creature of the night?

He considered the question, for a long moment. He hadn’t thought much of it, when he’d heard that it was Mordred and Fiadh who had been tasked with seeking out the solitary armorer and enchanter, to ask for aid. He had thought, briefly, about what might be asked for in return for that aid, but only insomuch as that he was sure of what Brín would and would not give, for their help. He hadn’t thought that Mordred would come to him to ask about it, that he would worry himself about the cost. 

He looked at Mordred, seeing the trepidation but also the honesty clear in his eyes. He wanted to help, even though he was scared; he was going to help, even though he was scared. An admirable trait, that bravery, made almost dangerous by the fear that it meant he could not also be selfish in his own small way. There was such a thin line, these days, between courage and zealotry. 

     ‘You’re Ailis’ friend, yes? She trusts you. Trusts your judgment, your faithfulness, your heart. Where would you draw the line, if it were up to only you?’

He left the rest of the question unsaid, implied: how much is the life of our people worth, to you? It was a question asked without judgment. Everyone had things they were not willing to sacrifice for the greater good; everyone had things without which life would no longer be life. He himself would have given anything, anything at all, to stop this madness, except for one thing: the life of either of his children. It was a hard line carved upon his heart, clear as day in his mind when he thought the question. Whether or not he would say it aloud was one thing, but knowing it deep in his bones was another entirely, undoubtable. He imagined Mordred had a similar answer, deep in his bones, that he would know all the same, when asked. 

Maybe in some small way he was afraid of the answer he might get. Now that the words were out in the air, he already knew his own answer. There was a line, even if there shouldn’t have been any price he wouldn’t pay for the chance to have something to help save them all. Now, though, he was afraid that Declan would look at him, and tell him there was nothing too great to give. He was the prince’s advisor, after all, it was his job to make certain it all went the way he wanted.

That wasn’t his answer, though. Ailis’ name made his stomach twist with guilt at the thought that having a line at all would be letting her down. He was right, after all, she trusted him with all of this, but he also knew her; she understood better than most that there were certain things worth more, worth finding other ways. She was fighting so hard because he had lost someone herself. Mordred looked back at Declan thoughtfully, wondering if he knew that about her, wondering if he had someone or something he would have fought the world for. 

“I think everyone has something, one line they wouldn’t cross, even for the world. And I don’t think that’s a weakness. That why we’re all fighting in the first place. It’s not all noble, some of it is selfish, we each have something we want to protect, we’d do anything to protect,” he said slowly. He wasn’t sure if it was the right answer, wasn’t sure there was a right answer, but it was what he felt was the truth. 

“I wouldn’t ask someone else to cross that line of theirs for me. And if they asked for that from me, and it was solely my choice...I suppose I would find another way, or else there would be no point in my fighting at all. I’d give up myself before I’d give up my heart. Is that unacceptable?”

She feels a flush of pride at Mordred’s careful confidence. The show of it is good, it is enough and will serve him well. His head held high, he cuts a striking figure in the light, looks far grander than even he knows. Her smile grows at it, and at his words. So she watches carefully as the armorer rakes his eyes over Mordred, quick and calculating. Something flashes in his eyes when he looks back at Fiadh, something curious and knowing and amused.  

“We come to offer payment for your work.” She says, more straightforward now, yet her voice is still as sweet and gentle as it was before. They always did react well to someone innocent and beguiling. “On behalf of the leaders of the court. We have their permission to offer anything you see fit to request –– in exchange for the tools to help in our cause.

The man nods, still gruff and wary. “We have what you seek.” He says, “It will all be delivered soon to court.” His eyes are sharp, and it makes her feel unsteady on her feet. He is calculating something, he lets it sit for a long moment before he opens his mouth again. “Bradán wants a child. The memory of one, from you, dear Fiadh. That and the Seelie Prince’s first love.” 

“Done.” She agrees, only slightly quicker than she intended to. “He shall have them. What do you require?” 

He smiles, something almost savage, and looks at Mordred once again. She feels a spark of curiosity, of worry, deep down and somewhere alien. “The boy will pay when he becomes himself,” It sounds like a joke, sounds like he thinks it’s very funny. Fiadh doesn’t quite understand, but she nods regardless. “In the meantime, he can deliver a very important blade to the Unseelie Court.” He wraps the hilt of a sword in cloth and hands it, delicately, to Mordred. “A blade of great power. Bradán has enchanted it so that only the truest ruler of the court can use it, so have care, it will burn any other. Now you may go. We have work to complete.” 

She watches Mordred carefully, keen eyes examining the blade. She nods, delicate and slow, and quietly thanks him for his time before she puts a hand on Mordred’s shoulder again to lead him away, back the way they came. 

He finds himself holding his breath as she explains that they’re here to offer up payment, waiting to hear what the two will need from them for payment for the weapons. His eyes are trained on her, though, cutting so deep he’s not sure he could stand it if he turned that look on his face instead. And the request makes him frown, makes him glance at Fiadh to see her reaction to it. She doesn’t seem fazed, though, agreeing even more swiftly than he would have expected. The memory of a child, and the prince’s first love. The thought of giving up the latter is nearly dizzying to him, but he tries to temper his reaction, remain as unfazed as Fiadh seems by the requests. 

His heart beats fast against his ribcage when he turns to look at him, though, upon the next question. There’s something in his smile that Mordred doesn’t like, something that makes him want to squirm, to look away, lest he ask the same of him. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact, even as he gives his cryptic request. He wants to ask what he means when he becomes himself, but he has a feeling he won’t be given an answer. It’s a terrifying thought, though, to owe another fae an unknown payment. Still, he finds himself nodding alongside Fiadh, hardly catching the next part until he begins wrapping the hilt of the sword to give to him.

Again, it takes strength not to ask why he must deliver it to the Unseelie Court. It makes him wonder if the other can see what he’s hiding, if this is some sick game to him, leading him into a trap for his own amusement for payment. There is no choice to be had, though, he takes the sword reverently, careful not to touch any part of it uncovered. “I’ll see it delivered safely,” he says, voice a little quieter than intended, but mercifully steady. It’s hard, though, to take his eyes from the blade, even as he dismisses them, even as Fiadh’s hand finds his shoulder, signaling that it’s time they depart.

Forcing himself to look away at last, he follows he back out the way he came after echoing her thanks. It feels odd, though, to be thanking him, something not sitting right in his stomach about the words spoken. He waits until they’re out of their territory to turn to Fiadh, unable to keep himself from the question on his tongue.

“What do you think that meant, that I’ll pay when I become myself? He was smiling, and he asks me to take this to the Unseelie Court...” he trails off, not wanting to put into words why that scared him. His fingers tighten on hilt wrapped in cloth. “I feel like this is a clever trick.”

He had spent most of the morning and early afternoon going through reports: Ailis had been listing the number of their allies, those willing to fight, those joining in the hunt, those taking other actions to increase the chances that they might survive this, carefully sorted by the members of their court and those unseelie allies she and others had managed to sway to their sides, those Sorcha had approved to aid in the effort. It was tiring work; she had been thorough, but there would always be something missing, something overlooked, and he would always be their last-line defense to finding it before it cost them something they couldn’t get back.

So he was grateful, in some small way, for the distraction of someone entering, if only to give him another problem to solve. Fresh eyes would help him return to his earlier work with the focus he needed, especially if the problem now being brought to hand could be dealt with swiftly and effectively. 

He wasn’t familiar with Mordred, outright. Even with their numbers dwindling, there were too many in their court for him to know every detail. Once, he would have thought it important, to know each fae as intimately as any other, important to advising, to helping a king or a queen make the decisions that needed to be made. His priorities had shifted, somewhat, in this latter part of his career: he knew the relevant things, but he did not always know their hearts. Mordred had been solitary, once, like him, had found it as unbearable as he had and had come to court to repair that, though he still held himself at a distance from it all. That was not unusual: plenty needed court for the company and the safety but needed their own freedom from its bounds and traditions as well.

Still, it seemed unusual for Mordred to seek him out. Plenty sought him out, whether for advice or their own or for a quick route to the Prince’s ear, but this was, if he recalled correctly, the first time Mordred had approached him directly, 

     ‘No, not at all. Please,’ he said, gesturing to the seat across from him and then moving to set aside Ailis’ report so that he could focus.

When had he become such a nervous thing? There was no need for it, especially not here. He had as much right as anyone else to seek out advice, even if at times he worried he didn’t. Plenty of others did so regularly without any sort of worry, or regard, but then he wasn’t sure that sort of entitlement suited him well, or anyone else for that matter. 

He nods, offering a small smile. He took a deep breath and sat down across from him, tried to brush away the insecurities, the paranoia that if he looked into the other’s eye a little too long, he might see something he shouldn’t. He wouldn’t get any help without his own risk of honesty.

“Tomorrow I’m going to be seeking out the armorer and his enchanter husband with Fiadh for weapons to aid the fight...you know that already, I’m not sure why I’ve told you that again...” Mordred shook his head, trying to brush off the worry of this being too trivial for the prince’s advisor. It wasn’t trivial to him, though, the fear that he was going to be asked to give up something he couldn’t, that he wouldn’t be able to get what they need because of his own fears, and that he would be abandoned again because of that, left to see what was left beneath the pretty facade he had crafted.

“I suppose I just...well, I’m happy to be of assistance is this small way––hunting is not something I have much skill in any longer, and fighting, perhaps even less so now, unlike my friends––but I worry about what they’ll ask for in return. What I mean to say is, how much should I offer on the prince’s behalf, from him, from myself? And what happens if...” he stopped himself, but there was no taking the words back, knowing Declan would know how the thought would have ended. So he sat up a little straighter, prepared to be honest. 

“Is there a line?”

The poor little lamb feels so full of doubt, so full of fear and worry. She wonders how he can stand how much he seems to feel. Nervous. She feels the edge of it in her own consciousness too, a distant worry that what was once escaped may not be so easy to run from a second time. She was fairly sure, however, that they were safe in this territory, at least until they needed to depart again.

She feels a surge of something gentle in her chest. He’s just a boy, behind it all. Maybe he doesn’t know himself well enough. Maybe he knows himself too well, and that’s what he truly fears. One way or another, there’s something in him that he doesn’t want to accept. Her voice sounds sure enough, seeking to comfort him in his own self-doubt. “You’re clever enough, Mordred –– and these men we seek care very little for the authority of Kings or Queens or Thrones. They serve themselves and the land, which you have just as much authority over as any other.” 

Fiadh reaches up to pet a hand across his cheek, to rest on his shoulder, a gentle and almost motherly touch. Children need such comfort in times of pain and stress, he inspires the instinct in her even if she does not feel the ownership, even if he is old enough to serve and raise himself. Not a child she seeks to gather, just a soul with something raw inside. 

There’s a spark of some small guilt, as well. She hadn’t meant her words and warnings to scare him, just to inspire caution in the face of others of their kind. Solitary fae could be far tricker than their cousins who lived in court. “If there is something you fear to lose, I will make the offer first and foremost. But stand tall and sharp, have care in what you say, and they can make no fool of you.” 

With the words said, she stops to take a breath. There is no real force to fear, after all. Just a worry of loss. Brín and Sorcha will likely have sent word ahead, notes and requests to the men they seek, carried by faithful creatures of the wood. When she seeks to hear it, she can hear the sounds of their work in the forge, smell the tang of metal in the air. She gives a nod, half for herself and half for Mordred, and sets her shoulders straight. With a the hand on his arm she guides him forward once again, graceful steps that carry them until they face one of those they seek. 

Fiachra stands in the deceptively unassuming expanse of an outdoor workshop, so sweetly cluttered with the objects the men have crafted, covering many surfaces she can see. His hands work to add what must be finishing touches to a blade, and she inhales a breath as he glances up from his work to take in the sight of them. The other must be in doors, working with the enchantments he weaves with such deft talent. “Why, dear friend, it has been an age.” She says, voice bright and honey sweet as if they world were well and right as rain. As if this happy meeting was the result of happenstance. “My heart is overjoyed to see you well.” With another pat of Mordred’s arm, she looks between them gently. “This is a new friend of mine, sweet Mordred, who I’m sure is quite thrilled to make your acquaintance.” 

“Well met.” Fiachra offers them, voice as gruff as it always is. He is no gentle soul, never talented with polite little turns of phrase so often offered between the fair folk. His eyes linger on Mordred, the new curiosity of meeting a stranger. “Have you come from court?”

The gentle touch, and the certainty of her words cut through some of the worry. 

He’s seen both sides of their world, life at court, and life alone with only the wild, and neither have felt wholly natural to him. But the freedom that he when he was on his own, what she says now, these other fae serving only themselves and the land, that’s something that he has never had trouble understanding or believing. He fears what would happen to his soul if he were forced to live in solitude again, cannot imagine being without those he cares about, but there are times when perhaps he misses that certainty of answering only to himself. Beyond the courts, each and every fae is royal in their own right, with only nature above them.

Mordred swallows deeply, then nods, letting the words bolster his courage, for once in the time since he had first found his court, letting some of that perfectly crafted image slip away. He feels more certain with her words, and he knows that if there is one thing he is perfectly adept at, it is mimicking what someone says is expected of him. With her example, surely he’ll be able to follow. Trying to brush away the worry, knowing that entering with doubts, thoughts of what he fears to lose on his mind is only asking for trouble, he lets her lead him forward into the workshop.

It’s a place unlike any he can remember seeing, never having sought out handmade weapons before, and there’s no hiding the awe on his face as he looks around at what the armorer has made with only his hands. Fiadh takes the lead greeting the other first, sweet words coming so easily. When she introduces him, he offers a smile, an inclining of his head.

“It is a great honor to meet you, I’ve heard legends of your work since long before I came to court,” he offers carefully, trying his best to keep his head held high. “Yes, we’ve come on behalf of both courts, because of the great dangers we all face, an unseen enemy.”

While he did his best to play his part at court, he had never made much of an effort to endearing himself to the prince and his advisor since coming to court only decades ago, unlike so many of the other fae he was surrounded by. Perhaps in some ways it was an unconscious choice of self preservation, first for the fear, irrational as it might have been, that they might see the cracks in the facade and send him away back to the lonely, cruel life of solitude, and now because of his relationship with Keiran, the repercussions of being found out. Easier to stay safe at a comfortable distance.

Things were changing, though, that was clear to everyone, and the more official beginning of the hunt for whatever or whoever it was causing such pain amongst them meant it was time for him to take a different approach, too. It was impossible for him to leave so much in the hands of those he cared for most without trying to do what he could to keep them safe. 

That meant something different for him, though. Not fighting, or planning for war––no, he was too fearful of what might happen if put in the position where his cruelty needed to come out again––but setting them up to be able to fight themselves. And somehow, now he was being trusted to do just that. Something about the task ahead of him made his throat feel tight, a sense of foreboding he wasn’t certain was entirely related to asking the armoror and his husband for their aid. Instinct lead him to search for the very advisor he had done his best to stay away from, looking for advice in his own right, perhaps.

Mordred found Declan in the summer hall, alone, at work. The image made him hesitate, worried he was in the middle of something important, but he steeled himself to approach, knowing he wouldn’t be able to go on the journey tomorrow without trying to seek advice.

“I was hoping I could have a word, if I’m not interrupting...”

The deepening of Mordred’s frown is enough to cause heartache. He almost hates himself for causing it. The worry and fear lingers over them like a dark cloud that Keiran cannot banish. It feels as if it might block out the endless beaming of the sun, somehow, as if it will swallow them whole. Still, the promise is a balm that soothes him like nothing can. He wants nothing more than for Mordred to follow through with it, be careful and cautious and think of his own good first and foremost. 

But his love is a more tender soul than that. It takes his breath away, to be cared for. That Mordred wants to take some of the burden on himself, wants to offer that to Keiran. No one ever has before. He’s always been a beast that needed to fend for itself, he learned to be brutal to survive. There was no room for tenderness, no room for flights of fancy and dreams of love, no room for hoping that someone would come and offer comfort to him. Yet here he stood. And there Mordred was. So tender, so full of love, offering so much more than comfort and safety. 

He sighs out a breath, quiet and more surprised than he ought to be. “You already do. More than you know.” He says it like it’s a promise, he wants Mordred to know. The words hang in the air, he knows they sound gentle. Even just the fact of Mordred wanting to is more caring than many people have done for Keiran, in the fast expanse of his life. More than anyone has given him. So he offers it with a nod, like he’s sure. “We can take care of each other. You and me.”

There’s more noise beyond the flames, and with eyes full of regret and sadness he shifts his gaze toward the fray. He knows, now, that Mordred can read him like an open book. He’s sure Mordred saw it in his eyes. The longing, the anguish of having to tear his eyes away. “I better –– That sounds like my lot, and my queen will have all our heads if someone burns to death during her party.” It’s breathless, more words than he usually grants to one sentence at a time. He’s learning to talk more and more with Mordred. Fuller and fuller thoughts. “I should go and reign them in, but ––” He takes a step away and his gaze slips back, softens to a grand extent around the edges. He puts his love in it, the yearning he’ll no doubt feel until darkness falls. 

“Tonight.” 

By the gods, there are very few things Keiran wouldn’t do to win that smile. The expanse of it on Mordreds face, just at the agreement, just at the prospect of some time together. It’s a revelation, but that shouldn’t be surprising by now. Every time Keiran sees it it feels like a religious experience, like he should fall to his knees in some kind of worship. Perhaps he will, when the sun has set and watchful eyes have moved away from them. Then, the laugh spills forward. Perhaps turns into a certainty. There is nothing he can do but worship at the alter of this smiling god. 

His own smile blossoms, sharp and quick and full of too much glee, excitement writ in every inch of it. He moves a hand up to smooth over his face, to smooth it away as he diverts his gaze to the flames and back again, meeting his eyes and feeling the rush. “A promise? I’ll hold you to it, love.” Quiet, full of anticipation, full of the ever present longing to press his lips against Mordred’s skin, to whisper the words against his mouth and hold him as close as can be managed. Tonight, the ache will be set aside for the joy and thrill of running fingers through that hair, smoothing the worry from that brow, whispering words of endless love. 

There’s a low ache in his chest at their next words. The slight hesitation is enough to tear something in Keiran open, a soft and gentle place that is rarely touched. Mordred worries for him, has eyes and a voice full of concern, full of an awful fear. He finds himself nodding, quick agreement again. He wonders what Mordred would have to ask for to make him refuse. Is there a line in the sand he won’t pass? As every day goes by, the answer becomes clearer. There doesn’t appear to be a line. He can’t find one, as often as he tries. 

“It isn’t foolish.” He admits, voice low. Should he tell Mordred the finer details of his own potential doom? The low simmer of wraith he had seen once in the eyes of his queen? Sorcha had been ablaze when he’d seen her, and he knows she understands precisely where he stands in this, the agreements he’s made with Ailis if not his reasons for making them. She could doom him, if the whim crossed her mind. Exile him. Kill him. Mark him as a traitor to her ideals or her cause. He lives in fear of it, but Mordred had asked him to fight and so he would. 

He nods again, so Mordred knows he means it. His voice is a low whisper, and he’s sure it sounds braver than he really feels. “I’ll be careful, you don’t have to worry.” A beat. “I can take care of myself. I worry more for you. Promise me you’ll be careful, too.” 

Every time he manages to coax a smile such as this one from Keiran, it feels as if he’s won an unspeakable victory. These smiles, they’re not something that Keiran gives most anyone else, from what he’s seen. The smiles he gives others, they’re well practiced into something crueler, too much edge, much less sincerity, the sort of thing that might trick someone else into believe he actually is the cruel being he claims to be. This sort of smile, though, is their hidden secret. He’s not sure Keiran realizes how beautiful he looks in these moments of pure joy, but the image lingers in his mind whenever they’re apart. 

He would make any promise he could ask of him if it meant he would be gifted with that smile again.

It’s still so surprising to him how much one little word can mean. Love. It was a shock to discover that words could hold so much power when he was with Keiran, after the years and years he had spent alone, words only used for cruelty, as a gateway to violence, if not uttered at all, rather feral snarls falling from harsh lips. And now, words so quiet doing so much, making his heart burst with a feeling he’s still in awe of, and is rather certain he will always be. It’s the reason he worries so much for him. He is his heart, and Mordred isn’t sure he would be able to go on if something were to happen to him, and all because of him.

His nod is too quick, makes his frown deepen, but then he goes on, time slowing again. There’s the familiar strength in his voice, the strength that made him certain weeks and weeks ago when he first promised to stop the pain for him. Brave as ever, but Mordred knows his heart like he knows himself, knows the uncertainty beneath the surface. He pushes it away, worries about them instead, and it makes his heart ache. “I promise,” he nods, biting his lip as he looks back at him. A pause, weighing the words on his tongue, before honesty.

“You’re allowed to fear,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. He longs to reach out to him again, to take his hands in his own. “The fear shows how important it is. I know you can take care of yourself, but...I want to take care of you, too.”

Aoibheann tilts her head, getting her eyes under to meet Mordred’s. Every time they speak, she feels as if she sees a little more of the person. Some of that gold leaf and glitter gets peeled back… She wonders if he feels the same about her. She wonders if that should make her worry. Reaching out before she can think better of it, Aoibheann lays a gentle hand to his cheek. “Try is all we can do,” she says with a soft smile, just for him.

A moment later, though, and they’re moving on. Aoibheann would be lying if she said she wasn’t relieved. Not that she begrudged the conversation with Mordred. But in the middle of the Midsummer celebration, with so many keen eyes and ears around them… Well. Aoibheann knew that the both of them would rather their true natures stay close to chests. Not the time or the place, therefore. “My dear Mordred,” Aoibheann began with a wide grin, “of course, I dance. I’d love nothing more than to share a turn or two with you.”

She took her friend’s hand and started toward the crowd of twisting bodies. “Let’s cheer the sun on in the proper style, hm?”

Her hand on his cheek and the soft words only serve to remind him that she understands him in a way that many can’t, or won’t. She seems him, and he sees her in turn. Usually, it’s less outright, fewer words whispered into the air where others might here, but he’s glad of the honesty just now. It feels a lot lately like he might burst if he can’t be himself, even in such a small way, in a private moment.

No use in lingering on any of it today of all days, though. He offers her a soft smile back, and then charges onward. Even if he has a hard time seeing how easily everyone else is celebrating with everything that has been going on around them, he still knows that it’s important to make an effort. More than that, perhaps, he’s come to realize over the past few weeks that sitting around, wallowing in his sadness, letting his despair overtake him will do nothing to make a difference. He’s stronger when he looks towards the sky. 

The grin only widens as she agrees to dance with him. Mordred intertwines his fingers with hers, and starts towards the crowd. “Let’s show the others how it’s done,” he grins.

Perhaps its silly to be calmed by the fact that Mordred believes in him. To have your words taken as the truth, as a faithful and steady promise. Keiran is glad for it, in an age where it’s so difficult to trust. He would put his own life in Mordred’s hand in an instant, would gladly give up any semblance of living if it meant that he would be safe and strong and some semblance of happy. 

Not being able to gather him close here is a constant ache. His fingers itch for it, to take hold and not let go again for a long time. It doesn’t seem fair that all he can do, after their brief moment of contact, is watch him. The look of longing on his face, the way his hands are clasped together, as if he has to hold himself back from more. They’re both in the same boat, too much longing and not enough contact, not enough time to spend wild and free together. 

The thought of the night spent with them leaves Keiran breathless. Hours from now, they could be together. Alone in the dark, as they always end up. What he wouldn’t give to continue this in the sun, to pull Mordred by the hand now, away from the crowds of people and in to their own private world. To kiss him as the sun does, warm and slow and unhurried, to watch him bright under the precious beams of daylight. The yearning mingles with the look of awe in Mordred’s eyes, and Keiran knows that he could never deny the offer. 

He would leap at any change for time alone. He would do anything for that. So he nods his head, quick and sure, bites back a smile that would come out far too tender. For a brief moment he looks away, into the flames that seem so dim in comparison to the true light of his life. “The idea of it is almost enough to get the job done.” 

His eyes flick back, unable to resist the sight of him. “I’ll meet you. At the usual place.”

It’s not a surprise that Keiran agrees so easily, but still it brings a warm smile to his face, knowing that in a number of hours, at least, he’ll be able to touch him again, to hold him close without any worry of consequence. Too often they do not have the luxury of knowing when they might be able to touch again, and even if they’ve stolen more and more time together, it’s not enough for him, especially as the world feels more frightening every moment. But he’s grateful for what they can take, for moments like this, hidden in plain sight. The risk is worth the reward of later.

Mordred allows the laugh bubbling up in his chest to slip through, a private little thing, only for Keiran, a fond grin accompanying it. “I promise you the idea will hold no candle to the real thing. Tonight, you might be completely undone,” he teases lightly, fondly. It’s difficult to swallow down the urge to reach out again, to run fingers over his sharp jaw, tease the smile from his lips with deft fingers. Tonight. “I’m counting down the minutes already.”

He wishes that the daylight could be their time, that they could laugh, and dance, and kiss under the sunbeams, with flowers in their hair as everyone celebrated around them, nothing of note in the gestures. It feels all too appropriate, though, that he has only been allowed to find something that makes him truly feel himself under the cover of night. It’s as if the world wants to remind him that the light doesn’t feel quite right often enough, and that Keiran is the only one worthy of knowing that truth, of seeing him fully as he is.

“I know it’s foolish, but... be careful, even more careful than usual,” he mutters, hesitating slightly. He knows he needs to get back to the celebration, every second spent together now is a second his fears become more real. “I worry about you, about the watchful eyes that follow because of what I’ve asked you to do. I know Ailis is using today to see where everyone stands; less friendly eyes must be doing the same.”

Aoibheann’s head tilts a little in consideration. “Is your heart so burdened, then?” It might be rhetorical – at least, she’s willing to drop it as such should Mordred wish. But it’s something that she’s wondered before about this particular friend of hers. “Perspective is a strange thing.” Aoibheann has never much been able to see from vantage points other than her own, too entwined in her own thoughts and feelings and the circumstances that brought her there. But, she’s dearly aware that there are thousands other fractals of reality existing laid over top her own.

“Well, I like your eyes as is, anyway,” she says with a note of certainty. She’s glad too, that she found Mordred, or that he found her. Glad especially to have some of Midsummer with him. “If I shine brightly it’s only because I’m reflecting your glow. The moon to your sun.” 

Her hands clap together in a childlike kind of joy as he brings peonies from the earth. There is, of course, a simple way to Aoibheann’s heart and it’s plants. “I am made lovelier,” she declares, running a finger over the layers of soft petals. She tucks herself into his side happily. “Thank you, Mordred.”

The question hangs in the air. He knows that she doesn’t expect an answer, that she would understand if he let it be without a response. But something about the midsummer air mingling with the worry sitting on his shoulders makes him want to offer another hint of truth, even if he’s perhaps not ready to offer a full explanation to her out loud yet. “Yes. I wish it was as light as it once was, but I’ve seen too much of the world now. I try, though,” he says quietly, more to the ground than to her.

When he looks back up, Mordred offers Aoibheann a soft smile, moving forward, not wanting to linger on the sadness. “Well, you look beautiful in my glow,” he teases lightly.

The grin that breaks over his lips is soft, genuine, watching her admire the petals. If there is something besides his beloved that can still bring him infinite comfort even in times such as this, it is nature. And seeing someone else he cares about deeply treating it so reverently as well makes him feel all the warmer. There’s little point in letting the worries weigh him down the whole celebration. He puts an arm around her shoulders. “Now that we’ve found each other, perhaps we should find the party. Do you dance?”

It’s not the Mordred isn’t the happy type, not at all. Rather, that Aoibheann is able to be a little closer to something real and solid when around him. Less of a dancing petal in the breeze and more of a person. So her smile tones to something softer and her eyes lose a little of that sociable glint. “I would prefer it, if that were the case,” she answers. Her mind goes drifting then, considering what it might mean to merge the courts. But, then again, it’s a daydream impossibility. It would never happen. Even know, with all the pain and danger, the courts are barely sharing a party ground to celebrate the solstice.

“Maybe I’m glad to have been a changeling,” she ventures. Something in her stomach twists, a reminder that she doesn’t say this much, not out loud, not to other people. But this is Mordred, after all. “I think I can see it all a little more clearly than most, to have been born…outside of it all.”

A grin comes back, almost full caliber. “I’m sorry to have left you bereft for so long then.” Her shoulders dance a little, indicating an ambivalence. “I’ve been having a good time, yes,” she answers. “But it’s only proving to get better now that I do have you for company.” Face warm from the wine and the fire and the good cheer, Aoibheann puts a gentle hand to his shoulder. “You look so beautiful, friend.”

He hums his agreement, but says nothing else of it. His strength has grown, yes, but still he can’t quiet his fear of what could happen if the wrong ears heard him speaking like this. Sometimes when he’s alone with Keiran, when he can let his thoughts drift to gentler lands, he considers the possibilities of what could come after they stop the evil that’s shaken their land. Ailis is trying to bring as many together as possible, an army of sorts, yes, but he’s smart enough to know others who haven’t jumped at the chance outright have similar feelings. A change is coming, whether the two courts wish for it or not. On those nights, he lets himself think about what it would be like, to live without borders, to be able to kiss Keiran in sight of everyone, to feel like they didn’t have to hide their nature under gentle smiles. Who would lead them then, though? 

She goes on, shaking him from his thoughts of what ifs, and he looks at her with interest. A shared truth. She deserves one in return. “That I can believe. Clear eyes, unburdened heart. Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed in the wild, and had never come to court. I wonder if my eyes might be clearer, too,” he considers.

And the smile slips over her lips so easily. It reminds him of the same sort of shift he’s become so adept at himself, and it makes him smile, as if they’re both in on a shared secret. “Thank you, my dear, I think midsummer makes us all shine a little brighter, especially in times so dark. I’m glad you’ve found me,” he says, before leaning down and brushing fingers over the earth, making peonies bloom at his finger tips. He plucks one, and standing, tucks it into her hair.  “Now we match.”

There’s a part of Keiran that wonders if they wouldn’t be better off away from here. If he could take Mordred and leave, carve out a place for them in the unknown wilderness a million miles away. Would they be happier then? Would Mordred feel some sense of peace? Would the two of them be enough? Keiran can’t imagine him away from the glory of the Seelie Court, can’t imagine Mordred in a land with only one other person to love him. Keiran might thrive there, but it wouldn’t be fair. 

There’s a part of Keiran that wants to ask him anyway. Run away with me. They could leave it all behind. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about the Unseelie Queen’s wrath, the likely bad reaction if anyone found out how they felt about each other and how long they’d been hiding it. He’s longing for a safer place than this, somewhere they could stand together in the sun. What would it take for him to be able to lean over right now and take that hand, brush a kiss to the palm and pull Mordred close? What parts of his soul would he have to trade for the right? 

“It will all be over soon,” He vows it. He’d swear it on every god there was, if any god mattered more to him than Mordred did. There was only one person that made the sun rise for Keiran. “I promised I would fix it for you, and I will.” The quietest voice he can manage, a secret between them and the flames. 

The other side of the flames erupts in a riot of laughter and cheers, and for a moment he’s scared. For a moment he worries, but as it carries on he realises that no one nearby is paying any attention to them, rapt instead in the antics of some fool. Keiran is keen enough to know when no one is looking, when he can exist as an invisible thing. Emboldened, he steps closer, catches the corner of Mordred’s mouth in a kiss. He doesn’t take the risk of lingering, but his soul soars just at the quick touch. “If we lived in a different world, I’d dance with you. Bet that would lighten your heart even more.” 

It’s tempting to abandon the party, to steal away together to a private oasis where they wouldn’t have to worry about overstepping unspoken boundaries that neither of them ever agreed to keeping. It’s not fair to him, having to keep something so beautiful so quiet. This is supposed to be a celebration, but how can it truly be that when on top of the violence surrounding them, he can’t even have the one thing he longs for the most for comfort? All he wants is to hold Keiran close, to bury him in his chest and keep him there for the rest of their eternity. It’s selfish, but he doesn’t care. Everything he’s done has been the opposite of selfish up until now; he’s played the perfect part in his court, laughed at all the right times, followed all the right rules. It was as much for everyone around him, for the status quo, as for his own safety. But he’s tired of it. If they’re going to fight, if they’re going to die, why can’t they live first?

“I know you will, my heart,” he mutters, and he means the words. If there is anyone who can stop the pain, it’s the man in front of him. And he knows that for him, he would go to the ends of the earth, and beyond. But there’s another thought there. When the pain is over, one way or another, Mordred isn’t sure he’ll be able to go back to the normal that never quite felt like his own in the first place.

The sudden cacophony from the opposite side of the flames startles him, reminds him that they’re not in the private universe he wishes they could live in. It makes him freeze in his place, struck, worried that they’ve lost their moment, but Keiran is used to slipping about unseen, and he takes the opportunity Mordred doesn’t even realize they have. He’s not expecting. He feels Keiran move in front of him and turns back to him just in time for their lips to meet in the briefest kiss. The feeling is electrifying as ever, sends a jolt of heat through his body, and he can’t help but lean into his space even as he separates again. His heart aches for more, and he has to bite his lip, grasp his hands together tightly to keep himself in check. 

“Here you are, giving me so much, so easily. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve a stolen moment such as this,” he breathes, voice low, awe clear in his eyes as he looks back at him. “You’ve already lightened my heart so easily with your lips, but... perhaps, later tonight, when the sun has set and the party’s died down, we could slip away, have our own celebration in the woods, dance together. Give me the chance to lighten your heart.”

Aoibheann has been flitting happily from one group to the next, taking hands and sharing cups of wine. Were this any other event, one might look at her and think that she’s the hostess. She elegantly, effortless, plays all corners of the party. And while no one is left behind, there are those who capture her attention a little more fully – friends of a deeper nature. And when her eyes fall on one Seelie fae in particular, Aoibheann settles for a longer coze.

“Of course I came,” she murmurs, coming close to Mordred, bending their heads together. “Midsummer is one of my favorites, and I don’t mind the setting all that much.” The Stone Circle was a little disconcerting, but not because it belonged to the Winter Court – Unseelie or Seelie is more or less the same to her. Rather, it’s particular closeness to the higher ends of the court has her a little shifty. Aoibheann is a friend to all, but those with royalty draped over them still leave her balking, a little. 

She can just see the tremor beneath her friends smile – anyone else likely won’t, but she’s not anyone else. More often than not, Aoibheann has caught herself thinking of the similarities between herself and Mordred, wondering just how much more sameness they might share. With a gleeful, childish smile, she opens her hands and offers him some of the treat she has been snacking on, sugared berries. “I can just see it now,” she says, one arm spanning wide as if presenting her daydream. “A winter wonderland resplendent in glitter and cut-glass.” They aren’t so different at all, Seelie and Unseelie, but Aoibheann has learned to let them think otherwise if they’re determined to. 

Plucking one of the fruits from her palm, Aoibheann chews it thoughtfully. Her eyes dance along the crowd not looking for anyone or thing in particular – just looking. “Have you been entertaining yourself? I know it can’t have been very exciting without me along for the ride,” she teases.

In a way that it perhaps shouldn’t be, it’s good to see her face amongst the crowd. Not that he has any trouble finding a friendly face in the festivities, but what he needs more of as of late is a bit more than just friendly. There were those who knew more deeply, whether from their own intuition, or his hints, just how painfully all of the violence and death had been affecting him. In the past weeks, Mordred had gotten stronger, better at holding his head up, and holding the tears back, perhaps out of necessity, but that didn’t stop the worry from lingering constantly beneath the surface. And it’s easier to breath around those he doesn’t feel like he had to put up quite a front with.

Aoibheann, with her excitement and joy, the contagious happiness. Aoibheann, with more beneath the surface, too, even if he hadn’t quite found what it is she’s keeping close to her chest. Just to know she can understand is enough during times like these, when every day he felt further removed from everyone around him except for his beloved.

He offers her a soft smile, and reaches out to take a few of the offered sugared berries. As hard as it is to relax, he tries his best. “It would be magnificent, truly. Sometimes, I think we should have all of our festivals together. What is the sun without the moon, after all, light without dark? We’re all made up of both, so many of us forget that,” he says thoughtfully. All of them here together, Seelie, Unseelie, changelings, seers, it’s just more proof that they’re stronger together. Maybe today will help more people see that.

“Oh, I’ve tried my absolute best in your absence, but of course it’s difficult, without the light of your smile shining by my side. You, though, I’m certain you’ve had a grand time with or without me, yes?”

It’s a horrible thing –– the way that Keiran has been keeping Mordred in sight. Lingering just far enough away, keeping them in the corner of his eye. They’re so bright. Glorious in the sunlight. Glorious on this precious day. Mordred doesn’t notice Keiran as quickly, but he’s always been good at hiding in the shadows, his greatest talent put to good use. At least this way he can make sure that Mordred is safe, that no one is going to sneak in here and put an end to the most precious of lives.

His heart beats faster at the very thought of it, a hand raising up unbidden to rest over his traitor of a heart. The idea, the concept as it exists, is so distasteful he isn’t sure what to do with it. He would burn the world down around himself if he had to live without Mordred, this is the truest fact he knows. 

Perhaps it’s the feeling of it that draws him to the flames. Such beautiful things. Sure in their destruction, sure in their warmth and their fury and gentle caress of their warmth across his skin. Any feeling of wonder in Keiran’s heart is reserved for feats of nature such as this, for the flickering flames and the twinkle of the sun in Mordred’s eyes. 

He’s almost lost in it, but he has enough possession of himself to feel Mordred drawing nearer. They really ought not to be seen indulging in this dalliance of theirs, even if peace and unity are the order of the day. Still, he can’t bring himself to flee the scene, to do anything aside from allow Mordred to pad close to his back. 

The smile that spreads across his own face is a savage thing, a wound that will never heal. He wouldn’t want it to. He would let Mordred wound him a hundred times, if it was his will. When he cuts his gaze over and witnesses his smile, Keiran fears that the flames are catching, that he’s going to burn alive from the feeling it inspires in him. He presses his lips together, a fruitless attempt to dampen the joy apparent on his face. 

“It pales in comparison to you, now and always.” Voice low, a bare whisper in the air between them. He lets them pull away, already finding himself lacking their warmth. Still, he moves no closer. “Tell me, is this little fête up to your seelie standards? We don’t often have cause to worship the sun, but my Queen has done her very best.” A softer tone, then. “I hope it has served to lighten your heart, in some small way.” 

There’s something in the air between them, something beyond comprehension that he would argue brought them together in the first place. A heaviness and a warmth that defies logic and boundaries. A comfort that Mordred cannot remember ever truly experiencing until he first met Keiran, until they first brushed fingertips. It makes him wonder if this is something everyone feels, if everyone who finds that piece of their soul that has been missing, that they didn’t realize they were searching for, feels as if they’ve found something utterly undiscovered. It makes him wonder how anyone else could go on so easily knowing such beauty and not having it at every moment without utterly shattering to pieces when it is gone. 

Sometimes, it feels like he might break apart when he can’t look into Keiran’s eyes, and then he sees him again, and he realizes that perhaps the memory has to be enough for some, or else how could they all keep going? He will not settle for memory alone, though, and perhaps that is what makes him so bold, when he would do better to temper his need for the other half of his soul. He would do most anything to make certain he never has to look away from his face carved from marble, perfect and expressive, try as he might to hide it. His smile sets Mordred’s heart ablaze, puts the fire to shame so easily.

It hurts him, to have to back away from Keiran, from the warmth that seems to fill him when they’re so close together, but he knows that he must. There are too many spying eyes here, and even if the celebration is meant for unity, he’s well aware that there are few who would take kindly to the sort of unity that the two of them have found in each other’s souls. 

His voice is always so beautiful in moment’s like this, stolen, hidden in plain sight, whispering private thoughts in view of anyone who might look hard enough. He speaks like this, which such words, and it’s almost easy to believe that he’d telling the truth, stating facts of nature rather than simply uttering his own feelings into the air. He could be the sun, if Keiran says so. He could do anything at all, as long as he heard him say the words first, hushed and awed and so certain it makes his heart ache with need.

“It’s a beautiful celebration,” Mordred mutters, voice coming out lower than he means. He speaks of the celebration, but his thoughts are more occupied by how grand Keiran shines here in front of the fire, under the bright rays of the sun. Despite himself, he reaches out and touches the flower he put behind Keiran’s ear, an excuse to graze fingertips briefly along his ear.

“It’s difficult...” he says, voice low, honest. “It feels almost wrong to have such a celebration when there is so much death in the air, when there still seems to be more to come...But to gaze upon you under the solstice sun has lightened my heart even more so than any amount of wine and dancing could.”

It wasn’t an easy task to let himself relax, even for one of the most beloved celebrations of the year. Too much hung over their heads. But life continued on, no matter what happened, and he was trying. Trying to smile, and laugh, to let his spirit lighten even just for a few hours. And perhaps that was easier being able to keep Keiran in the corner of his eye the whole day, being able to feel the warmth of his presence even when not just by his side.

All the better when he sees one of his favorite distractions. Changelings would always be such curious creatures to him. He wondered what it was like, to be of two worlds in that way... and he felt at times that Aoibheann in particular might understand if he mentioned sometimes he felt that way, too. But not today, not during a celebration.

“Aoibheann! I’m glad you came, I was afraid the location might be a little...off putting for some people...” he trailed off, biting his lip, before letting out a sigh and shaking his head. 

More and more lately, he was beginning to realize that there was very little use in letting the more melancholy thoughts push through. When he had heard of the first few killings, it had overwhelmed his heart, the softness he had cultivated all too real suddenly, with so much blood spilled with such hatred. Strength was more important now, and so was this, being as one.

“They’ve done a lovely job honoring midsummer. Perhaps they’ll even allow us to throw a winter solstice celebration when the time comes. Can you imagine?”

Celebrations feel so fragile as their kind keep dying around them as the time passes. Seasons change, and little else does. It doesn’t feel quite right to be so merry. Except for the well of hope that he’s felt growing in his chest as of late. Perhaps this is another sign that there is a chance for them all. They’re here together. They’ve all been invited into Unseelie territory. While he suspects it more a forced necessity, than a gesture stemming from any real desire of their queen to come together as a stronger front, it must count for something. Because what are they if they cannot even hope to survive together, as a people.

He tries, though. He smiles, he dances, he weaves flowers through his hair, laughs loudly and often. He feels a little bit lighter, if only for a long day. There’s hope, after all. All because of those he cares for the most. 

It’s impossible to celebrate so genuinely without his heart, and perhaps today, of all days, some of the danger falls away. Gravity pulls them together, and it doesn’t take him by surprise when he spies Keiran near the fire, burning even more brightly than the flames. 

Without hesitation, he comes up behind him, and tucks one of his flowers behind his ear. An iris, dark purple, full of life and beauty. It feels odd to be so close to him in the sunlight, so used to meeting in the dead of night, with only the moonbeams’ light reflected in his eyes. Mordred can’t look away, can’t temper the bright smile that slips over his face looking at him in the sunlight.

“Somehow the solstice sun makes you shine all the brighter. I did not think it possible,” he smiles, lingering close for an instant longer before stepping back. “I should’ve known, though. You always manage to surprise me.”