Erian felt the warmth of Seirion's body around him, but he could find no comfort in it.
His throat was closed, as if every word he tried to utter were a knife. Tears blurred his voice when, in a trembling thread, he whispered:
"I… have always hated my face."
Seirion said nothing, but Erian felt him tense, as if those words were an unexpected blow.
"Everyone said it was beautiful," he went on. "But to me… it was never a compliment. The people in my village looked at me with lust. They touched me without permission, as if I weren't a person but a thing they could take. They said my beauty was wasted, that someone like me should…" Erian stopped, swallowing hard. "Should serve for something more than weaving baskets or keeping my sister company."
Erian's tears stained Seirion's chest.
"And I thought… I thought you were different," Erian said as if each word bled him dry. "But when I heard that you desired me, all I could think was… of course."
