I was Stone, Am I that still?

Khayman looked up from the book he was curled around, staring intently at the one that had intruded on his self-enforced solitude. “I don’t suppose you were ever taught to knock.” He raised his book, showing that it was the one on Armand.

"I heard you." Armand murmured. It was true, he had heard Khayman’s mind so strongly tonight when he had simply been wandering for blood to quench his palette. Khayman. The Ancient he had only come to know when the world was to end, the Ancient who smiled and pried for his attention. He had it now.

"Did you?" Khayman hadn't realized. Troubling. "You still should have knocked." It wasn't... quite... his home after all, but Santiago's... Even if it did feel so comfortable, as if places were just as much tailored to him and his own interests as they were Santi's. "But you have just destroyed a door with an axe, so I suppose I should be grateful that you didn't. I would have hated to explain to Santi what happened to the door." He gestured with the book again, indicating the portion that he was at on his second read through. 

"Sit down, please. I have a feeling that we have much to talk about."

Santiago tried not to wince.  ”You’ve been living with me for…”was it almost two years now? Even if his lover hadn’t been awake. “The better part of a year. We are very close, but you have issues with memory.”

He sat back. “it is a pleasure to remeet you. Now. Up.” He motioned, taking his more commanding tone. He was trying to hide his own pain. “Tell me, what do you remember?”

Khayman stood at the command, almost not suchwhy there was a certain comfort in it.

"I..." What did he remember? "Not much, to tell the truth... I was a man who served others, a great king and queen... but necesity demanded a betrayal, to them and to myself... then ... there isn't much after that. Flashes, things that fly away when I grasp at them too hard.

“Tell me about your dreams, Will

*feels non-exsistent breath catch*

Santi frowned, recoiled into himself just a bit. He took Khayman’s hand. “We have been together for a while now. Do you know who I am? Where you are.” Surely Khayman remembered something.

"My name is Santiago."

Khayman looked at the hand that grabbed his own. Why did it seem so familiar? It was a stranger's hand... wasn't it? Had to be. 

"we have? I have no recollection of you." a lie, a lie, it felt like a lie in his mouth. But it was the only truth he could name. "I am Khayman, it is a pleasure to meet you , sir Santiago."

Santiago threw open the door, and barely suppressed a little cry. Khayman was as pale as he could get, but if Santiago could get a little blood back in him, the rich, dark russet of his skin would color again. Santiago dropped to his knees before Khayman, reaching for the other’s face.

"Khayman, my pet." Santiago said, falling into the gentle names they had for each other. "Are you alright?"

Khayman gently batted the hands reaching for him away, bringing himself to a sitting position. Yet his heart clenched tight in making the gesture.  "I'm... fine." the English language felt hard and awkward on his tongue. "Simply confused. How do you know me?"

It had been months, barely a blip in the time of an immortal. But to Santiago, it had felt like a life time. He’d taken it upon himself to care for his lover, to keep him. He’d moved the elder’s body once to the basement, but the same night had taken him to the highest point in the home, covered the widows and made the room as beautiful as he was able. He’d used Marius’s ideas from the books the others had written, and though he knew it wouldn’t matter much, what he’d taken from it and showered Khayman with, had made him feel better.

Nightly, before the feeding, he would walk up the stairs with a damp cloth. He’d remove the dust from Khayman’s eyes, lips, and nostrils. He’d clean him, and the collar that Santiago had locked round his neck so long ago.He’d only just left this task, lit a cone of incense and traveled down the stairs to fetch a book when he’d heard the thump above him. The novel clattered to the floor and Santiago raced back up to his little shrine.

It was the incense that had woken him. Or was it the breathing sighs of cloth against stone? The floor was not familiar, but it was at the same time, intimately so. Khayman picked himself up, bringing himself to his knees as he tried to get his bearings. Where was he? why whas he here and why did it feel like he belonged here? 

Surely he didn't, despite what his instincts seemed to scream at him. This couldn't be his home, there would be more books. 

Such was his internal contemplation that he didn't even hear the barest footfalls of the other man as he raced up the stairs.