𓇢 𝘧̲𝘢̲𝘭̲𝘭̲𝘦̲𝘯̲ 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡

Sheepstealer, a notably ugly “mud brown” dragon hatched when the Old King was still young, had a taste for mutton, swooping down on shepherd’s flocks from Driftmark to the Wendwater. He seldom harmed the shepherds, unless they attempted to interfere with him, but had been known to devour the occasional sheep dog.

he can scarcely imagine sarkan as a child, without that haughty expression and grave manners of his.  in fact, solya could have wagered him born fully formed, already ensconced in his elegant robes. but the wizard stays his tongue instead, no annoying chirp making it past his lips. for once, he just listens; his arrogant mouth silenced and still, no taunt to be found clasped to his too sharp gaze either.

it would be a mutual game then, he knew. they would exchange bobs of truth while they concealed the greater picture from one another. solya took it in stride, and sarkan, though less patience, would follow suit even as he strained not to clasp the secrets of the falcon as he did his spells and gold. the white tower seemed to sigh and sag with his moods, which was pleasant for now, when their lips brushed so close and there were fingers pulling at his hair. solya spoke with the air of one with a story to tell, a tale to spin, as if these were not memories of his own.

❛❛   ah, well, of course.   ❜❜  he rolled his eyes with a faint smile on his lips, pulling back a few inches to steal a swig of the bottle they shared, sweet and bitter all the same. ❛❛   all manner of things beyond their grasp becomes an ill omen.   ❜❜

graduates now, the actors sat near a vast stone pool — james's uncle's, to be precise. a large thing with a daunting deep, opulent pillars lining each side. they liked oliver well enough, the farrows: they were cordial in a detached way, unaware of the romance threading the two young men together. the love, the lust. the horror.

after dinner, his family had drifted off, talking amongst themselves, and james whisked his love away, insisting in a low voice that they swim. a tall ask, really. and a foolish hope, too, because as soon as they reached the steps, james balked, heart thundering and face pale. 'maybe another night—' he had muttered shakily after backing up, ashamed of the weakness, ashamed of the fear, bone-deep and cold even now. when would that lake let him go?

with his body turned away from the undisturbed surface of blue and his legs folded beneath him, he watched the other. eyes keen, steady. hands wringing nervously in his lap. did oliver trust him yet? probably not. between them there were grievances still, voiced in argument but not yet healed. time would be their ally. effort, too. “ anything... ” contemplative as though he wasn't already aware of his friend's devotion to him, as though he wasn't counting on it. oliver looked so lovely like this, the moon and stars illuminating his soft features. he wanted to reach out and cup his cheek, run his thumb over the scar by his nose. “ then let me ask you this: will you come home to live with me? i have the space, and my parents are hardly around, so they won't bother us. ” chewing on his bottom lip. “ surely yours won't mind? ”

while james turned away, oliver stared. he stared and stared until his vision was dotted yellow-blue from dryness, until richard's face broke the surface of the water and smiled callously at him, a slanted crown on his head, flaxen-white from limescale and rusting. he though he saw the same colour in the smoke around his mouth, but he turned away to the sound of his friend's voice, hand in his pocket, immoveable as stone. ❛❛   hm?   ❜❜  he looked back up at james, the contemplative way he studied oliver back, nervous and unsure. when he at last made his request of oliver, it came less as a surprise and more as an inevitability.

oliver looked back out to the lake, but richard had grown bored of this conversation and sunk below again. oliver thought of returning to his small-town home again, back into the arms of a family that could not love him in a way he understood.

back into the sights of a father he couldn't make proud, and a mother who would never see him as a man. a sister he would break the heart of, and another he cared little for. he could make and fake demons in a house with james, though; they could fight and shout until they ended up on opposite sides of a kitchen, or hot in a bed.

despite her stubborn scowl, she makes a fine job of patching up his wound ; the breadth of experience she held alone was unrivalled, hours and years toiling in service of those who needed her there to cure and aid. he remembers the blitz with perfect clarity, as if it had occurred no more than last week to recall every detail of her back then. he wondered to himself if she remembered too, but closed his mouth before he could speak of it. he had given her enough grief with his wits and antics, a slaughter of demons in his wake before she had found him. today would not be the last time tessa gray saved him of lacerations.

❛❛   theresa.   ❜❜ his mouth quirks, almost a smile. the milky fog over his eyes struggles to fully see her in the dimly lit room, but he has memorised the shape and colours of her since he was eighteen years old. her touch was electric, a soft brush to skin much starved of it. he held perfectly still, ignoring the strong warmth in his throat. but so use to his own prowess and never-ending quests to battle down darkness, he struggled to register her concern was intimate and not doubt. ❛❛   but i killed them all. why do you worry?   ❜❜

it's easier to find relaxation outside of human warmth,    far from hedonistic,    she’s despondent about being a normal person,    she can’t be,    she never was,    and in some way she doesn’t want to be,    but it’s so unbearably demanding to exist this connected to other energies she needs quick fixes to drown the cacophonous fog,    and relying on others demands to be securely attached to them.    with a tired hum,    sloppily painted nails reaching for his face,    a fruitless effort as he cages her movements in his hands:    she can feel remnants of darkness on her wrists.    without any spirit to bargain her freedom,    she lets her hands fall limp,    the weight of them becomes his responsibility.    

his hands go up, diligently innocent. touché! where ieiri remains dutifully in her lane however, suguru does no such thing. perhaps this is the burgeoning influence of satoru over the years, a little bit of his best friend's ecstatic boldness with the polite menace that was entirely his own. as such, it is all the more invitation to pry into her business for boyish enjoyment when the alternative was: a dark and treacherous journey that routed all the way back to his room and his insurmountable agony. with something like a tired panic, he hangs on to her wrists and smiles wide.

( sometimes he wishes she would pry, claw him open and see the things he didn't have the best of words for. at the same time, he hoped she would not notice the very thing they have been taught to ignore like a wisp of unwelcome smoke ; go on about their days as if this ordinary, even when they felt it was not. )

        THIS RESPITE IS ITS OWN KIND OF TORTURE.    the quiet of the hospital room and the hushed tones they spoke in.    the destruction seems far off yet also made closer by the simple act of facing it by light of day.    she is a testament to the ache,    wrapped in the same pale hues he had worn to school,    the same ones he wears now.    tracked with blood and grime,    torn at the sleeves were fallen glass had split the fabric into uneven scraps.    keeping them together beneath her shaky hold and its the first time he ever feels the strength of her grip wane on him.    an uneven intake of breath but he grins through her discomfort,    their discomfort because he can barely keep his own resentment at bay.    

        nodding beneath the weight of her touch.    the gnarled surface of her palms reminiscence of his own,    the same calluses at the base of their fingers from gripping at their weapons.    he could turn his head,    brush his lips over broken skin but he isn't so bold,    not even with her.    his bravery had been spent on the smile alone.    

shoko had informed her of yūta's departure only a few days after her collapse. it was the only confirmation she needed that he had been here at all and, knowing him, had likely left only on account of the urgency it must have propelled. (... stolen moments of peace that had to make the insurmountable grief worth it.)

eventually, mere stubbornness is the reason she is let out at all despite an otherwise impressive recovery. eventually, some semblance of purpose seeps into her. eventually, fate bothers with the genosity of allowing them to meet again. her head turns with yuji's approach, but it's yūta who calls out her name like a life-line.