` , * crimson

bold your muses preference.

orion ――

roses / cherry blossoms / orchids / tulips

winter / summer / autumn / spring

thunderstorms / sunshine / snow

indoors / outdoors

meat / fruit / sweets

extravagance / traditionalism / minimalism

god fearing / non god fearing

cats / dogs / horses / birds

sunrise / sunset

day time / night time

fire / earth / water / wind

reading / writing

rising early / sleeping late

wine / ale / neither

fur / silk / satin / lace

rubies / pearls / sapphires

horse back / walking / carriages

love / power

having company / being alone

lakes / rivers / oceans

knife / sword / bow / poison

gold / silver

when; late evening

who; faethryl ( @nauranor​ )

orion had always been an overachiever, whether in regards to himself or towards the status he was complacent to uphold ― his father was always prideful of that fact, though for what seemed to be all the wrong reasons. day in and out he preached to the choir of how noble a son orion was. . . noble, yes, but also quiet. observant. compassionate. love was no hindrance to him, and yet the prince had never experienced it beyond familial or friendship; perhaps it was by design, for more reasons than one, that he should end up in as complex a situation as this.

it was no secret how much he knew faethryl abhorred the nobility ― or perhaps it was simply the idealization of it? it suddenly occurred to orion that since their betrothal, they hadn’t had time to even sit and talk; passing remarks, pleasantries, and cheerful jives were all well and done between them, but what of the more serious talks? the prince had held a yearning to be  closer to the elf since their introductions, yet far more hesitant in harming rather than healing. . . for the first time in his life, orion wanted to prove he could be different. perhaps that was why he was caught so off guard when faethryl had extended an evening invitation to him. . . or perhaps, in the contrary, it was because he could finally be himself.

leave it to me to be too early, he thinks to himself whilst practically speed-walking down the hallway ― if it wasn't for the need to get around the guards, orion swears he would’ve been been sprinting by now. his heartbeat, as much as it could be considered, filled his mind and wiped whatever inkling of thoughts he had. . . part of him worried about looking juvenile with his behavior, but the other was too happy to care. of course, a good luck streak for the prince couldn’t last that long; with his adrenaline heightened and a sudden inkling of self-criticism filling him, he mistakes a doorway for another hall and turns straight into the wood ― the clatter and shaking of the entryway sends more panic through him than the sudden clutching of his nose, hopping on one foot as he desperately tries to reign in the yell of pain that threatened to burst. still, he finds it difficult to not curse his cousin twice-removed; muttering low under his breath, it takes orion a moment to clarify that his nose hadn’t opened up to the world. . . yet just as long to realize that the door had. 

haman’s hand stays firm on the shoulder as the mage drops, fingers tightening their grip and squeezing hard on muscle and tendon. the recruit is forgotten, all that matters is this: a hunt come to fruition, victory sweet on his tongue when he feels how lucian’s breath trembles as he struggles to draw in air, the vibrations working it’s way through the blade. “it’s fitting that your blood should spill here,” he croons, watching those fingers curl into the grass and dirt below, “the only land that you’ll poison has already been tainted.” tainted by elves  — usurpers, false-faces that mocked true humanity.

it’s surprising in a way that forces adrenaline to rush through his veins - awakening his senses and widening his too- bright eyes - when lucian forces himself to stand. his hand stays firm on his shoulder - moving with him, even as the mage’s side leaned against a nearby tree. waiting for the mage to begin to draw another one of those shuddering breaths, haman’s hand on lucian’s shoulder grips and with a quick motion, draws the sword back, sliding the blade free of the mage’s body. a dark chuckle fills his chest, stepping with slow and determined steps to come around lucian’s side, watching as darkness starts to stain the shadowed fabric. 

“what reason do you have to fight, fell?” there’s a genuine curiosity in his voice, eyes trained on the mage as he circles to face him, the point of his bloodied sword down but his sword arm tensed to strike should the other make any move. “i told you: no one escapes their fate. and the moment you traded in your humanity for that dark power, yours was sealed.” the corner of haman’s mouth quirks in amusement at the trembling hand lifted  — the briefest stab of pain seems to run through his blood but it’s nothing but a pinprick before it’s gone. and haman’s smile widens wolfishly as lucian drops to a knee. it’s no surprise that he continues to run his mouth  — — it’s all he has left anyway. 

lifting the flat of his blade, haman moves it to bump against the bottom of lucian’s jaw, “do they bring you comfort? your words of false bravado?” head tilting slightly at the intensity of the glare shot his way, he muses as the flat of his sword moves, the point tracing a slow line down the slope of lucian’s throat, a small bead of blood appearing at the first press of the blade.  “i told you it would be slow but perhaps not that slow; you haven’t much time left before your blood soaks the ground. perhaps it would be more prudent to spend your last breaths on atonement  — repenting and begging the gods for forgiveness for throwing away their most precious gift before you meet the afterlife.” the press of the blade against the side of his throat becomes more apparent and haman’s eyes are almost feverish when they watch lucian’s face, “would you have me dispatch you faster? would you beg me for a swift death, lucian fell? appeal to my mercy?” 

-

“ it is not your mercy they will appeal to. it is mine. “

it is a icy chill, a voice as sharp as an ebony knife, that slices a fold within the crisp night air; that which could be considered a partial illusion, the voice rings in the minds and souls of those that bestowed the forest’s carapace. dread — the weight of it bears down like the current of an unyielding ocean, its tendrils slipping past the cracks of even the harshest iron-will. there is no visible source, no telltale sign of who or what might be conjuring such whispers that threatened to steal the very urge to live; whatever light could humble within a person fell to the wants of being snuffed out. 

cold. . . there was nothing but the cold. 

the night seemed to much heavier then, the taste of copper dampening one’s tongue as the stars turned their backs to what they had created. to what they had betrayed. the hindrance of a child’s nightmares seemed oh so far away. . . frosted steel and trembling hearts would do little to discern the demon that had so appeared — perhaps it was the spilt crimson upon the forest floor, or the swell of poisonous victory that coated the assailants’ armor. such venom tainted and masked by the moon’s mysteries. . . perhaps, instead, it was for a reason far more. . . nefarious.

“ you disappoint me, nero. for all your brutality, you are still so. . . . mundane. “

ＳＮＡＰ 

a strained scream rips through the tension, youthful apprehension torn from the very veins of the accuser. a hand, bent in the most unnatural of angels, the bone piercing honeyed skin. the boy — for as much innocence as he dared claim, spurred by the unholy sanctimony given an oath to, he lay bare before the nightmares conjured. 

ＲＩＰ

the heavens beckon him, and yet the hells claim him. against the blackened ink of the sky, the moonlight coats a halo around the disfigured acolyte. a leg, suspended only by sinews of flowing crimson and buckled armor, dangles detached; a silent scream. it utters upon his lips, trapped in a throat now bruised a deep purple. if only he had followed intuition rather than encouragement.

ＣＲＡＣＫ

like a wave of despair, it rolls through the boy, tearing the fire from his figure and the life from his eyes. ankles snap, hips twist, ribs crush. . . and as his skin splits, corrupted ichor flowing from his figure and orifices, mercy is what beckons him thorough a final snap of his neck. 

he remains suspended, lifeless, a final scream etched upon withering skin. . . until the shadows descend and he falls to the muddled clearing.

silence.

with only the bating of a man’s breath to fill the night, time seems to pass like amber to a fly; the tension, riveting within air saturated by iron, is broken only by the simplest of appearances known to them. . . a hand.

“ pity. “

fingers long and sinewy, greyed the color of ancient sand, slip into sight of the moonlight. . . they stretch as if seeking something, someone, before a subtle flick trembles in the direction of the fallen mage. the mangled corpse of youth shudders and twitches, fighting as if in an internal battle — only when it falls still, and the subtle gleam of crimson begins to slither across the grass, does its purpose become known.

it is heading towards lucian.

“ i am curious, templar. “ frosted words slip from the shadows as the hand disappears from view. the squelch of boots echoes almost tantalizingly, before the nightmare’s appearance makes itself known — only it isn’t a nightmare, but something much, much worse. “ after you killed my apprentice, what other lies would you have whispered into that boy’s ears? how many false truths would it take to convince him to try and kill me next? “ 

a grin, one of malice, teeth gleaming in the light as rhynor steps past the treeline — in memory a deep burgundy, his eyes now train bright coursing red upon haman’s gloating figure. it is almost as if the presence of the night had beckoned something further sinister from the mage; hunger unable to be satiated earns the flicker of a falling smile, though the stillness of a trained mind pinpoints itself upon the assailant. a predator to prey.

“WHAT?” HOW COULD HE assumed that she left because of him? He was only the reason Yseult stayed home for as long as she did. “I did not leave because of you , Tyrion.”  Suddenly the gap between them was dangerously small , Yseult closing it herself. The hesitance of before seemed to disappear from her actions. “I didn’t leave because of you.” She repeated , her voice barely above a whisper as her hand moved to cup his cheek. “I would never leave because of you.” 

Everything felt like it slowed around her. Maybe it did , maybe she was just getting sick again , but it felt like it. Yseult felt like a child again , when she had first started to notice Tyrion as more than the boy that sat next to her in the school room , the one that her teacher mother didn’t like because he was always up to something in her eyes. Yseult liked him much more than her mother , fair to say. She could barely hide it then , and the gods know that she was doing a horrible job of it now , if she was even trying. 

“My heart has never belonged to another-” Her gentle touch didn’t leave his face , looking up at him with her other hand on his chest. It belonged to no one but herself , Yseult had come to that conclusion over her five years alone , but she could make an exception just this once. “-And I would be very much upset with you if you didn’t kiss me.” 

Now that was all Yseult could think about. For five years she had managed to keep thoughts like this at bay. About Tyrion , about anybody. She didn’t leave to find the romance she had at home , she left to make something of herself. But Yseult didn’t. The best she had done for herself was become a nanny to a noble woman. It was not bad by stretch of the imagination , but it wasn’t what Yseult had expected. Expecting things may have become a bit of a hard topic for her , seeing as she could have never expected this. She hated how he could do this to her , one look from Tyrion and Yseult was a mess. 

-

tyrion’s thoughts are muddled by the rapid thumping of his heart, expectancy causing his hands to shake somewhat at his sides. yet, as he watches her, he is as still as a ghost; chest taught by the grip of uncertainty, the ichor of tyrion’s eyes subtly fade into glassy blues that convey nothing short of hope. hope that yseult might understand, and hope for a future he had dreamed of since the day she left. a brief silence falls between them as he allows the illusion to dim in some ways — the torchlight breaches the fog and warms their faces, illuminating an almost sorrowful smile that pulls on his lips. tyrion doesn’t expect her to say yes, even more so confirming his suspicions; yet even when she speaks, the softness of her palm brushing across the mage’s cheek, it appears something out a dream — part of tyrion wonders if one of his students may be playing a prank, twisting his senses into that of true vulnerability. . . but the way she watches him, and the way she feels convinces him of a far grander truth; she is here, and she is willing.

“ you don’t understand how happy that makes me feel. . . how you make me feel. “ tyrion’s voice is soft and low, his tone hitched as he struggled to find the air to speak. even with the revelation, the mage felt. . . lightheaded. perhaps it was the lack of oxygen from his own inabilities, but he had liked to think it was how close yseult was to him. the space that separated was but a dream away, a tug of wanting he had yearned for eternally. still, the tension lessens from his shoulders somewhat — he finds himself leaning into her touch, a gentle chuckle pushing its way past his lips. tyrion had spent so long searching for the answer to whatever transgressions he might have caused. . . yet hearing it from her lips was the only semblance he needed to understand. it had always been that way, even since they were children — tyrion often concerned himself with complexities, but yseult was an anchor in an ocean he could never let go. . . and never wanted to either.

he doesn’t say anything beyond that, pulled to the present as he leans forward ever so slightly; it’s an unconscious maneuver, but all he can think of is the fact that she isn’t pulling away. whatever amount of truth and love he can portray in his eyes alone attempts to be conveyed. . . but it is the acceptance of his request, his desire, that rings true and clear through his head — tyrion is unexplainably, undeniably, drunk on her touch. . . and he can barely stop himself before he’s shifting to press his lips to hers.

it is gentle, at first — his fingertips dance across yseult’s hips, pulling her close. . . oh so close, to where their chests meet and he hopes she can feel the incessant beating of his heart. it hadn’t slowed, even since the beginning of their conversation; in fact, only appearing to speed up as their truths were shared. it amazes tyrion how someone can be so perfect for someone else — the fit of her body against his own is enough to drive him mad, but its the way their lips flutter that makes his mind go numb. he turns ever slightly, desperate for more, unable to hide the longing within the kiss. . . even to himself. 

but he doesn’t want to hide. . . never again.

a free hand rises to slip beneath the base of her hair, tilting her head up to meet him — five years without her touch, and nothing had changed at all. perhaps they were older, and wiser, and maybe a bit more complacent with life. . . but yseult was still as perfect as the day he first met her in the back of the schoolhouse. to some, as well as himself, the mage had been the one to be put under a spell. . . and tyrion didn’t find any reason to deny it. in the moment, he isn’t sure how much time has passed — the burning in his lungs, once able to be ignored, had grown far too searing for it to go any further. . . silently, he’s perfectly complacent with dying if it meant staying by her side. however, it had already been five years. . . he didn’t want to add on eternity to that point. as if pulled to her by a magnet, he finally finds the urge to break away — but only when he swears he can see spots.

“ vhenan. . . “ tyrion is breathless, a giddy smile trailing cherried lips. he was always an admirer of the elven language, finding it far more expressive in some manners. . . particularly now. “ my snowlily. “ softly, as if scared to break her, tyrion rests their foreheads together with bated breaths, thumb caressing the arc of her cheek. “ i have never stopped loving you. . . even after all these years. “

and, going unspoken; forevermore.

“ i believe the expression is, look who the cat dragged in. but i’ll give you a star for effort. “

despite the smirk pulling upon his features, the venom in rhynor’s tone is enough to send any regular man crawling on their knees. if looks could kill, the blood mage would have already strung theo up and relished in his screams — but of course, public identities were best left hidden. pushing away from the blacksmith shop’s entry post, the elf clears his throat and turns partially away.

“ and here i was looking for a new sword. . . if i’d known your stench would stick to this land, i would’ve never strayed so close. forgive me, dear aristeo. “

" ah yes, my apologies, i had assumed this ‘drum’ of yours was a barrel topped with leather. “ 

the curtness of her tone is betrayed by the twinkling of her eyes, peering at oz from across the meal they were sharing. leave it to the elder elf to cause the most trouble — silently, sarys hopes he’ll continue, itching for some other inkling than the boredom of noble life. part of her yearns for the freedom it seems her sibling shares, but the other? it threads the fine line of enjoying her responsibility and leverage.

“ but please, do tell me again how it is you managed to somehow have your sorry behind thrown in county jail. . . twice in one night, little rogue. “

" i’d think you’d hardly constitute as old at just forty, or has my mother managed to convince you? "

even in the serious moments of life, orion had always been one to coat such strains with a personal blend of humor and aforementioned sincerity. laughing away his problems often ended in one of two things; either the individuals mirrored him, or found such inklings of irritation in response. silently, orion hopes marek will not follow the latter.

“ in all sincerity, what are these versions you speak of? “

" that bad of a day, hm? "

tyrion can hardly help the stifling of muted laughter from breaking into the night, all-too amused by the predicament of his fellow mage. “ what was it this time? did one of the yearlings set their hair on fire. . . again. “ a smile splits his expression in too as he turns to look over at meilin, hardly needing an answer to a question he already knows. though they both taught within the circle, tyrion’s station often put him in league with matured mages. sometimes, much to either of their chagrin, meilin did not have that blessing.

“ i’m kidding, i’m kidding. . . not. but i digress — it’s on me for tonight, if you wish. “

" i wouldn't say it's worse, but it is. . . something. "

orion's expression is strangely light, amused even — a large part of the prince understands faethryl's plight, but the other wrestles with the thought of eventually reaching into such territories. still, hidden away in the confines of his quarters, orion is silently pleased at the direction their conversation had taken; most of his interactions with the elf had bounced around the subject of intimacy. . . and though he never wanted to push his betrothed into a corner, he was happy to finally hear his thoughts on the matter.

they were making progress. small progress. . . but progress nonetheless.

“ but hey, i take good care of my lips. pinky promise- “