was nearly out of spells to cast and Jean-Luc's body was enjoying the position far too much whatever his coldness of minutes ago seemed to say. Darian didn't remove the sensitivity spell though. Let him ache.

Now he was stuck at a mental impasse. He had intended to get his wand back and leave with Jean-Luc still bound; the woman complicated things, let him know there were others outside waiting and that he had very little time. With half a mind to search for his wand himself he surveyed the rest of the tent. Without hesitation he picked up one of the daggers, but looking down at it his lip curled in distaste. Darian didn't like the brutality of weapons, items that he had no training in and was likely to fumble. They lacked class and could easily be turned back on himself. But what else could he do? Fashion a lead for this stranger out of rope? He bounced the knife thoughtfully against his palm.

"Is your son Nightingale Kesali?" he asked, not really expecting a helpful answer. As he spoke he made a quick gesture with the hand not holding the knife. Jean-Luc's wrists fell apart, released from their binding to the back of the chair. Though this was the complete opposite of what Darian wanted to do, it was a foregone conclusion given his lack of options and his lack of time. Best to release Jean-Luc while he still seemed willing to forgive his captive's fit of pique.

As soon as the woman had left he swung his leg over Jean-Luc’s lap and withdrew.

And in this he mourned the loss. The vacant space still warm where the man had possessed his lap, made him want to protest—to invite him back in, pull the youth against him in search of his own sanctuary.

Let him ache.

And ache he did, but when his arm were able to return to his side they did so on the chair like any Witch King to his throne. Long boney fingers drummed over the carved wooden claw of the arm, and one leg came to cross over the other as he watched the other man flutter about the room like a magpie trapped in glass. Laughter came, quiet and thoughtful as he read into Darian’s distaste in the weapon, but he kept his comments to himself; amused still—intrigued.

But then the question came, falling from lips that could bring a lover to their knees. Deviant and persuasive, the mouth that would make a kingdom rise up against the crown, Darian had this way of making the most simplest of inquiries seem as though, Jean-Luc was revealing his hand of spades.

Black and foreboding the room seemed to close around the man as he came to stand, his already tall figure seeming to fill the space between floor to ceiling as even the lanterns seemed to cower behind the glass. The flame flickered in search of mercy of the man, but did not go out.

“My son is of no importance to you.” His voice boomed as he slowly closed the distance between them, his steps not as careful as he would wish, but with every strike of his boot he made sure the point was driven home. A hiss came, as his voice lowered and his hand came to clasp the rope in the other man’s hand, “And here, before my people you will not call him such, is that understood?” Dark imposing eyes dared Darian to protest, and he touched the boy’s chin to make sure that they had contact of the eye. For the law of the Romany came by promises best made when one eye could search for truth in another, (and lies could be cut out with a double edged sword.)

“Get dressed,” His command wasn’t meant to sound as severe as he meant it, but if his lap missed the youth upon it—what would the fairgrounds feel without him.

“I will take you to your wand, and you may be on your way.”

Not unexpectedly, Jean-Luc soon leapt up to regain any of his lost sense of threat. He stalked closer with a deliberate step until he could loom over Darian and hiss his demands. Darian glanced up at him briefly, dismissively, only to have eye contact enforced when Jean-Luc tipped up his chin. He held the gaze without effort - but pressed Jean-Luc's wandering hand away with a light grip on the other man's wrist.

"Thank you for telling me what is important to you," he said, and smiled a smile of astonishing, absolutely incongruous purity and sweetness. Then his smile twitched up just right at the corners to gain that Cheshire-cat madness, dashing the sugar crystals that clung to his lips. He stared at Jean-Luc with flat confrontational eyes, his fingers still curling over the other man's wrist to press so intimately to the pulse. "You really are an exceptionally gracious host."

What a stupidly revealing reaction. For all that his infinitesimal connection to Kesali was what had earned him this personal attention from Jean-Luc, Darian thought it was a rather significant matter for him and exactly his business. Family drama, well, color him the peachy-pink of surprise.

His response was icy. "Give me something to dress in."

"Thank you for telling me what is important to you,"


Darian's mockery would have been his undoing had they not been on familiar terms. He needed Darian, and it pained him to admit it, yet the desire to see his face red from the back of his hand....oh...it was great indeed. There was so little that he had patience for, and even less of him that was willing to admit his need for this boy. Yet, to stand so close, to feel the heat radiate off the youth made him forget himself.

"Insolent boy," Jean-Luc hissed and turned away from Darian with a heavy exhale of air, as if he had been holding breath the entire time. He has no power here. No power over me, yet... Jean-Luc looked at Darian through the glass that sheltered his reflection, and made busy of his hands to do up the neck of his shirt.

"Of course he is important to me. Why else would I have invited you here." The scarf that he tied now around his neck would give the man a high neckline, one like Kings wore or a Lord like his father. "Do you think so highly of yourself that I would risk my people just for a roll in the sheets? No Darian, I plan to use you just like every other sad sack in this city." He smirked at the boy once more through the hazy glass but turned a nod over his head towards a trunk at the end of the bed.

"In there. I'm sure there are a few things that will fit you." Mostly old silk shirts and a few thin robes, nothing Darian would approve of, but by this point...he was ready to be free from the boy, and of his cloudy judgement when Darian was near.

Darian had been mocking him, and more specifically for giving up so easily this weakness of his much more easily than he'd given up his name. Each drop of information was coming together to form a better picture of the other in the designer's quick mind, one that he might exploit for his own ends or even report to the Aurors if he chose. Fortunately for Darian's unmarred face, Jean-Luc chose to interpret his words as less dangerous sarcasm. The bigger man only turned away with an irritated sigh, Darian's burning eyes tracking his every move.

He was younger than Jean-Luc, but Darian hadn't been a boy for some time.

At first thinking that Jean-Luc's hasty doing-up of his shirt laces was due to his stare, a trickle of amusement threaded through him. Though it quickly became apparent the man was only dressing to leave the tent - and wouldn't that be revealing, too, what he'd wanted Darian to see him as when he woke if it hadn't already been perfectly obvious by the red sheets and the lamplight - he felt in some better humor by the slightly stiff dignity which Jean-Luc tried to regain as he arranged his collar in the mirror. He was particularly tickled by the ringmaster's definition of an invitation: in all his years attending society balls, parties, and other events never had he ever been invited with a Stunner to the head.

"I don't know," he said, that same amusement coloring and sharpening his tone. "I've been told I'm pretty spectacular. But what a relief it is to know you'll only use me in the ordinary way." He strung his words like colored beads over his shoulder as he turned to investigate the mentioned trunk. "I'd have to be much more unbearable if I thought you found me special."

The contents were a mass of ragged clothing, both women's and men's. Darian drew out a voluminous white shirt almost identical to the one Jean-Luc wore now and had to shake his head. What a sad homage to pirates. This chest offended him almost more than this whole unexpected circus kidnapping did.

In the end he slipped on a yellow robe atop the trousers he'd woke up in, some fraying thing that trod the line between oriental vintage and dumpster-chic. He also declined to strap to his feet either the too-large men's sandals or the scuffed women's pair of heels. Wild hair, bare feet, whatever. He'd rock it. Darian did the rumpled-from-bed look well.

Unlike other people who might have felt more vulnerable the less that they were wearing, he did not need his three-piece suits to taste power. Earlier he had noted each helpless slide of Jean-Luc's eyes over his bare throat and shoulders. Desire was familiar. It was manipulable. It was why he was wearing, under the robe, one of Jean-Luc's over-large and unlaced white shirts. Outside the tent it might mark him among the same leering brutes whom he had encountered twice at their master's heels, and so also help keep him safe.

’I’d have to be much more unbearable if I thought you found me special.’


The confession, despite the bitter nature to which Darian spoke it, made Jean-Luc’s lips lift with an amused smirk. ‘Special’, would not have been a word he would have placed upon the young man’s brow, no, words like that were meant for something just slightly out of the ordinary, and Darian Morgan belonged to much more complex sentiments. He had whispers of his own, stories that begged be written like sonnets on his lips, and poems on his skin. Thankfully, the Illusionist wasn’t much of a poet, despite his rather romantic attire. However, upon a closer study of Morgan, Jean-Luc couldn’t help the smile that stretched his thin lips, nor the way he felt the old rusted gears of his chest click like clockwork, and was reminded of a younger version of himself.


In the end he slipped on a yellow robe atop the trousers he'd woke up in, some fraying thing that trod the line between oriental vintage and dumpster-chic. He also declined to strap to his feet either the too-large men's sandals or the scuffed women's pair of heels. Wild hair, bare feet, whatever. He'd rock it. Darian did the rumpled-from-bed look well.


And rock it he certainly did, Jean-Luc held amusement in his eyes like the night the moon, and it almost made him appear human. Endless blue so dark they appeared black hardly reflected even the closest candle, a deep seeded depression that had spider line fingers wrapped even around his spine. It was so rare to see the sort of spark, a series of small flashes that came along with pride--no matter how vengeful it felt, he was rather pleased with how the events of the previous night panned out; a gamble worth the risks.


“Are you afraid, Mon Chat?” He offered the other man his hand, palm up to help him through the mess of fabric should he wish it. Spells like the sort that Darian had been put other often left one feeling disoriented and vulnerable, but Jean-Luc had to wonder if the boy wasn’t used to this sort of treatment. He seemed so sure of his steps, and held his ground as if he were to fight another from it.


Clever trick.


Jean-Luc was rather pleased with his latest addition, no matter how brief his stay may be, and apparently wore his amusement like war-paint. The masks were gone, painted faces and different places replaced now with the inner workings of entertainment. An amusement park at night when all the lights went out didn’t seem as whimsical as it did when the sun set on boardwalks, and this wasn’t any different.


Tents, a deep crimson and black stretched up through the pines like giants, and their stripes a burst of the sunrays didn’t have the same feel now that the cloudy overcast threat of rain dampened the illusion. Flags of various colors cracked in the wind like whips, and now that the day was coming to a close every light strung out on strings twinkled like fireflies as one by one they flickered in the breeze.


If one could close their eyes and only listen to the sounds around them, they could hear the various acts--different languages and be reminded of inner city markets, but as heavy Russian words barked commands, bodies took to the air like ribbons weaving in and out of the other like a tapestry. And of this the stories would start, names given to Darian as if he were a close confidential friend to which he could reside, but in this he felt that even Mr. Morgan in all his death defying acts might have never seen anything like it.


“And here, on the ropes a set of brothers,” Whose names sounded like a sin on his lips, clearly from a small little Italian town somewhere where Da Vinci himself might have drawn inspiration. The two men, walked along the treetops like gods amongst men, and did it with such grace that even the most practiced courtesan could envy. However, through even the most beautiful and elegant creatures, the unique and strange of every side show, and unimaginable strengths there was always the ugly underside to every act.


“All of them are runaways, from family to wars, life and prison, some have killed and some stolen, but through those gates Mr. Morgan, all is forgiven and forgotten. Sanctuary, and just like any other church we too have our Tithe to pay. So forgive me, for not inviting you in as I should. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps you would have come on your own.” He stopped a moment to admire the boy, turning to face him on the covered path with his hands on his hips in complete amusement. They were just outside the big top, where a warm amber light filled the carpets placed over the boards that lined the walk so to protect from the wet ground. Inside commands were made in another language, though this one a bit more elegant in it’s melody, and little glimpses of white passed rather quickly over the slit in the tent’s employee entrance.


“I would not venture too far from me, but if you wish to explore on your own. I will be right with you. I just have a few matters to settle before I take you to your wand.” Jean-Luc lifted the heavy fabric of the tent to reveal the aerial artist in motion, and smirked back at his captive prince.


“You might like what is inside, one of my star acts.” A beautiful boy[1] hardly any older than 17, gave life to long sheets of white fabric like wings as he flew about the second ring like a dove.


“I will be right with you,” With that he left Darian to meet the woman from before who was standing in her coat of leather arms like some sort of dark knight, with anger written on her face like blood on walls--it was a stark contrast to her otherwise unworldly beauty.

1.	Looks sort of like this

“Are you afraid, Mon Chat?”

Jean-Luc had asked him that the night before, and he had laughed and asked if Jean-Luc wanted him to be. Now Darian gave him the look many of his more dim-witted acquaintances were familiar with, a look that weighed and dismissed in one lingering blue-eyed glance. It was not a warning, but it was the precursor to said acquaintances finding themselves losing favor with their friends, no more invitations or ready drugs, Darian himself slipping away from their reaching arms like smoke, like a ghost, like 100 years under the fairy mound. The look said: you are ceasing to amuse me.

He wanted to ask, do I look afraid? Frame his face with his fingers, flare his eyes as he smiled - Scaramouche with his throaty little purr syrup-thick with mockery, Ganymede when he'd tired of honey and ambrosia - but, well, he did prefer to leave all in one pretty piece. Upon their exit of the tent he felt his dampening spell fall to pieces, shreds clinging to his shoulders as he moved past the cloth flap. He'd only enchanted the tent space. Outside the world hit them in a wall of sound.

The only thing left was the last of his spells, that ring which - out here in the open on Jean-Luc's large dark figure - did not seem much of a leash. Still it was all he had, a bluff of imminent castration. Without much choice Darian followed him, his head turning this way or that at Jean-Luc's magnanimous explanations. He did not give Jean-Luc the satisfaction of his looking either very awed or particularly curious, though he did watch the performers that caught his attention with silent but unmistakable interest. Clearly warming up, all the acts they passed were bid to make one wonder how much more impressive they'd be lit up and gleaming for the benefit of their eventual audience. But in truth there was nothing here he couldn't see at any circus, and he'd had lovers as dexterous as the acrobats who wound around each other and the ropes. He had to smile at the thought of their talents better appreciated close-up than so far away in the air, the very opposite of that which they practiced for now.

But not for Jean-Luc his easy smiles. When the man spoke to him again he absorbed the explanation and that cavalier pseudo-apology, his eyes watchful, his mouth closed. It was clear to him that the only tithe was obedience to their new master, the criminal Jean-Luc. Still he didn't know why Jean-Luc had homed in on him - unlike these interesting strays, Darian had a place and a purpose in society. He did not need sanctuary or, if he did, it was only from the attentions of the one who'd brought him here.

He could hiss in displeasure at the delay. With that little comment Jean-Luc effectively had him tied to his apron strings, a state which Darian resented. But all he did was incline his head with a murmured, "By all means," his yellow-robed arms spreading in some courtly implication of a bow. As Jean-Luc disappeared into the tent to face the woman from before, he slunk off to wind his own way through the waking circus. Oh, perhaps he would not venture far, certainly not so far as to be difficult to find when Jean-Luc did make up his damn mind about bringing him to his wand. But if Darian had his way he would not be here again, and he was intrigued by the people that they'd passed. He'd better enjoy the circus without the ringmaster hovering over his shoulder like some smirking parental gargoyle. After all, making friends was what he did best. Perhaps now he could go find those acrobats and express his... admiration.

When Jean-Luc finished his business and eventually tracked him down he would find Darian cross-legged and deep in conversation with some great tattooed beast of a man, who was sitting on an old steamer trunk and demonstrating how to make objects disappear the non-magical way. It was easy to guess how Darian had engaged his company, for without looking at the work in his lap the designer mended an enormous pair of striped trousers. In his hands the silver flash of a needle moved in and out of the cloth nearly too fast to follow.

Beside them a lithe woman in a leotard and loose shorts lounged, though she was watching Darian's hands instead of the other man's, obviously having seen the trick before. There was on his cheek a single perfect print in purple lipstick. Her lipstick was orange.

There was something to be said about the world beyond the ring, the magic and glamour as washed up as the rain on a shore, and dampening even the brightest of spirits. Yet behind the dreary sadness there was the feeling that all was right in the world, and everyone had their place in each other's hearts.

”We can not turn it down, Jean-Luc.” Her voice the voice of reason, a bit of reality in a very surreal world, but sometimes the Romany King wished he could break it like glass—little tiny pieces that fell like rain over pavement cracks, only to be swept up and forgotten. Their world was not one that had ever been beyond their lifestyle, but further and further from every enemy only brought them closer to different kind of evil.

In the small time they were separated, Darian made himself at home, he found his way into the laps of his people like a warm hand upon a lover’s thigh, and captivated many with the wonderment of whether this boy would stay or if he would be left to turn on the road to which he came. Jean-Luc had managed to finish getting dressed, expertly put together by dark painted nails and ruby red lips that left little stains on his heart. Camille drew up his coat over his shoulders, adding height to a man that needed no more, and the illusion of wings of leather not lace. And in that little moment the reality to which she reminded him of stole his smiles, and stole the light from his eyes. His mouth remained closed, lips flat and sealed as if they held an eighth deadly sin.

”I’ll see him home. Go say your good-byes.” The woman who stood opposite of the dark man held her hands on her leather clad hips, her unmasked face never once breaking character. She had little amusement over the situation, and especially for Darian’s type. Her own set of shadow-filled eyes slid over the other man seated amongst her people as if he belonged, and though he would make a lovely addition—they couldn’t afford it. Camille didn’t wait for Jean-Luc to answer, nor to even move as she pressed away—taking with her the warmth of her fire-brand words.

“Parlor tricks,” Came his voice impending and looming as his shadow fell over the audience that was so captivated by the tailor. All of the amusement from before was gone, slipped away through fingers desperate to hold onto the happiness even if only for a moment. But words and feelings were like a thousand tiny grains of sand, and hardly worth his time.

“Get up,” Jean-Luc’s command wasn’t just aimed at Darian, nor did the rest even wait to see to whom he spoke. The few who gathered were quick to their feet and even quicker to leave.

“Follow me,” His words no longer held the same warmth, the playful manner or greater concern, no…he seemed as bored and withdrawn as he did in the club the night before. The Illusionist led Darian inside the big-top where the aerial artists still practiced, sets were being touched up; protected from the weather, and out from the view of the public. Music played distant yet familiar, the melody haunting as it swept through the large swell of the crimson tent, and the lights even burning as bright as they could seemed to cast only a dim amber glow over the large space with a pool of brighter light upon the center ring where an old kind soul waited patiently.

Elsa, in her prime had been a leading attraction for a small traveling single ring circus, but in her older years now she was simply a beloved member of the family. She wasn’t a leading act, but still stole the show. Decorated in all the glitz and glamour that came with the life, she was as beautiful as ever, but there were miles on the old girl that could simply not be covered—nor should they. The elephant was gentle, kind, and strong. She carried the burden of the daily labor, but like every member of the family, all had their duties to keep.

“She is partly blind, so walk heavily and do your best not to startle her,” Jean-Luc’s command came in a low voice as he touched Darian’s back once more, urging him further, and realized that perhaps this would be their last bit of contact before the day was done and by Kingdom Come all should be forgotten.

The woman beside the elephant smiled, her long showman’s hands motioning Darian closer, and cheeks burning with warmth. ”Come here, you can touch her here.” On the shoulder she meant to say, looking to her master for approval, before being excused. The tall man said nothing, with this hands clasped behind his back, and ever stoic disapproval written on him like a lie.

By now the entire ring had gone quiet, even the music stopped so not to attract the hunter, and one by one they all fell away until all that was left was their prisoner, their king, and an elephant named Elsa.