Nox and Torven were nearly inseparable. They spent every free moment together. Whenever Nox wasn't nearby, Torven would immediately start looking for him. And vice versa. But Nox had grown increasingly uneasy whenever Torven disappeared in the morning, only to return an hour or two later with his trouser legs and boots stained with strange substances. Often it was blood, other times something green or brown, something unidentifiable.
At first, Nox chalked it up to hunting. Perhaps Torven was carrying carcasses from the forest, or maybe he was helping in the kitchen, butchering meat? Cooking took strength, after all... and he was really good at it too. But over time, something else started to bother him; blood appeared on Torven's clothing, even on days when they hadn't eaten any meat. This hunting theory of his stopped making sense.
Curious and concerned, Nox decided to follow him one day. The next morning, when Torven left, he tailed him, heart tight with anxiety, quietly hiding behind trees and shrubs to stay hidden. Torven headed toward the stables but turned suddenly, approaching a stone outbuilding. Nox's heart skipped. He still remembered how he had been treated the last time he got close to that place.
'Hang on... Is that a torture chamber?!' the thought struck him.
He didn't dare go inside. Instead, he pressed his ear against the wall, straining to hear screams. If someone was being tortured, there had to be some sound...
But there was only silence.
Maybe the walls were too thick. Or the place was soundproofed in some other way. He crouched back to the bushes and waited.
Two hours passed. Finally, Torven emerged, once again with dried brown stains on his trousers. It looked like blood mixed with dirt. Nox couldn't hold back any longer. He stepped out into the open and confronted him.
Torven saw him, smiled, and immediately pulled him into an embrace.
"My Nox," he whispered.
Nox gently pushed him away.
"We need to talk," he said quietly. Clearing his throat, he continued, "Surely you understand that torturing people is wrong."
"Of course I do..." Torven replied, clearly confused.
"There are other ways to get information from people. Sometimes, all it takes is an honest conversation. Or bribery. Torture is like the worst possible option."
Torven nodded, still not quite following.
"I once said I'd never go near that building again," Nox continued, "but for heaven's sake, Torven, you have to let that man go."
"Wait... Nox, hold on. What man? What are you talking about?"
Torven frowned, and then it clicked. Nox thought he was keeping someone locked up inside. He looked at Nox's serious expression and... burst out laughing.
"Wait..." he laughed a bit longer, trying to compose himself. "You're amazing, you know that? I really like this... Intervention.
All right, I'll show you what's inside. Just promise you won't laugh. I never showed this to anyone."
He grabbed Nox's hand and led him toward the building. The young warrior resisted slightly, still expecting the worst. But in the end, he let himself be pulled along.
Torven opened the door and gently pushed him inside.
Nox looked around and froze. Before him stood... an art studio.
Easels filled the room. Some were empty, others held paintings of nature, animals, and people. All the artworks had one thing in common: slightly distorted proportions.
In the corner lay some beginner painting books. Nox instantly understood who the lousy artist was, the person who had painted all those hideous pictures in the main building.
He nearly burst out laughing but managed to hold it in; he didn't want to hurt Torven.
Nox reached into his pocket for the bull figurine he always carried. He slowly took it out and asked: „Did you paint that bull?"
"What bull?" Torven asked, puzzled.
"You know... The one from the painting in the main hall."
Torven looked slightly embarrassed.
"That's not a bull. It's your horse. Gerhart."
Nox went still. He had made a grave mistake and started panicking a bit, looking for the right response, but also something warm spread through his chest. From the very beginning, he and his horse had been in Torven's thoughts.
"Ah. I see the resemblance now," he answered awkwardly. „I don't know much about art, sorry."
"My paintings aren't good yet," Torven admitted. "But they will get better as I practice." He paused for a second to gather his thoughts and then continued, „I figured out what the colour of your Mark meant thanks to this. It was while mixing paint. I was trying to find the right brown, and it then came to me that perhaps your Mark's shade was created just like this...."
Nox stayed silent. Suddenly, everything began to make sense. And he understood also why Torven hadn't wanted to show him the studio too. He was just shy. But it also felt incredible to be the only one he shared his secret with.
In the corner stood another easel, turned toward the wall. Nox pointed at it.
"What are you hiding there?" he asked, intrigued.
"That one isn't finished yet," Torven replied, clearly embarrassed. "I've been working on it for a long time, but... it's not ready." Nox thought he didn't want to show him that one, and he didn't insist.
....
Another month had passed. Torven would disappear into the studio for hours each day. Sometimes he came out in a good mood, sometimes not. Nox never commented; he just supported him quietly. He knew now that no one was being hurt in there, and that was enough. He still found it funny how he misunderstood him back then.
Then, one day, Torven entered the room with a serious look in his eyes.
"Nox. I've finished it. The painting. Want to see it?"
"Of course," Nox replied gently.
They walked hand in hand, fingers laced together. Torven's palm was slightly damp. Was he a bit nervous? Was he afraid his art wouldn't be appreciated?
"Just... please don't laugh," he said, covering Nox's eyes and leading him inside. After a moment, he uncovered them.
A portrait stood on the easel.
Nox's breath caught.
It was a portrait. No, not just a portrait. It was him. His own face, captured in oils and brushstrokes, his shoulders were slightly turned, head tilted, lips parted. The likeness was uncanny, and it was a genuinely good painting. The most attention had been given to the eyes, soft, full of warmth. Nox smiled.
That was how Torven saw him. Nox couldn't look away. His chest ached.
He turned, slowly, still caught in that quiet awe. The tall warrior stood tense, waiting as if for judgment.
Nox stood on tiptoes and kissed him.
"You're very talented," he whispered. "I mean it," Nox said, voice firm now, but kind. "It's beautiful. You made me beautiful."
"You already were beautiful," Torven replied without hesitation. His voice was hoarse, but sincere. "I just tried to capture what I see."
Then added with a cheeky expression, "Next time, I want to paint you naked."
And kissed the Nox deeply as if trying to express his sincerity.