for one so beloved by sunlight, blessed to carry it within his form wherever feet may carry him, the night is a welcome friend. cool and quiet, much different from the busy days behind and ahead. godwyn likes to wander, then. through an earth stilled, only rustled by its native inhabitants and the occasional breeze that graces it. there is one noise preferrable over the natural quiet of night ; the company of one so dearly seen. he almost rivals the glow of the grand erdtree itself as they wander through the garden.

until he stops to listen for the rustle once more, there are a few steps seperating them. they seem abyssal and endless, though this is an issue the prince has to sort out with himself. it is not something to concern such a regal guest with.

a bird is hardly a creature godwyn would title as dreadful. they are small visitors, innocent in their intent. some look for food, others for materials for their own home. he quite enjoys watching them & usually they still come nightfall. he mentions it moreso to his surprise to witness a chirp this late. delightfully so. there are those worth worrying for ; he's seen them with his own eyes. this little visitor, however, is hardly of the kind. ruffled as its feathers might be, it bears not the power to disrupt the ease of their walk.

❛ my lord . . . ❜ he repeats, gentle in his tone, though it carries alongside a chuckle. he knows, in both heart and soul, that it is not a title of class. he would still prefer his name to be granted the honor of moving across his company's lips. ❛ are we not of equal footing, dear fortissax ? even as you walk upon but two legs ? ❜ there is power in a name & he braves spoken intimacy beyond just that. fortissax' statue might be much smaller than the space he normally commands. grand and regal, as any ancient dragon. still, he stands above godwyn - one who is not of the short sort either. any form of his appearance is a balm for a weary soul, admittedly.

a hand settles upon his own chest. it is endearing, the vigor with which fortissax seems to want to keep the peace. the extend, however, seems quite unduly. ❛ i must ask you to refrain, even if it proves to be a most dreadful guest. i am oh, so, fond of the life breathed into the garden beyond my own presence. ❜ he speaks of birds no longer. eyes, as golden as the sun itself, move aside. they follow the shape of fortissax' shoulders for but a moment, before they settle on a familiar face. the small intruder, still angry at its seemingly massive issues with the greenery, seems forgotten.

where fortissax remains, godwyn takes half a step towards his company. not too close, never too close in the possibility of guardsmen's prying eyes. but close enough that the distance allows his voice to carry more quietly and still be heared. ❛ speaking of guests. i am most pleased you could make it. ❜ he speaks of their time together as if it has not, by now, become a habit. bi-daily or nightly meetings are more commonplace than staying apart. even in busy times, even in times where golden hair is once more hidden by the helm of a conqueror. ❛ i trust, your being here is not keeping you from more important meetings ? ❜ the smile he gives is near challenging, the question itself more musing than an actual question. he knows that fortissax would have made the time, as would he. it is an unspoken truth between them. given that no catastrophy keeps them from one another.

dread ancient dragon. lord of red lightning. names earned through destruction, violence, and fear upon the battlefield. he bears them all with a certain preference. they carry their own character. they are conflicts breaking against one another, where one looks up and calls terror divine. but from godwyn's mouth, his name is a hand laid upon the old wound of his being.

fortissax keeps his gaze upon the laurel hedge for a moment longer, though the foolish creature within it has become the least of his trials. the bird rustles, indignant and alive, somewhere among the leaves. a feather drifts loose, pale against the dark green, and the fountain continues its soft silver speaking. night gathers upon the garden in layers. damp earth. white flowers. gold light from the palace windows, thinned by distance. the warm ghost of sun still lingering in stone.

───his human form feels all of it too keenly.

the air upon his throat. the pulse beneath his jaw. the nearness of godwyn like heat without flame. where eyes may pry, and tongues may shape their beauty into accusation. so close that the world alters around fortissax. close enough that he knows, with an ancient creature's dreadful certainty, that there are distances measured not by steps, but by what the heart is forbidden to cross. ❝ equal footing, ❞ he repeats, and the words leave him with a low, thoughtful gravity. ❝ you speak boldly, prince of gold. ❞ eyes rest upon godwyn's face with a devotion too quiet to be harmless. lightning may split the heavens, but this is the force that frightens him more: the soft command of being seen.

❝ in war, mayhap. in oath, assuredly. in the esteem of my own heart… ❞ his mouth stills, as if the words have come too near to greed. ❝ there, i fear, you have long held the higher ground. ❞

( the confession settles between them, low as incense smoke. )

every arch may frame a witness. every shadow may keep the shape of a servant, a guard, some pious fool with a mouth full of duty. fortissax has seen kingdoms sharpen themselves upon rumour. he has seen love made into weakness by those too hollow to know its strength. so he stands where restraint places him. near enough that the warmth of his borrowed body recognises another presence. far enough that reverence may pass for courtesy. ❝ yet if you would have your name upon my tongue, ❞ he says, softer now, ❝ then i shall not deny you, godwyn. ❞

the garden seems to lean closer. the name moves through him like sunlight laid across ancient scales. once, he had known the golden prince as an enemy's heir, a radiant impossibility upon a war soaked in red lightning and auric fierceness. then godwyn had stood before him. not untouched by war or innocent of power. but open, steady, brave in a way that had not needed cruelty to prove itself true. fortissax had bent, and had not been diminished.

even now, in this slight and mortal-seeming shape, he feels the echo of that surrender. a storm pressed into the form of shelter.

❝ your mercy is vast indeed, to spare so clamorous a trespasser ❞ his mouth curves faintly. ❝ i shall obey. no lightning shall be called down upon your feathered guest, dreadful though its campaign against the greenery may be. ❞

a few leaves fall from the hedge. one lands on his shoulder. he glances at it from the corner of his eye, grave as a king faced with an omen, then lifts it between two fingers. the leaf is small, damp, delicate, its green veins bright beneath the shine. in his true form, it would scarcely have registered. in this body, it rests with an absurd and perfect weight. the world has become full of such things. petals that bruise. shared breaths. voices that undo him. hours that are not battles and yet leave him marked.

❝ as for more important meetings, i know of none. no summons draws me hence from you. ❞ the words are bare. a dragon may show his teeth before a thousand spears and feel less exposed than this. he draws a slow breath, and with it gathers the scattered edges of himself. the faint light beneath his skin stills. the human mask settles. his hands fold behind his back to deny them any foolishness. ❝ save catastrophe, and even then, i should think poorly of any catastrophe so ill-mannered as to choose this hour. ❞ the path curves beneath cypress. white blossoms lean from shadowed beds. far above, the erdtree's golden boughs seem less like a sovereign presence and more like a lamp held by some patient deity over a secret meeting.

❝ what life would you show me? for i confess, upon two legs, these garden paths trouble me more than the skies. oft have the lesser things escaped my eye. ❞

usually, someone half god, half man, does not shed thoughts on the mere idea of dying. usually, he remains uninterrupted on his way out the door & usually, wounds bleed. everything that unfolds within the chambers of the golden prince happens fast. quiet and quickly, assassins are upon him, as is their nature. they remain unseen, no sentry to herald their arrival. it takes half a dozen of them to overpower a struggling godwyn but they win out in the end. held like a common sacrifice, the shattered piece of death seeps deeply into his flesh.

there is no pain, much to godwyn's surprise. he's seen life ebb and taken just as many by his own hands. enemies, victims, collateral, they all struggle and writhe upon their last breaths. he does not. it's cold, bitterly so. no blood to speak of from a wound this fatal & all at once his body stops obeying his mind. the icy tendrils of death snake through every fiber, making their home in every gap not filled by light. as his form collapses, the aggressors disperse. their job is done and he will be discovered long gone. though, not all of him is ripped into the abyssal nothingness of unexistence. his mind stays put, tries to claw itself back into his limbs, to elicit a noise when not even breath will fill his lungs anymore. this situation is unknown as much as it is unwelcome. a demigod should not concern himself with the common threat of dying.

but he knows the sound of thunder down the hall. footfalls he'd recognize admidst a marching army. a great dragon compressed into a form much too small to be beholden of all he is. right. they were supposed to meet tonight, weren't they ? his absence surely must have alarmed the great fortissax. with flesh unheeding of his will, eyes do not move towards the door, rather, they stay where they are. half closed, sideways, dead ahead towards the foot of his bed. the yawning darkness of whatever dust has made its home under it, barely noticable in the low light of candles.

the noise stops & he wonders if he is now too far or if the other is already upon the scene. there is absolutely nothing. no more footsteps, no breath, no voice. as much as godwyn wills his own vocal chords to obey him, they do not. the body is withering, the rest of him trapped within.

the door opens before fortissax even becomes aware that he has raised his hand, that he has chosen to unveil this sight to himself. the door yields without making a sound. perhaps it has been open all along; this chamber has never hidden itself from him before. candlelight beckons at the edge of the threshold, yet this time it twists at his innards and drags them down into an abysmal darkness. for one breath, he is not ancient. not a storm. only a being halted by the sight of what should be impossible. godwyn lies on the floor. a deep, ghastly wound stretches across his back, and black ichor oozes out of it. the room is colder than usual around him. it gathers in the folds of godwyn's garments, under his hair, at the stillness of his mouth. the candles are vulgar for still burning.

❝ godwyn. ❞

the name leaves him softly. too softly for what it has endured. he crosses the chamber. each step is careful, and that is the first horror. some part of him still believes carefulness has meaning in this moment. still believes there is a way to move through this room that will not break the body that has already been shattered. marble cools beneath his knees when he falls beside godwyn, and a fine crack travels outward from the pressure of his grief. his hands hover. they have killed. they have torn through dragonscale and armour. they have held red lightning until the skies split open. now they tremble before the simple act of touch. even these human fingers seem monstrous beside such stillness.

he reaches for godwyn's wrist, and fortissax inclines his head, by a little. enough that his hair falls forward. enough that the golden light catches along the dark strands. it would never reflect on him in the way it did on godwyn. ❝ no, ❞ refusal, thin as breath. his fingers move up to godwyn's hand and close around it. the shape is known to him. by memory's quiet theft, piece by piece. a hand once lifted in greeting beneath the erdtree's long light. a hand near his own in the garden, close enough to undo him, far enough to survive the eyes of others. a hand that had never needed to touch him to leave its print upon him. now it rests in his, disconnected; he traces the ghostly lines.

it swans closer. his thumb presses once against the knuckles, small and helpless, as if some hidden door might open beneath the gesture. beneath the cold, beneath the terrible wall of flesh, there is a wrongness that does not settle. something remains caught where it should not remain. the shape of godwyn is here, and not here. a lamp with its flame stolen away, yet the glass still holds the phantom of a light. fortissax's breath catches.

❝ you are not wholly departed. ❞ the words are quiet. almost afraid to be true. he leans nearer, listening with more than ears. the old senses rise beneath his skin. they seek the pulse of a soul as they usually seek thunder in the cloud's dark belly. they find fracture. a rift where the world has opened its mouth and failed to finish what it began. death has not taken him cleanly. a gentler grief might weep. his does not know how. it gathers beneath his ribs until the borrowed bones ache with holding it. lightning stirs along his forearms, pale and soundless, then dies before it can become hurtful. there is nowhere to strike. no throat to close his hand around. the shadows have fled. all that remains is the beloved, and the promise fortissax did not keep.

a small foolish thought kept hidden in the inner walls of his heart. perhaps godwyn would smile. perhaps godwyn would speak his name again, and fortissax would bear it, fiercely, without flinching. he had been almost here. ❝ i did not linger, ❞ though no one has accused him. ❝ i turned aside for no one. ❞ his grip tightens. ❝ and still i come too late. ❞

fortissax bends, his forehead nearly touches godwyn's. ❝ hear me, if any part of you yet remembers my voice. i am here, godwyn. ❞ the name is not guarded now. no courtiers are needed in this room, no measured distance, no careful title placed like a veil over what cannot be revealed. here, fortissax just sinks into the ruin of his oath. he draws godwyn's hand against his chest. his heart beats. mortal in rhythm, beastly in anguish. ❝ you were to meet me beneath kinder light. ❞ all the agony that cannot fit through language finds shelter in the clenched corners of his mouth. something scaled passes the skin at his throat. his eyes, when they open, are bright with stormlight, but his hand remains gentle around godwyn's. he looks to the mark where death has entered. he does not touch it. some instinct, older than reason, forbids him. so he watches it. and suffers.

❝ whose hand has wrought this? what craven god, what faithless kin, what blade born of night has dared it? ❞ and the old dragon learns the shape of helplessness in a man's body. the knees. the hands. the bent neck. the terrible smallness of being near enough to hold and too late to protect.

❝ i swore it to you where none else heard, save my own heart. if that heart must be spent to keep what remains of you from darkness, then let it be spent. let it be torn and ruined. ❞

he gathers godwyn closer by a fraction, still careful, still reverent, as though cold flesh may become brittle from sorrow alone. he can dwell at the threshold of this half-death and bare his teeth at the dark beyond it. he can proclaim, again and again, until what is trapped within godwyn knows that it is not abandoned. ❝ if you cannot return to me, i shall go into the night and seek you there. ❞ his hand closes more firmly around godwyn's. ❝ only do not leave me with silence. not ever. ❞

a mixture of scenarios and dialogue for nighttime shenanigans. tw for mentions of alcohol, substance usage, and suggestive themes.

( SCENARIOS )

[ BUZZ ] - our muses are drinking and / or getting high on a rooftop.

[ CAMP ] - our muses are camping in the woods, telling ghost stories by the fire, when they suddenly hear something scary.

[ CONCERT ] - our muses attend a major pop star's concert and fan out.

[ DANCE ] - our muses go out clubbing and start dancing up on each other.

[ DIM ] - our muses make cocktails and slow dance in a dimly lit kitchen at 11pm.

[ DINER ] - our muses decide to hit up a diner at midnight and order breakfast.

[ DRINK ] - our muses meet up for drinks at a lowkey bar.

[ DRIVE ] - our muses are on a late night road trip and have to make a pit stop somewhere questionable.

[ EMPTY ] - our muses explore an abandoned building and almost get caught by [pick: security / squatters / other explorers / something else].

[ FRESH ] - our muses decide to sit outside one of their homes for fresh air and a meaningful conversation at 1am.

[ GAME ] - our muses stay up until 4am playing video games in the living room.

[ GRAVE ] - our muses explore a cemetery / graveyard and find something spooky.

[ HAUNT ] - our muses explore a location that is notoriously haunted and have a paranormal encounter.

[ HIDE ] - our muses are hiding out together in [pick: the attic / the bathroom / a closet / the garage / somewhere else] at a party they didn't want to attend.

[ HIKE ] - our muses are hiking along a new trail and find something interesting / odd after getting lost.

[ MASK ] - our muses attend a masquerade (or some other masked event) and unknowingly become dance partners.

[ PLAY ] - our muses have fun at a playground at 1am.

[ RITUAL ] - our muses conduct a [pick: cult-like / pagan / satanic / spell] ritual deep in the middle of a forest.

[ ROOM ] - our muses are deliriously sprawled out in one of their bedrooms at 5am after talking all night.

[ SHINE ] - our muses are laying on a blanket in the grass and stargazing.

[ SHORE ] - our muses attend a bonfire party on the beach and wind up talking and walking along the shore until sunrise.

[ SNACK ] - our muses make a 1am snack run to the nearest corner store / gas station.

[ SNEAK ] - our muses are caught sneaking in or out somewhere (alternate: sender may catch receiver, or vice versa).

[ STUDY ] - our muses spend the evening [pick: studying / training] and accidentally get locked in the [pick: grounds / gym / library / school].

[ SUMMON ] - our muses play with a ouija board (or similar tool) at 3am and get scared by themselves or something worse.

[ SWEAT ] - our muses are laying in bed together post-coitus.

[ SWIM ] - our muses sneak into the community pool for a late night swim.

[ VENUE ] - our muses drink and get rowdy at a rock show in a small venue.

[ WALK ] - our muses take a late night stroll around the neighborhood / town / city.

[ WET ] - our muses skinny dip in a lake / pond once the sun starts to go down.

( DIALOGUE )

❛ it's hard to see the stars in the city. ❜

❛ can you spot any constellations? ❜

❛ can i get you a drink? ❜

❛ i'm so tired, but i can't sleep… ❜

❛ it's too late for that. ❜

❛ this is gonna require an all-nighter. ❜

❛ how is it already two in the morning? ❜

❛ gonna grab a midnight snack. you want something? ❜

❛ can i take you home? ❜

❛ did you hear that? ❜

❛ i can't see shit. ❜

❛ why do hauntings never seem to happen during the day? ❜

❛ first one to fall asleep has to buy breakfast in the morning. ❜

❛ are you still awake? ❜

❛ are you okay? it sounded like you were having a bad dream. ❜

❛ well, you seemed like you were having a good dream… was it about me? ❜

❛ hey! no falling asleep on me! you better wake up! ❜

❛ what do you think about when you're falling asleep? ❜

❛ shh! keep your voice down! ❜

❛ please tell me you see that too… ❜

❛ i think we're being followed… ❜

❛ who the fuck are you?! why are you following me?! ❜

❛ why the hell are you up so late? ❜

❛ getting into some late night mischief? … yeah, me neither. ❜

❛ can you stay up with me, please? i just need some company… ❜

❛ don't turn on the light! ❜

❛ could you at least turn on a light or something? ❜

❛ who cares? it's not like anyone can see us. ❜

❛ this place is freakier at night… ❜