Warning: there is a brief sex scene in here that, while not graphic, is not just mentioned in passing. Hence the R rating. Anyway, I blame this on everyone at www(.)fiefgoldenlake(.)proboards(.)com. They turned my tolerance of KelxWyldon into rabid adoration.

The corridors of Fort Mastiff were dark and, for the most part, abandoned. Most of the men were still toasting the near-end of the Scanran War back in the mess hall, if the loud commotion in that direction was any indication. Neal himself had partaken in the festivities for quite awhile. Eventually, though, he had tired of it; he never was one for excessive drinking and tonight he only wished Yuki was here.

He exhaled loudly, rifling through the stack of reports in his hands one more time to make sure they were all in order. "Just give them to me tonight," he says, Neal thought in irritation. He took a right, realized he was going the wrong way, and doubled back. Well, how am I supposed to do that if he doesn't show up? I bet this is some sort of heinous character-building exercise he's concocted. Expect the unexpected, or some nonsense.

Compulsively, Neal glanced out a window as he passed. All he saw was his own reflection. It was looking pretty haggard. He was vaguely surprised to find himself missing Queenscove. It had been awhile since he'd been home, he realized with a start. He hadn't visited for any length of time since he was squire to the Lioness. He was almost afraid to see his mother now—her most recent letter made it quite obvious how she felt about his absence at his sister's wedding.

He rounded the corner and spied Wyldon of Cavall's study door at the end. His boots beat a quiet tap-tap-tap in time with his footsteps. The door was already ajar when he reached it, cracked just enough to allow a sliver of light to escape. He paused in front of it, painstakingly checking for any missing or misplaced pages. I know what he'd say to that, he thought glumly. Something about how I should have paid more attention to classes and stop relying on clerks—

"—this isn't right," a voice murmured.

Neal cocked his head in sudden interest: that was a female voice, and startlingly familiar to his ears. He crept closer, resting a hand on the doorframe as he peered into the very narrow opening. All he could discern was a hard-looking wooden chair, but he dared not push the door open any further. Curious, he strained his ears to snatch more of the conversation. The Stump, entertaining a woman, he thought gleefully, although a small part of his mind was uneasy. That voice...

"I know." Wyldon's voice was a low rumble.

There was a scrape. "We shouldn't." It came out breathless.

"I know."

Someone gasped; it sounded like her. No, Neal thought in horror. No, it can't be. He wouldn't—she wouldn't! He wanted to turn and go back the way he came, find the comfort of his lonely bed and sleep this all away. He knew that was exactly what he should do. Instead, his hand reached out to the door and slowly pushed it open. He expected it to creak and make a horrible racket, he wanted it to alert them, but it swung out soundlessly.

For one wildly hopeful, very brief instance, he thought maybe, just maybe it was a misunderstanding. The soft noises he heard from outside were easily explained away. The conversation wasn't what he thought it was about. He would laugh and tell them that for a silly moment in time he had been convinced they were up to erotic deeds, and Kel would be mortified and clutch at her fail-safe Yamani Mask and Wyldon would just get angry.

That was not what happened. Neal stood framed in the doorway, unnoticed, and watched the scene unfold before his eyes.

Wyldon's hands were wrapped around her solid waist, keeping her pressed up against him. Kel clutched at his shoulders, her head tilted back to look at his face, although she didn't have far to look. Her hair was mussed, her dress wrinkled.

"We can't," she whispered, almost sadly.

"I know," Wyldon repeated just as softly, and drove her backwards.

Kel fetched up against the desk, throwing her hands back to catch herself. Papers flew everywhere and glass shattered on the floor. One of Wyldon's hands grabbed her roughly by the back of her neck to pull her in for a bruising kiss, while the other worked its way up her leg. Her own clever fingers tugged insistently on the ties on his breeches. Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the small study, besides the blood pounding in Neal's ears. Move, he ordered himself viciously, but he was rooted to the spot, forced to observe this most unexpected of private moments. His stomach dropped.

"Sir, we can't."

"I know, Mindelan."

The words were impersonal, yet fitting, in spite of this intimacy. Wyldon shoved her dress up around her hips and heaved her onto the desk. As Kel hooked one arm around his neck, nails digging ruthlessly into the hard planes of his back, he let out a harsh curse and bore her down.

It was then that Neal finally broke the spell. Wordlessly—unable to make even a whisper—he turned and fled back down the corridor. He didn't want to see anymore and if he remained any longer, they would see him. The thought was a horrifying one.

Torches flickered violently as he bolted by them, blindly tearing for his rooms. Queenscove has horse blood in them somewhere, he inanely remembered someone saying once. If only they could see me now! He stumbled into a pair of laughing soldiers exiting the mess hall. They shouted angrily as his momentum sent them flying, while he spun around, barely keeping his footing, and continued his mad dash onward.

I don't believe it, Neal thought. His heart hammered in his chest; it was not all from his exertion. Kel, what have you gotten yourself into? The Stump—Wyldon—he's married, he's a conservative, he's not for you. How did this happen? What did you do?

He hit his door at full force, enough for stars to dance around his head. He gulped in air as he closed his eyes and rested his brow against the door. It was branded into his mind, Kel's tortured face and Wyldon's hard, self-deprecating mouth. They knew it was wrong, he realized, suddenly gripped with an unreasonable sadness.They couldn't help it, somehow. Both of them have so much damnable honor it's a wonder they don't drown in morality. Maybe that's what drew them together. Well, now they're drowning in more than their own ethics. Goddess, Kel, are you throwing everything you worked for out the window?

With shaking hands, Neal fumbled for his key. It took several tries for him to finally unlock it. His own room, dark and empty and quiet, never looked so inviting. Even Yuki was out of his mind now. All he saw were muscled legs and roaming, calloused hands, the hazel eyes of a dreamer and an experienced man's steady gaze.

"You should've known better," Neal whispered, dropping heavily down on his bed. "Damn you, Cavall, for being weak."

After that, there was nothing else to say aloud or to himself. Neal's conflicting emotions haunted him as he undressed with numb fingers. Anger—because Wyldon was a married man taking advantage of a girl his daughter's age. Fear—for Kel, that she didn't have any idea what she was doing. Shame for himself, because he was her best friend and he had not even suspected until tonight, and even now could do nothing to help. Shame for them, for belittling their good integrity. And an overwhelming sympathy for two people who were so much alike that, in another life, they would have been more perfect together than anyone could guess.

Neal lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and felt sick with an illness no healer could cure.

It's a bit darker-themed than my usual fics, and solemn, bleak Neal is difficult to characterize, as is faithless Wyldon and dishonorable Kel. Any feedback would be appreciated!