Saph

She had grieved him once when he was taken from her. She had grieved him again in a world made of paint and longing. She had come back from it carrying his canvas, and she had brought it somewhere no Dessendre would ever find it. Somewhere quiet and safe where no one would bother it, where no one would enter it again. She couldn’t bring herself to destroy it. It was all that remained of the world he’d created and his family had warped. A memory. A promise that he would not be forgotten, that his legacy would be safe in at least one pair of hands despite the desire to repaint what was lost and reform it, but that would make her no better than them. She couldn’t do that to him, no matter how much it pained her, she would not fall to the same desires and negligence for his wishes. 

She pulled at the petals one by one until nothing remained but the stem. Her fingers opened. The wind took them, red scattering across the grey until there was nothing left to hold.

Until next life.

*

Each step into the painted world felt heavier than the last, as though the canvas itself could sense what she had come to do and wanted her to reconsider.

She had no words, but her mind would not quiet. She wanted it to be real. She wanted him to be real, and when she felt the warmth of his presence at the back of her mind, familiar as a song half-remembered, she could almost pretend.

Then she opened her eyes, and grief sharpened itself in her heart. Alicia had been sent back to the world beyond the canvas. She had cried, she’d begged but ultimately this was the right choice, or so she kept telling herself. 

Then it was just them. He was there. Standing the way Verso stood, occupying space the way Verso had, and the sight of him split something open in her chest that she thought she had already finished breaking. 

He looked at her with Verso's eyes but they were wrong. They were the same icy blue like that of Monoco Station, of the Frozen Heart but they were tormented. Her Verso had laughed easily. He had worn his heart close to the surface. These eyes held a sorrow ground over years, painted onto him by hands that had loved him and in loving him had asked too much. He had been shaped by grief that was never meant to be his, and it showed in the set of his shoulders, in the way he held himself. She felt sorry for him before he said a single word.

She crossed the distance between them and raised her fingers to his cheek. The scruff of him pressed into her palm and she stilled completely, terrified of what the touch meant, terrified of what it didn't. She did not have what he deserved. Peace was not something she could give with her presence alone, no matter how much she wanted to.

She came. The thought moved through him slowly, like light through water. Her face belonged in his family and had haunted him but the version he knew had been taken from him. He didn’t know her, this her, the real her. He knew the weight of her and the warmth of her and the sound of her voice in a room full of other voices. He knew all of it and none of it was his. It belonged to someone else, someone who had held her and was now gone, and all that remained was the memory of a love he had never actually lived, aching in his chest as though it were real.

It felt real. That was the cruelest part. It felt entirely real.

"I'm sorry-" He turned his face from hers, heavy with guilt that had been borrowed from a dead man.

"Don't be." She drew his face gently back to hers. "You've suffered so much. For that, I apologise."

She meant it. Looking at him, she meant it completely, and hated herself a little for the grief underneath, for the part of her that kept searching his face for something that would never be there, that would never be his to offer and never hers to take.

"He loved you." His whispered. How would he express the feelings he knew whatever fragment he was based upon once held for her, still held for her in its semblance. 

"He did."

"I'm not-" The sentence dissolved at its edges. He couldn't finish it. She already knew. He could tell by the way she looked at him. 

She glanced past him at the boy hunched over the canvas, still painting, still holding the world together one stroke after another. Something in her chest pulled tight.

"I know." Her voice was soft and warm. "I know you're not him. It's alright."

A small mercy, he thought. That she did not need him to explain it. She had arrived already knowing, already carrying the understanding so he did not have to watch her arrive at it in real time. It was also the only thing that made this bearable.

"It's time for him to stop painting." His voice sounded like tears. She pressed her lips together. She had cried enough for several lifetimes. 

"It's time for you to rest." Her voice broke on the last word. Some things could not be helped. "It's time for us to put an end to this."

He reached for her face, so tentative, cupping her cheeks as though she were the fragile one. A tear escaped before she could stop it. 

"Will she-" He stopped at the crack of his own voice but pressed on. "Will she be fine? Is it the right thing?"

Even now. At the very edge of everything, he was thinking of Aline who had painted him back into existence because the alternative was unthinkable to her. Of the sister he had lost twice over, of Alicia, of Maelle. There was so much pain she would not press into him but she had come here to be honest, and she would be.

"She’s lost her son. She'll never be fine." She met his gaze and held it, those eyes that were his and were not his, the colour she had loved for years and had spent more years trying to stop seeing in her sleep. "Alicia-, Maelle she’ll have to learn to live with her pain. They all will." A breath. "You and I both know this painted world won't solve anything. No matter how much they want to pretend otherwise."

She's right. He had always known it. Somewhere beneath everything Aline had built into him, some truer thing had always known. He was not a solution. He was a wound dressed as a comfort, a fire kept burning past the point of warmth. Verso would have hated it. The real one, the one whose memories he wore, the one who had loved this woman and loved his sisters, his mother, his father and would have chosen, if given the choice, to spare them this.

He was not that man but he understood him. Something settled in him. Quiet and final and long overdue.

"Thank you."

He pressed his forehead to hers. She let him. She pressed back, and she let herself sink into the warmth of him, into the shape of everything she had once had, when she felt his tears on her fingertips, she cried. Time moved strangely here. It might have been minutes. It might have been years. Out there it would have been nothing at all, a blink, a breath but she was given this much, and she held it.

When they pulled apart, she offered her hand. His fingers closed around hers. Warm. Solid. Already beginning to feel the way memory does, present and slipping all at once. Together they crossed to where the boy still painted. She did not let go. She held on tighter to force the tremble from her form. He squeezed in return, hanging on as if this would be his last moment. It would be his last moment.

"You need not do this alone," was all she said.

He took a breath, slow and steadying. He was afraid to ask but part of him ached for her, a vague memory, the part of him that wondered if he ever truly felt alive, or if he had only ever existed. 

"Will you be alright?" Still hesitant. Still caring, right to the last.

"I'll live on."She had said goodbye once already in smoke and ruin. She was grateful to have been given this, to be the one offering peace instead of only grief. "It's time for you to rest."

He reached toward the boy.

"It's okay." His voice was steady. She was glad for that. She needed it to be steady. "It's over, Verso."

The final remnants of the soul she had loved took the boy's hand and rose.

One step away from the canvas. Then another. With each one she felt him growing lighter, the warmth of him thinning at the edges, until what she held was less a hand and more the idea of one, until petals brushed where his fingers had been, soft and then gone.

"Until next life," he said.

"Until next life, Verso."

She let go.

She stood in the darkening world and watched them walk until the gommage swallowed them whole. She stayed a moment longer, for him, for the heart she had come to know and love and lose in a different way than the first time but no less completely. Then she closed her eyes. She let the weight of it take her.

“You came.” You state excitedly, tracing your fingers over his cheekbone lovingly. 

“I made you a promise when we last met.” He leans into your touch, his lips softly grazing the inside of your wrist, pretending not to be satisfied by the goosebumps that spread across your skin, and the flush to your cheeks. Your brow furrows, a spark of concern taints your radiant energy.

“Is-is it safe for you to be here?” You tried not to ask, tried not to bring up the elephant in the room but you failed. When you lower your head thinking you might have ruined this moment it’s Lucien’s warm touch that lifts your chin and makes you meet assurance in his eyes. 

“As safe as it is for you to be here.” That somewhat puts you at ease though the faint flicker is still there. Lucien will make it his sole task to make you forget. 

He takes a step back, offers you his hand in a bow; a rather formal invitation to dance. You do not put your hand in his so daintily. You do not curtsey in return. No you take his hand and pull. Were he of less grace he might have fallen flat on his face and made a fool of himself, though he is sure you would have had a good laugh and it’d have been worth it especially if you’d fuss over him after he ate dirt. Still he keeps some of his dignity by but stumbling once and allowing himself to be pulled along. You lead him to the biggest bonfire, the radial heat too much to bear. The beads of sweat collecting at his brow do not go unnoticed when you turn to him, work your way through those fancy buttons and clasps with nimble ease and push his jacket and vest off of his shoulders, discarding it somewhere with some other clothes he assumes must be the garments you wore until you deemed them too constricting or simply useless. He bites back the comment forming on his tongue about how quick you are to undress him. 

“We’ll see where the night takes us.” You jest hooking a finger into the neckline of his shirt, an incentive to get closer. Lucien obliges. You lean in close, a hair’s breath away from him and look at him through your lashes. He holds his breath in anticipation of your next move. 

“Now let me show you how the commoners do it in the Autumn forests.” Quick as you are you step away and not even the heat of the fire can replace the spark you light within him. Never once do you break eye contact until you join the circle dancing around the bonfire. He’s quick to step in before someone can take your arm. 

These are not the waltzes of courts. This is ballfolk, commoner’s dance. The steps are beyond him despite your efforts to explain. He might have been paying more attention to the way you move than your actual teachings. Can you blame him? He falls in line pairing up with you. You raise your arm bent at the elbow. A quick look tells him to mimic and he does missing but half a beat but Lucien would not have survived by the graces of fate were he not cunning and quick. Your arms meet at the wrist and you use it to stir him in the right direction. Back and forth, twist and turn, figure eights, best you don’t pay attention to his footwork lest you looking for a good laugh. The music continues. Laughter fills the air. It might as well have been just the two of you in this clearing because everything else ceases to matter when you’re with him. 

You manage to pull Lucien into a dance that goes back and forth. It’s much slower than the others, much closer to a regular palace waltz when no one has reason to show off. To his disappointment half of the dance is spent barely within arm’s reach of you but you make up for it with every passing move by pressing your lips to his. You are gone far too soon. Tease. You know it given the gleam in your eye but finally the last note plays and you’re close. Finally you’re captured in his arms once more and you are not one to deny his affections. In fact you welcome him with open arms, or rather tangle your fingers into his hair and pull him close for a long-awaited passionate kiss. You lean your body against him to push him away from the dancing crowd as to not get in the way. He’s far too distracted to be aware of his surroundings and instead fully submerges in your comfort, your touch and your enchanting lips. 

But then you pull away all of the sudden. Lucien is about to protest but then he notices too. The music has stopped, the voices and laughter fall quiet. The crackling of fire takes over. The crackling of fire and horses in the distance, people in the distance. The celebration comes to an end. The fire grows dark in the flick of some wrists now not but smouldering embers. You reach to grab something and take Lucien’s hand in yours once more. Time to run. You don’t have to say it. Soon trees pass by, weaving through, jumping over fallen branches and springs. You know these lands well but after running for what seems like an eternity, trying to throw off the tracks of whoever came to disturb the celebration, you’re out of breath and so is he. You cast a look over your shoulder and miss a breath, run coming to a slow. Lucien follows suit. You look in the other direction to see some of your friends, your neighbours, your family running in the darkness. 

“You feel like taking a little risk?” You ask out of breath stepping back towards a tree leaning against the bark. You look so alluring, so tempting beckoning him to with a single finger. You drop the garments you’d grabbed but he cares little. Each step he takes is another heartbeat. 

“Quite the theatrics.” Again your fingers snake into his hair putting slight tension on his roots. In retort he grabs you by your thighs and lifts you until you’re perfectly pinned between him and the tree, legs wrapped around his waist. 

“Says you.” You breathe leaning close but now it’s his turn to always remain a hair’s breath from you. Tiny victories and petty payback but when you whine he almost gives in. 

“Says I.” He barely has the time to get the words out when horse hooves and whinnies close in and you close the distance. Your tongue dances along his lips until he meets you. Pulling his hair you angle his head to deepen the kiss even further. When the unwelcome guests are close enough you are sure to let out a lewd moan. They slow down. Lucien makes to pull apart but you urge him to stay. You can feel that smile against your lips, feel the speeding of his heartbeat. And then finally the clearing of a throat has you pull away. Gently you guide his head down to your neck and Lucien decides to even the score yet again, or maybe you’ll retort more severe when he trails kisses down your neck, letting his tongue smooth over where he sucks just a little too much. Never painfully of course but enough to leave a mark or several in the morning. Perhaps you’ll gift him some of his own in return. 

“State your business.” The guard awkwardly tries to impose. Lucien feels your repressed laughter and meets it with a soft warning bite. 

“I’m sorry sir- I-uh-we are a little preoccupied in case you couldn’t tell.” Whatever the guard is trying to say falls silent. Exactly as planned. You notice him shift from foot to foot unsure what to do or how to handle this situation. 

“Very well then.” He clears his throat again. “I recommend you get out of here now.” With that Lucien gently lowers you to the forest floor until he’s sure you’re on stable feet. You address the guard over his shoulder, Lucien refusing to raise his gaze or turn, for his safety and yours. 

“Of course, sir. That’s very generous of you. We’ll be on our way now. Good night.” With that you reach down to pick up the garments you dropped. The guard does not feel like sticking around and rides off. Once you’re sure no one is in earshot you laugh, truly laugh. You lean your head against his shoulder. 

“That went better than expected.” Lucien sighs in relief as you hand him his vest. He realises you grabbed his coat and vest when you could. Best not to have those laying around in Autumn when he’s technically still banished. He notices you didn’t manage to grab any of your own garments so when you hand him the jacket he instead drapes it over your shoulders. 

“We should probably get out of here. The guards are none too happy about our little celebrations.” You lace your fingers with his and begin walking. He follows along allowing himself once more to be guided by you. You take to humming a melody, dancing to the beat of your own song as you walk, spinning and twirling along the way until the torches of the village come into view. A wave of sadness washes over Lucien. He doesn’t know when he’ll next see you. He’ll be back in Spring and you’ll be stuck here. To be separated yet again… Why does it have to be so soon? But then you turn to him, back to the village. 

“Stay the night?” You ask. It catches him off guard. Your previous escapades have been until sunrise when the celebrations would end and the people would return to the village but here you are inviting him, truly inviting him into your life. Though he once thought he might have many doubts he finds clarity in his mind. 

“Yes. Of course.” Lucien blurts before his mind can reason why this is a bad idea. “Some might think twice before inviting me into their home.” He jokes.

“Oh yes. You and your promiscuous reputation. Whatever will this innocent fae do or think? I might be tainted by your wicked ways. A good and honest Autumn citizen no more-” You drag on but it’s Lucien’s turn to pull you in. By your clasped hands you are pulled flush against him, unprepared. He catches you and you manage to find comforts in his body catching your stumble. 

“Graceful as ever.” He jabs and your mouth falls agape at the insult. 

“I have held my tongue all night about your lacking dancing skills and this is how you repay me?” 

Azriel didn’t mean to follow you. He wasn’t. Not really. You’re just very quick and it’s very busy and far away when his shadows sung so sweetly of your presence but a few streets down. They’d taken to that in the past months; always notifying him when you were close. They like you, almost as much as he likes you, almost as much as you like him. Cauldron… when you told him of your affections he might as well have been swallowed by the darkness but you found your way to him. Since that confession on your midnight walk across the Sidra, things have been good. A graze here, a longing look there, a couple of kisses too but as life does, he was whisked away longing for your presence, your touch, your very soul every passing second, it made it all so much more difficult. Not that he’s used to doing things the easy way anyway. When he saw you across the street finally, basket in arm, talking to people, moving from market stand to shop. He draws nearer still weaving through at a leisurely pace, simply to absorb your grace, the way you go about your day without a worry in the world. Finally the crowd recedes and he’s able to catch up. 

“Took you long enough.” You say to the air. Azriel is confused. You seem to be talking as if someone walks next to you but there’s no one there. No one but him. His shadows sing such lovely songs; of your glee, the way you raise an eyebrow and turn on your heels. When you face him he notices one resting in your palm. The tiniest sliver of shadow, coiling and dancing with joy. Traitors. Azriel bites the inside of his cheek for a second; a poor attempt to control those micro expressions you’ve caught onto. 

“They like you. I don’t blame them.” The way your smile shines like a thousands stars and beckons him closer, he but follows along these urges coming to cup your palm. Your skin is cold to the touch but you don’t seem bothered as you subconsciously lean closer, your shoulders slackening just a little. You make it seem so easy. Even more so when you stand on your tiptoes and press your lips to his cheek ever so gently. 

“Regardless, I hope my wandering doesn’t keep you from whatever you were doing.” Completely unbothered you loop your arm through his. The sliver of shadow joins the others happily now you’re close to him, to them. They trail alongas much to you as they do to him. Whatever he was doing seems so insignificant now he’s here with you. You have taken up every single thought passing through his head. The full moon is your guide and had Azriel not been so honed in he might as well have lost track where or when he was. At least he’s aware enough you’re taking him to the shores. The breeze tells him so because it tussles your hair ever so lightly like only an ocean breeze can. He should be thanking the sprites of nature for this gift. 

“I think you care as little about my previous destination as I do.” There’s a smugness in his voice, one you’ve learned to chalk up to him being a know-it-all, when he knows he’s right. He is right. You won’t deny it. While you would love to hear him talk about his day, you care very little about what you’re keeping him from if it means he’ll remain at your side a moment longer. Azriel had been whisked away from you for far too long already. If it truly was urgent he would have said so. Perhaps that makes you selfish. If it does so be it because if it means he remains at your side willingly, if he chooses you, who are you to deny the both of you?

“Perhaps so but that does not make it less polite to ask.” You all but scold him. While your voice reads offended, your eyes gleam with playfulness; the shine in them, the lines at the corners growing more prominent all a sign of your amusement. 

“Manners and niceties are not my strong suit.” You scoff at his retort and quickly cover your lips to hide your smile. 

Azriel gently stops and you follow suit, looking up at him when he takes that hand from your face and reveals your lovely lips. First he kisses your knuckles; not but a graze. You let out a soft breath, a gasp if he dares assume. That’s when he steps in closer, fingers dance across your cheek and as if clockwork you tilt your head lean up and press your lips to his. A sweet kiss. And another follows. When Azriel pulls away and sees the look in your eyes he knows he would never refuse you anything. He will certainly not refuse you this. His hand settles on the small of your back pulling you to his body, the other tangles into your hair and when you look at him the way you do he leans in again, this time revealing what he had kept under lock and key: the true desperation of his longing for you. You deepen the kiss, fingers dancing across his shoulder, settling on the base of his neck, playing with the hairs at the back of his head and moving up, trapping him within your loving. 

But all good things have to come to an end. A clearing throat not too far away makes you pull away. He would have preferred to ignore it, to abuse that dark reputation just enough to spark hesitance upon approach but it’s too late. You mutter an apology, lace your fingers with his, pick up the basket you must have dropped he knows not when and pull him along the streets closer towards the shore. 

“You and your manners.” He laughs. “So where are we going?”

“We are going to the shore because it’s nice and quiet- don’t look at me like that-“ You once more scold him but stop, placing your palm flat against his chest. “You’ll have to be more patient.”

“If that is your promise I’ll do as you say.” He goes to lean in but your palm keeps him just out of reach. You don’t have to say the words because they practically echo through his head; desperate much? The answer is yes. You quicken your step and thus he has his answer too. 

You know how to pick your spot. It’s a climb down some rocks and while you could have asked Azriel to fly the both of you to stable grounds, you choose not to. Be it stubbornness or simply the look in his eyes whenever he sees you step from one jagged rock to the next, basket in hand and balancing with the other. You’re no trained warrior from the Illyrian mountains battle worn to keep your step and while he is sure he could catch you, is always close enough, there is this fragment of doubt. What if you hurt yourself? What if he’s not quick enough? What if he fails? Doubt flashes through his eyes but then he sees your smile and knows; you’re safe with him. He is safe with you here on your way to the waves at night. The crashing, push and pull of the water echoes through his mind as it does through the sand banks and hollows between stone. You’d once called it the song of nature; beckoning as it is dangerous. You compared it to him jokingly, claiming his song very much similar to this one. 

Once your feet touch the final edge of the rocks, where the sand blends in and the shallows meet, you take of your shoes, set them besides your basket on an elevated level. You without much of a splash or complaint about the frigid cold step into the ankle deep water. You suck in a breath, casting your gaze to the sky. You’re divinity embodied, the radiant moonlight telling the story of your beauty, your grace. Had Azriel not the restraint he had he might as well have fallen onto his knees in front of you ready to worship your very being, your every whim and whine and want. You have truly enthralled him. Then your gaze casts to him and he is frozen until you stretch your fingers towards him. An offer to join. Slowly he follows suit. You watch his every move with inquisitive eyes as much as he did you before. 

“There’s stories you know, about witches of old dancing in the shallows of rivers and oceans. They asked for favourable tidings, for the waves and tides to wash away all that stains and settles rot within the soul. They ask the stars to light when they see the paths no more. It’s said they danced to a song none but them could hear under the last full moon of the year.” You explain as Azriel unlaces his boots, sets them aside next to your basket. You have to hide your amusement when he was none too prepared for the freezing water. He steps closer to you until you lace your fingers with his, letting the others brush along the line of his shoulders. Your warmth is inviting as ever and the desire to be close to you grows ever stronger. 

“Stories of witches. Tall tales and superstitions to keep Illyrian warriors in line.” The beat of his heart echoes like the strings of a waltz or perhaps it is your heartbeat. Azriel grew up with the stories too. He’s not one to settle for tall tales as truth but he knows every myth and legend holds some grain of truth. You’re no witch though. You are not a thief in the night to steal the newborns and use their bones for your dark machinations. You’re simply just you; perfect and glowing and beautiful. You’re enchanting in your own way and might as well lure him to his death. He would not question it. Perhaps you are the witches from the fairytales after all. 

“I never took you for the superstitious type. If these dark magics frighten you so, feel free to abandon me here and I shall see to my grand witchcraft myself.” You jest and turn on your heels, taking a stride away from him but by your interlocked hands you are spun further and back into Azriel’s embrace, your entwined hands between the two of you, his free hand settling upon your hip softly tracing the curve. While the move was a surprise and left you to catch your breath eyes wide, you recover quickly. You curve your spine to look up at him with defiance. 

“Send me away and I’ll leave you here. Say the word and I’ll be gone.” His lips are awfully close to yours. You can feel the breath of his every word on yours like a breath of life itself. He dips, your cheek to his barely grazing as he whispers. “Answer me.” 

After far too long, Gavriel returns to the comforts of leather-bound lore, and worn parchment. How long had it been? Months? Years? The passing days say it’s barely been a fortnight but it feels like an eternity too long. It’s still fresh, this little thing you have got going. He’s on cloud nine and if this is the honeymoon phase he never wants it to end. It’s been a fortnight since he’s last seen you, when he held you in his arms and when he stole some kisses among those shelves. A mere glance to the side and the memory replays as clear as day and he finds himself following that path. A kiss here, and there, his back against the books while you pulled him in by the collar of his shirt, the burning of your lips so pleasant. The ghost of his fingers is but a sore reminder that you’re not anywhere in sight. 

Your sight would leave in the dust the past few days and all else ceases to matter. Yet, you remain nowhere to be seen. You are not at your usual desk. Nor your little nook hidden from prying eyes. He does find books still open, page marked, and a steaming cup of tea. Cinnamon. The faint smell trails away from just the cup. It’s one akin to your own scent. Gavriel has relied on his fae senses many a time and they have saved him plenty but only now does he truly find himself thanking the gods for these gifts as they lead the path to you, every step you’ve taken since abandoning your comforts. 

How you’d love to be back in that little piece of the world you carved out for yourself, the one where no one would bother you. Alas duty calls and tomes are requested expediently and so you had to abandon your realm for this sweet purgatory. You just hope you make it back before your tea has grown cold. Mumbling to yourself you browse the sections looking for the ancient scrolls and tomes you’ve come to know so well. It’s a matter of time before you carry a heavy stack, still to collect more. Should you have grabbed a cart or perhaps dropped off the eight heavy books? Maybe but you’ve gotten this far. No way back. There’s something strangely familiar settling you with the determination to get this over with as soon as possible. You can’t quite place it. 

Gavriel hears the faint mumbling before he turns the corner. It’s distinct and makes his heart leap in ways he did not think possible. How is it you manage to have such an effect on him? How is it that when he’s even remotely near you he feels as if the world is right and everything makes sense? All matter of thought and questions fall away. His mind truly goes silent and just takes in the sight of you as beautiful as always in your usual comfortable but somewhat formal wear, balancing a stack of books between your hip and the shelf at your side, elbow atop to keep them from slipping while you leaf through another book in your hands. It’s a recipe for disaster. 

“Gavriel.” You breathe. Like a sixth sense your gaze had lifted the moment he stood within sight. Your other senses ceased to work and thus the stack you so carefully balanced came toppling down when the book in your hands slipped from your grasp. You jump and cringe though the sound of those precious irreplaceable tomes so unceremoniously crashing into the marble might as well have been nails on a chalkboard. Perhaps there is one thing that can ruin this moment. 

“As graceful as ever.” He chuckles. Of course he’s on his knees for you before you know it, if only to pick up the mess you made in this case while you stand there. The faint rush of blood through your cheeks does not go unnoticed. 

“You’re back early.” You’re not quite sure what to say. Despite all academics, all the knowledge you have managed to cram into your head to the point you could speak until your voice gave in, somehow this fae leaves you completely speechless with but a mere look. By the time you’ve recovered he’s gathered up the books you drop and is back on his feet though he does not hand you back your collection. Instead while carrying the stack, he offers his arm and an inviting expression. He makes it all look so easy. 

“And not a moment too soon it appear. Now shall we?” Formulating a sentence is a task too difficult but your actions speak far louder as you loop your arm through his and walk along the path back to the study at the library entrance, where the scholars and scribes roam freely, and where you feel mostly safe to abandon them lest they mess up your library. A rather intimidating sight last Gavriel encountered you facing someone who placed back some tomes in the wrong place and they were lost for a few days. You might as well have ripped off the poor scholar’s head. 

“I hope your journey was easy.” You find your words halfway through. Easy. Never good or pleasant. Easy. You’ve known for a while that he doesn’t like to ponder half of the endeavours he’s sent out on. You know he shelters you from the most horrid of details. These events are usually marked on his skin be they scar or ink. 

“Easy enough if you can put up with Lorcan and Fenrys’ constant bickering. I’d have done anything to have Rowan’s brooding silence instead but he had his own tasks to see to.” He does not elaborate further and you do not ask. You simply offer him a soft smile. 

“If that is all I’m sure it could have been far worse.” 

“Correct me if I’m wrong but wasn’t it you who threw ‘The Summarised History of Doranelle’ at Fenrys’ head when he folded the corners of one of your more beloved tomes?” The scene replays clearly in your head and the silent fury that burns in your eyes is but a reminder of something forgiven but never forgotten. 

“Let it be known that any fae who dog-ears my book will find I will dog-ear their ears.” Just as quickly as the fury settled it fades to a look of scholarly neutrality. At the front desk a scribe taps his foot impatiently, arms crossed, all but huffing and puffing. 

“The pages are marked for relevant information as per request.” You take the stack from Gavriel, having to catch yourself under the weight he seemed so unbothered by. At his presence the scribe straightens up and previous impatience seems to be pushed to the side for formality, though not too much. The scribe signs the paperwork you quickly pulled up and with not but a curt nod he’s off and away. When he disappears you visibly deflate; shoulders slumping and a hint of exhausting showing through. 

“That bad?” Gavriel wants to ask, wants to elaborate but just like him not all the details of your tasks are for his ears. 

When you’re sure no one is in sight you just take his hand in both of yours and lean your head against his shoulder with a deep sigh. You stay there for a minute until you take the first step and gently urge him along to where he found that first note of cinnamon. Back to your little nook surrounded by your comforts. You lead him to your usual seat and set him down. Instantly that skin to skin contact is lacking barely sustained by your proximity. You go through your cabinet and grab the kettle from near the fire and pour him a cup. You hadn’t taken to having a second cup until he came along and that cup would ever only be his. Pale porcelain with a band of gold painted vines wrapping around and intertwining. You told him the particular shade reminded you of his eyes. 

“Cinnamon Tea?” You offer him the cup and he gladly takes it. When you pick up yours and make for the other seat, you feel this gentle tug on your shirt. An invitation and a plea to remain closer. With a short laugh and shake of your head at his antics you instead make yourself comfortable atop his lap pressing a tender kiss to his cheek. You take a sip of your tea.

“I said we should find some shelter!” You all but shout pointing at the sky and take their hand. So much for venturing off on your own and having a little voyage ‘back in an hour’. You hope the others have the mind to find shelter too. You send them a message just in case as you pull the genasi along through the trees and rocks until you stumble upon a cave. You’re not taking any risks and the lightning is getting closer. From here you’d be safe with cover, and still able to witness nature in all it’s grandeur. 

Letting himself be dragged along Ashton isn’t opposed to the shelter you’ve found because with his track record he wouldn’t put it behind any mischievous fey to set the gold in those cracks to attract the lightning. On the other side they too are a little curious to see what would happen… Maybe another time. Ashton curls and uncurls their fingers, rotates their wrists when you let go and take a look out at the oncoming clouds hiding the moonlight, or dusk-light should be more appropriate. You stay at the mouth of the cave to watch another rumble hit the earth in a cacophony and the lightning, quick as it passes makes this cave all the darker. Ashton can’t see shit and in an attempt to find a wall loses their footing. A crack, that’s luckily hidden by thunder saves most of the hit to his pride. But then fire glow appears in the palm of your hand. 

“Why are you on the ground?” You hide a chuckle as you watch Ashton give up on, life, existence, everything laying on their back, legs bent at the knees and groan. 

“I just wanted to be one with my element.” They speak as casually as they can but your brow furrows and you take a tentative step closer, and another and another. You kneel down and help Ashton sit up. Groans are not just a casual annoyance at this place, but something of discomfort. You caught on. Shit. 

“I can give you two a moment if you’d prefer but I don’t think that’ll do you much good.” 

“There’s room for one more. Plenty of the earth to go around.” Ashton jokes. 

“I was hoping there’d be plenty of you but I can settle for the rocks beneath my feet.” You jest and Ashton scoffs though the attitude is quick to slip when your arm hand touches their back. Even through their jacket, the warmth offers such a relief. “You doing okay?” Again your brow furrows. 

“Yeah. Yeah sure.” And so the comfort disappears. You pull back and just sit on your knees, hands gathered in your lap. Disapproval crosses your features. 

“Sure.” You deadpan and grab onto Ashton’s wrist, uncurling the fingers gently and clasping his hand between yours. You bring it to your lips and blow warm air. It doesn’t take much to see the instant relief cross their features. 

“Okay maybe I’m not entirely okay.” The look you give them is much akin to ‘ya think?’ and it hurts to admit to the way it makes Ashton feel inside. Then your features soften. You look out towards, the oncoming storm, to the lightning reaching out, and the wind rustling through the trees picking up. 

“Sit with me.” You simply say. It’s not quite a question as much as it is an order and Ashton does feel like they have a choice. It’s just a very tempting one despite their disdain for authority and following orders. You shift from your knees until you’re comfortable, looking out over the horizon. Everything seems so much easier when he looks at you. Everything is. You make it so because any doubt falls away. Ashton knows they’re on the right path because you’re there and as long as you walk it with them they’ll keep walking with you. 

Ashton shifts and sits next to you. He bumps your shoulder with his. You chuckle and bump back, though much likes the rock around, they don’t budge. The cold pain creeps up again and almost as if you know exactly what to do, you wrap an arm around their back, slipping your fingers under the jacket and lean your head on their shoulder. Just your sheer presence, and a little magic manages to numb the pain and that’s more than Ashton can say the majority of people they’ve had in their life have ever been able to do. 

“You’re so fucking confusing.” Ashton speaks before they think.

“Wow, so much affection.” You scoff but pull closer. 

“You are.” Ashton doubles down. “You’re a fucking disaster waiting to happen.” 

“But I’m your disaster.” You poke a finger at his chest. 

“Are you?” Again, speaking before thinking but that seems to be the right track. You take a deep sigh and Ashton’s heart stops, their breath stops. Time stops. There’s not but anticipation, both joy and dread loom overhead and they’re just stupid fucking feelings because end of the day you’re just you and you’re fucking amazing. That’s what you are. You’re fucking amazing. 

“I don’t know. Am I?” The both of you look at another lightning bolt striking close by. Ashton gives it a moment, letting the trembles of the earth fade and the light too, not but the dim orb behind the two of you offering the littlest of light. 

“Maybe you are. If you think you can handle it.” He looks down nudging your head from his shoulder. 

“First off, rude-“

“You’re the one using my shoulder as pillow, find a rock or something.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Will you now?”

“Yeah. A nice and comfy one.” You’re unreadable. That’s dangerous. Next Ashton knows you’re on your knees at their side, back facing the exit of the cave, your warmth has disappeared from their back but settles on their shoulders. It takes everything to not lean into the touch. Not that they have to because you lean closer. 

You had known the promise he’d be back in your arms before you knew it was an empty one. You would never fault him for it. Eris, while a man of his word, could not control the circumstances of his extended life and responsibilities. Perhaps you might claim he was foolishly optimistic, but then again, he’s probably also aware of this fact and so it must be not but wishful thinking. Instead of a swift return to your side to watch the sunset you witnessed it on your own. Instead of a lovely dinner together you consumed your supper at the mostly empty table with the others left behind and excluded from the inter-court meetings. Not that you complain. You would rather be here enjoying a peaceful meal than deal with the bickering and moaning of idiots, vipers and idealists. You will attend if asked but will not mourn the lack of invitation. 

You’ve other means to keep busy and you are not one to sit around and wait for someone to whisk you away and so you did. You tended to the hounds, read up on the latest ongoings, socialised here and there, trained, made yourself useful, saw to your correspondence, went out for a ride, helped tend to the gardens and more. You kept busy on your own but every once in a while your mind would wander and think what your darling love would be up to, how he must be fighting the urge to roll his eyes or verbally tear apart another, how he must be polishing his shields both social and mental and weave a narrative that puts him at the advantage. You know Eris pretends it doesn’t affect him but you know the truth. You have seen him sit on the edge of the bed, his hands in his hair. You’ve watched him politely excuse himself to unleash the boiling of his blood upon some poor unsuspecting clearing. You have listened to his rambling about courtiers and high lords. You have held him when he questioned if it was all worth it. 

It is because of these things you know you do not mind the lack of his constant attention. In fact, you do not think you could bear it in the first place. So you dine without your lover, you find your own amusement come sundown. In the spirit of this time to yourself you have the staff draw you a bath. If you are to spend this night alone you will do so in comfort. A bath will ease the ache of your muscle and soothe your skin quite nicely. That’s where you find yourself now, a large bath filled with steaming water, the scent of bergamot in the air. You’ve sunken down to your neck, leaning back and enjoying the warmth. You’ve sent off the maids with the implication you will tend to yourself and do not need to be coddled by their nurturing grace. Peace and quiet and solitude, that’s what you require and that’s what you shall get. Your mind wanders far and pleasantly so. You forget the meaning of time and the water must have long since cooled to a lukewarm but you care little. 

“We shall conclude this meeting some other time.” Eris had both dreaded and longed for those words. The meeting has finally ended and so he is finally dismissed. It ended up taking another hour or so before he could detach himself from his own entanglement, before he could escape further dealings with the Night Court and turning down Helion’s open invitation to visit the esteemed libraries once more. Finally he left behind the blabbering high lords’ council and found himself back int he comforts of cool darkness graced with lantern light. The feeling of leaves crushing beneath his boots is a stark contrast from the marble and stone he’d been surrounded by for the day. He has missed the sunset but the stars breaking through the clouds offer some relief at last. 

With each step the takes, even after he walks through the threshold and back into wood and stone, the burdens stay at the doorstep, the further he gets from it, the more his body relaxes, or so he thinks. Everything feels easier. He chooses to ignore those in passing, using his power within his own court to brush them aside; nothing out of character for him. Nothing anyone can blame him for either. They expect him to be upset with another meeting ending in a stalemate waste of time. Let the court know. He will turn it to his advantage either way. Finally the portal to his comfort comes within sight and had he less restraint he might have ran and locked away the world behind him forever. Instead he slips through the doors quietly and closes them behind him. 

The candles are alight. The fireplace is but embers at this point. He simply throws in another log. A simple breath of air sparks the flames to life and allow them to catch. When the wood crackles Eris is satisfied. With whatever graces he found within him he carries himself to the bedroom, discards his shoes and socks, letting the cold run through his feet in an attempt to remind himself he is not but floating upon the winds of exhaustion. He unclasps his tailored jacket and casts it aside as if it were not the livelihood of the ones who made it. He has lost the will to care. He could have collapsed onto the bed when he first laid eyes on it but the gentle candle glow from the bathing room kept him standing. 

With a soft creak the door opens and within lies a sight beholden, a true treasure and one that should be captured for eternity. Perhaps he would owe the High Lady of Night a favour if that’s what it took to eternalise this. Perhaps the only thing stopping him is how you’d scold him for it. Perhaps he fears it might inflate your ego far past measure. Your eyes are closed. You are leaned back, head just above the water and neck fully exposed. The light graces your features just perfectly as it reflects. 

“The bed is far better suited for sleeping than a bathtub. No matter how comfortable you might look.” Eris slowly makes his way over to you. You take a deep breath and open your eyes. Your eyes. He forgets all he’s endured with but a single glance. Sadly this only lasts but a second. 

“You are quite right but I’m not tired. Just relaxed.” You let your fingers dance over the surface of the water. “You should try it some time, my love.” Even now you find it within yourself to humour him. 

“Some of us do not have the luxury to relax this much. I shall reserve and defend that right for you and you alone.” He takes your hand and brings it to his lips to kiss but then realises. “The water is awfully cold.” he simply states, still he kisses your fingertips. 

“Well I didn’t have you here to help me warm it.” The sultry look you give him has him nearly undone in that instant. How he’s longed for your company. The once certainty that keeps him from insanity in the chaos; the serenity you bring but what rushes through him right there is anything but serene and the implications you present are anything but innocent. Eris forgets the tiredness that haunted his body and finds a different spark of life. You’ve learned to light it, made an art form out of it. 

“How unbecoming of me.” He’s on his knees at the side of the tub and gently brings your fingers back beneath the surface of the cooling water. With but a brush from right where your legs are bent, all the way to just in front of your chest the water heats in but seconds, steam evaporating but those fingers do not stop trailing there. they trail a scalding but never painful path up your sternum and the column of your neck until they settle and lift your chin. That same heat burns in the kiss he plants upon your lips. Far too short. His lips pull away far too quickly and you might as well have been exposed to the frigid cold of winter then and there. By the looks of it Eris know it too. 

“If you are in no mood to assist me, I suppose I shall simply retire.” You rise exposing all the delicious curves of your body and giving him an ample view as the droplets run across your skin. Eris imagines he could kiss them all away, let his lips trail across you like they do and perhaps you shall grace him with the lovely sounds you make when he takes his lips to you. 

“You misunderstand, my dearest. But if you wish to cut short this bath I am more than willing and consenting to helping you to bed. Or we can stay here and enjoy a bath… or two.” You seem to weigh your options but simply by the way your pupils dilate; the way they do when he’s broken through your composure, to where your desire truly sparks and you will not be afraid to make him eat his words. 

You do not reply in words but simply hold out your hand and raise an eyebrow. Eris is quick to take your hand and help you out of the bathtub. You are dripping onto the floor but seem to care very little as you saunter over to the towels. The sway of your hips and sultry look over your shoulder are definitely intentional. Nevertheless you take a towel and pad yourself dry until he can’t help himself and gently eases the towel from you and equally gently uses it to pad you dry until you’re satisfied. Once you are you stand in front of him, close within arm’s reach. You trail a nail along the neckline of his shirt and sigh content. The wickedness in your eyes is but a giveaway of your next actions. Your fingers grasp onto his shirt and pull him to you, once more your lips meet his and this time the kiss is anything but soft and sweet. 

Your lips grace his in a feverish kiss. Eris does not hesitate to return the favour. He lets his hands wander until they settle on your behind. In one fell swoop you are off your feet and wrap your legs around his waist. Never once do you break your kiss. Your tongues meet and you wrap your arms around his neck clutching him ever closer. Like he has done many times before, Eris caries you out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, graceful as ever and never once stumbling. He has committed this path to memory but finally he has to break away. You are a sight to behold; lips swollen, out of breath, and eyes filled with desire honing in on him. He takes great pride in being able to make you come so undone. he lays you down on the bed and you crawl backwards to give him space to join you among the pillows. 

Eris crawls overtop, trailing a path of kisses from your calves over your knees and thighs and you think, you hope he would settle among the apex of your legs but instead he just looks up at you and trails his lips up further across the plains of your stomach. It’s difficult to resist the urge to whine in protest and by the looks of it he noticed. Still he trails up and up until he meets your lips in another desire filled kiss so you decide fair is fair and let your hands wander over his clothed chest, down to where his shirt is tucked into the waistband of his fitted trousers and let your finger slip below that cursed waistband but never enough. All you do is release the shirt and Eris decides to undo your torture by taking it off entirely with a knowing look. 

“If you wished to get my out of my clothes you could have just asked.” He muses casting the garment aside. It’s torture to keep yourself together right now and not just succumb to carnal pleasure. This is just foreplay and it’s a game you’d hoped to win but you see your chances of success fleeting. To see him on his knees before you, cauldron boil you. 

“Dick.” You curse and his chuckle does not make you feel any different. 

“You’ll have to work harder for that.” He crawls back overtop just to place a peck upon your lips. When you go in for more, you feel his hand on your neck, to keep you at bay. His grip isn’t strong or suffocating, just present, floating and preventing your lips from meeting his. You huff. 

Eris’ response to your dissatisfaction is cruelty, he knows. Leaving kisses, letting his tongue trail he takes to your chest until you cannot hold back the whimpers and moans, until you fight to hold back the beg for more, only then does he trail lower yet always too slow. But then finally, it all pays off when he descends between your legs and puts his mouth to work, licking and kissing your inner thighs inching closer to the centre, until finally he does. He does not relent, not when your breathing increases and your whines turn to whispers of his name, not when your fingers settle within his hair and hold on, push him closer. When your legs wrap closer around him he grasps onto your thighs, spreading them further while placing a hand onto your abdomen just in the right place. He doesn’t relent when he feels you shudder and shake in your pleasure, not until you come down from that high and your body goes limp for but a second. 

He keeps going and soon without a moment of rest you tumble into pure ecstasy again and again. Only when you pull his hair, pull his face away from between your legs, when you are truly out of breath and your eyes are burning, your skin is on fire and you have lost the ability to speak, only then does he relent. You guide him up, to meet his lips. He knows you can taste yourself on his tongue when his dances with yours. He knows you need this right now. It’s the only break you’ll receive, especially when he feels your hands wander down below and undo the buttons of his pants. His own arousal is undeniable and while he would be more than satisfied using his tongue to make you cry his name, you have other intentions and ideas he’s more than happy to help you see through even if it takes all his restraint not to spill at your touch and your disheveled look when he parts and you help him out of his last clothes, casting them aside he cares not where. 

“Because, my dear Lucien, I want you to experience this properly.” He raises a questioning eyebrow but you are persistent and push the mugs into his hands. Completely at a loss of what to do with them he holds them. The contents seem to be milk. Just milk. He expected something like a tea maybe but the mugs are cold. 

“What now?” He asks when you look at him as if he’s supposed to know what to do now. 

“I need you to heat them up.” You chirp excitedly. A soft smile graces his lips but quickly turns cocky as it often does. 

“Glad to know you keep me around as your personal heater and servant. Shall it be steaming, boiling or evaporated, my dearest?” You cross your arms. Normally he would flick your nose playfully when you puff but he’s half sure you’ll kill him if he drops this mug so he refrains and instead pecks your nose and does as he’s told. Your crossed arms slack and the flush to your cheeks certainly isn’t because of the cold air.

“You have plenty of other uses too.” You tease back reaching for the box you’d brought. He’s not entirely sure how you managed to carry this all. You open the box and inside reveals two chocolate orbs. “I know you like hot chocolate but this one’s special.” You gently drop the orbs in the steaming hot milk each. Slowly but surely the chocolate begins to melt and inside, fluffy little clouds emerge floating on the surface. Lucien looks confused. 

“Dare I ask what this poison is you’re trying to feed me?” 

“They’re marshmallows. They happen to go very well with hot chocolate but there’s one more secret ingredient-“ You reach into your pocket and take the vial you’d stolen from the pantry. 

“Unconditional love and affection?” Lucien interrupts but you don’t miss a beat.

“-two more secret ingredients.” You correct yourself at his quip much to his amusement. You remove the lid from the vial of brown powder. Carefully you sprinkle a modest amount on top. When you do he catches on. Cinnamon. Curious. 

“So you are trying to cover the smell and taste of poison.” You take one of the mugs from him and clasp  it between your hands, cold fingers instantly warming. You scoff and roll your eyes. 

“While poison is poetic I think a dagger through the heart after a passionate night is far more.” You deadpan taking a sip. Lucien shrugs in agreement. 

“A satisfying end to be sure.” You snort and cough as your nose burns. The amusement in Lucien’s eyes is replaced by concern until you assure him you’re alright. “I think you might have mixed up the poisoned mug, love.” He pats your back as you recover and when you do he simply rubs circles allowing his hand to warm you and offer some relief. 

“One way to find out.” Your voice is still hoarse but you’re alright and take another sip of your drink. Finally he takes his first sip. Closely you study his reaction. First it is intrigue; the way he does a double-take, then a hint of confusion trying to figure out his senses. Next comes consideration. A raised eyebrow as he takes a second sip. Then his shoulders relax and he leans back on the bench. He nods to himself and takes another big sip when he notices you staring. 

“I take it you like it then?” You ask gingerly. He smiles and nods. 

“It reminds me of you so yes.” 

“How so?”

“You remind me of sweet things and cinnamon.” The flush to your cheeks darken. Cute. Of course he has to ruin the moment. Can’t let it get to your head. “You taste like it too.” This time you’re prepared though, unfazed you take another sip, rise to your feet and take a few steps away from him. You look over your shoulder, look him straight in the eye in a way that dares him to move. He knows he’s in trouble. 

And then you disappeared into the crowd. His focus returned. If only for a little. Molly finishes up yet another fortune, reshuffling his cards how he always does, assuring they’re in the right order. He has a moment of respite and expects the next farmer to come chatter any moment. The chair opposite of him is not occupied but in front of him he finds a cup of questionable looking liquid. Arms drape over his shoulders sliding down until they link together over his chest. You perch your chin on his shoulder after pressing a quick kiss to his neck. He’s sure you can feel the goosebumps spread across his skin. Your lips are cold. He’s got every intention to change that now. 

“So everyone is having a good time and you are reading fortunes? We closed hours ago.” You chirp letting your cold fingers trail along the exposed skin of his chest. More goosebumps. He can feel your smile when your lips brush so close to his ear. Molly takes the cup in one hand, putting his cards away with the other before he turns to face you better. You take the opportunity to slide into his lap and take a sip of his cup. 

“What’s a little overtime for these good people.” He takes the cup from you. “I thought that was meant for me?” Teasing as ever. He takes a sip. Gods that’s good. Before he can ask you answer.

“Apparently they call it apple crumble mede. It sounds disgusting but tastes like apple pie. They also have cherry, chilli and whiskey but I’m particularly fond of the chestnut one.” 

“So exactly how much did you have to drink?”

“Not nearly enough to be even remotely tipsy.” You’re truthful. You’d only had a single sip of those before you settled on this one. You’d barely had one cup. Molly shakes his head. 

“Such a party and such little drinking? What has become of our reigning champion?” He jests and chuckles when you go to reach for the cup. He holds it out of your reach until you give up with a roll of your eyes. Only then does he feel safe to actually drink more. You clutch your hands together rubbing them for warmth and subconsciously move yourself closer into him. 

“Cold?” He asks. You don’t even make a point to deny it. Instead you curl closer to him. 

“I’m warm when I’m dancing. I feel like the dead of winter when I stop moving.” 

“So what you’re saying is we got to keep you warm somehow?” Molly gives you the most suggestive look he can muster just to humour you. 

“But what about the midnight dance?” You groan throwing your head against his shoulder. His fingers gently dance up your side, brushing up and down at an even pace. They slip under the fabric of your shirt. Molly is making it very hard for you to focus and he knows it. 

“If you insist. I’ll never say no to a dance with you.” You make no move to get up just yet. “Come on… It’s tradition after all.” He lifts you to your feet until you stand on your own, then takes a step backwards and with a ridiculous bow extends to you his hand. Your freezing fingers touch his and he instantly brings them to his lips, shiver running down his spine as the cold hits him but he doesn’t let it stop him. Despite his warmer body, Molly still very much is susceptive to the cold, perhaps even more so than you. 

Mollymauk leads you to the dance floor, where the commoners dance their commoner’s waltzes and let’s be honest, these are probably the only dances the carnies actually know. It’s something to bond over, to finally fit into the chaos that allows for mistakes and choses fun over perfection. The musicians play an upbeat tune while the locals sing the song in a chorus of dancers. Everyone seems to know the song, or at least enough to hum along where the words are but foreign to them or their ability to form coherent sentences, be they out of breath or too intoxicated. You spin under his arm, link your arm with his, close in, then apart, side to side and twirl around each other. You sway and sway, close in, a hairs breath away, and then too far. Repeat. 

It’s the midnight dance, following the patterns of the stars and skies and constellations long lost to Exandria but it matters not. You feel alive, so incredibly alive. The dance is a short, too short but when you see that burning in those scarlet eyes, see that love and admiration, that joy, you know it’s just long enough. You know how this dance ends. You’ve heard the locals talk about it when you ran your errands. And so when the last note strikes and the cheers erupt, you step in close within Molly’s embrace. You look him in the eye, then down to his lips and place yours against his in a feverish kiss. His response is quick, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer, the other at the back of your neck tilting your head ever so slightly to gain better access to you. You feel his lips part, his tongue brush against yours and you invite him wholly. Perhaps time slows, or perhaps it moves all too fast because when you part you want more, so much more and when you look him in the eye, so does he. 

Taking his hand you pull Mollymauk along away from the dancing and feasting people. Instead you make for a barn. Perhaps not the most glorious place but you’ve found yourselves in far worse. You quickly pick the lock and slide into the barn, Molly following behind. When he enters you quickly close the door and push him against it. Your lips are on his, hands sliding up his chest until you cup his cheeks. He takes a moment to recover but quickly his hand settle on your hips and in one swift motion he lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you along to the piles of hay. As you’ve done many times before, you push the coat from his shoulders. Begrudgingly he sets you down so you can take it off and without breaking contact once, place it down behind you. You use this moment to change places, urge him backwards and onto the coat. 

You are the image of seduction and you bring him to his knees with but one wanton look; your lips are slightly parted, your pupils dilated. He can see your breath rise and the twitch of your fingers. All it takes is a gentle push of your guiding hand and he is at your mercy as you crawl on top of him, legs on either side, fingers in his hair pulling at the roots ever so lightly. Your lips meet once more, tongues dancing together, but a taste of what’s to come, of what you are setting out to do. It’s safe to say those solstice kisses are intoxicating but you can do so much more and you intend to prove it. He all but whines when you trail your kisses down his neck, being sure to leave many a mark there, and go down further and further until you feel him. You look up at him when you reach for the buckles of his belt, teasingly slow to undo them. 

“Say the word.” You croon looking up through your lashes. You could have him undone right then and there. When he doesn’t respond thinking about what you’ll do to him, you let your fingers slip beneath the waistband of his trousers. The sweet noises he makes when he’s at your mercy.

“Please.” Begrudgingly he speaks but is cut off by his own mewling sounds when he feels your tongue circle him, then your lips wrap around him, just the once before letting your hands take over, stroking so slowly.

Wandering among the familiar halls is but a haze, his mind has floated off somewhere far beyond and he is but a ghost stuck in the same routine until that familiar door comes within sight. No light bleeds from under the crack. No sound emits from beyond that carved mahogany. It’s just dark, light and lifeless. Still Helion wanders in, the door falling shut behind him. Was he not so familiar with this space the complete darkness might have had him tumble and fall over the furniture but this had become a habit, was it not for his exhaustion or whenever you had yourself occupied with his lips, your fingers in his hair and your legs wrapped around his waist as he held you. He’d become quiet used to navigate the space without the need for sight. This time it was not your glorious being that required him to use that memory. This time Helion finds himself without the energy to make it to the bedroom and instead unceremoniously allows himself to drape over the couch, making himself comfortable among the pillows as much as possible. He lets the darkness carry him off and dreamless sleep enter his soul for some rest at last. 

You were late. You got carried away in some ongoings and plannings for the upcoming months, dealing with correspondence and ambassadors who did not so much adjust to your schedules it seemed but still you handled yourself graciously. You’re tired and glad to finally be on your way home. If anything, you don’t know how he does it. Helion doesn’t know you took on more of the tasks set out for him but you’d seen him struggle between helping his friends and running his court. You might not be as well-versed in the ways of healing or be able to pick the exact book you need off of any shelf within those endless libraries, but you know you can put up with people and so you did, for his sake. He’d been so engulfed in his research he hadn’t even noticed the passage of time, let alone the seemingly endless list of responsibilities suddenly needing less attention. You’re glad for it. 

It is days like these where you follow the lanterns until you enter the palace. The staff and residents have long since lit the candles that line the halls creating the every lasting golden glow you’re used to, now even more prominent in the darkness of night. In a way it reminded you of the muted glow you’d woken up to on many occasions, when that power of Day bled through the restraint its wielder kept. It never failed to bring a smile to your face. You know at times he’d do it on purpose if only to see that very smile and it had simply remained an unspoken truth. 

You approach the doors you’re all too familiar with but do not see that golden glow from within. Instead you see a basket of candles set out at the door, some wicks too. You shake your head to no one in particular as you pick up the basket and are met with darkness. You have the mind to light one of the candlesticks from one of the flames outside, that very source of light being the only one to illuminate your path. You don’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary and thus simply make your way through. Setting the basket on the side table the glow of that singular candle illuminates the fae shape on the couch, the peaceful features and gentle rise and fall of the chest. 

Helion is fast asleep. You kneel down to brush some hair from his face and take the blanket from the back of the couch to gently drape it over him. Quietly you make your way around to the other side of the room and light the candles already set out and replace the burned out ones, collecting the wax remnants in the assigned bowl. Slowly but surely the room is cast in that same golden glow you’re used to. The cold air begins to grow warmer. Every once in a while you’ll cast a glance over your shoulder to still see the High Lord fast asleep. You hum to yourself as you move through the room until your task is complete. 

A gentle melody guides him back to consciousness. No more does he feel that night cold within. Even behind closed eyes Helion notes the light that was not there before. The air feels different, more alive and more welcoming. The smell of melting wax and firewood enters his senses. With a satisfied sigh he opens his eyes. Your steps are featherlight as you illuminate the path you take, candles sparking to life in your wake. When you turn and see him, eyes as golden as the glow around you smile and Helion melts inside. You set the last candles. Alight like a halo behind you, like a truly angelic being you close into him as he rises onto his elbows. You catch onto his slight wince as he rises. 

“What did I tell you about reading for too long like that?” You scorn playfully. 

“I will better heed your warning next time, my love.” He all but grumbles, sleep still heavy on his voice. You chuckle as he sits up fully and you sit next to him letting your fingers lace with his as a mere force of habit. He brings it to his lips and kisses your hand watching the flush spread through your cheeks. Beautiful. 

“Promising words yet no true promise I hear.” You retort. He looks at you through his lashes in a way that admits guilt. “Move over. Turn your back to me.” You order. Helion raises an eyebrow you just roll your eyes. He does as he’s told either way. You have half the mind to mutter ‘good boy’ but keep your comment to yourself lest this turns a certain way before you get to do what you intend to do. 

“While I’d prefer to see your face, I’m curious to see-“ His words are cut off by his own moan when your skilful fingers work the muscles of his back, starting right between his shoulder blades. Damn does it feel good. He can feel the tension release as you go, working down his spine, across his shoulders and up the back go his neck into his hairline where you hit just the right spot that makes him feel lightheaded. 

“Please don’t stop.” Helion breathes when your hands pull away. 

“Not so opposed now, are you?” He can hear the smile and satisfaction in your words. The candles dance in his vision, their warmth and light pulsing with his own and it takes him a second to realise he is glowing too. When he goes to snuff the flame within him you stop him. 

“Opposed to your touch? Never.” He muses with a deep sigh. You keep working, untangling every muscle that burned throughout the day, washing ease and calm over him until his shoulders slump and head hangs lower. Only then do you stop. He makes a sound of disappointment but is quickly sussed when you get up from your spot and push him back among the pillows on the couch. Your hand on his shoulder, he takes your wrist. 

You’d shown him what it means to care. You show him how to love and care and be free. Despite what he might have believed, that tadpole that protected him now, he’s not free. He’s on the run and despite what he might tell himself and others, he doesn’t truly believe killing Cazador will set him free. Deep within his heart he knows. Astarion has forgotten what it means to be free but you can show him, you can teach him, and when he is with you he gets a taste of what it means to hold that freedom, to hold you. Much like that sweet sanguine red beneath the skin, you are intoxicating, addicting and there’s no way back now. You’re with him. You’re his. 

Yet here he is on his knees holding your lifeless body. You’re not responding to your name. He’s screamed and shouted until his throat burned with rage and fury and pain until no sound would emit but it’s futile. That heartbeat of yours has gone still. The gentle rise and fall of your chest has as well. Your fingertips are growing cold along with the rest of your body. You’re in stasis, as good as dead. In a way you are dead. What he did to the puppet Cazador sent his way is but a mere consolation prize; useless and a waste. 

Refusing to let go of you, the resident healer had failed. Potions and spells were no use it seemed.  Bargains weren’t good enough for the cursed entities some of these similarly afflicted escapees entwine themselves with. Revenge had rooted in Astarion’s cold dead heart long ago but never had it burned stronger than now. It made him realise the lengths he would go for you; a terrifying reality but not unwanted if he could have you. He’d let the world burn if he’d have you at his side. So here he is taking you to temple after temple only to be turned away. He’s this close to resorting to the exact horrors his former master resorted to but there is hope yet. A hefty price but one he is willing to pay. Astarion will never tell you what he gave up for this chance. You’d never forgive him. You’d be alive, awake and at his side forever. You’ll just have to keep living in this wonderful dream world of yours; the one you shape by your actions. You never need know the truth. 

“When you wake up, darling, you’ll be none the wiser. I intend to keep it like that. I’ll shower you with love and gifts if it keeps this truth hidden from you. I’ll bury it like I have buried so many but for once it pains me to do so. You could call it a guilty conscience I suppose. Don’t think I’m going soft. This lapse in judgement is only for you.” 

He strokes your hair as you lay in the centre of a ritual circle. Your head is in his lap. The final glow of the sigils light your features until there is only darkness. Still he sees you, your features still so ashen but then the arcane lights spark to life offering a dim glow, and with it, ever so slowly a gentle thud. Once. Twice. Thrice. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. A heartbeat. He could have cried. Perhaps that was the cold sensation streaming down his cheek. He’s not quite sure. The flush to your skin begins returning as your heartbeat picks up to a normal place. You’ve yet to open your eyes. You’ve yet to awaken but your body is alive. Astarion sighs in relief. Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours. It’s not funny anymore.

“I beg for very little things in my life and you’ll be very satisfied to have me begging for you but please, please wake up. I need you to open your eyes, to let me know you’re truly alive. Please pull me out of this never ending nightmare.” He clasps your hand in his resting it over your chest. Astarion squeezes your hand but there’s no resistance, no squeeze back. Just… nothing. He brings it to his lips, kisses the back of your hand before he lays it back at your side. Gently he lifts your head from his lap and rests you down on the cold stone floors. He studies your features as if he might forget you altogether.

“Seven thousand souls. That’s all it takes.” He rises onto his knees, taking that dreaded staff. “Seven thousand to save two.” Astarion feels no regret when he slams it into the floor, power crackling throughout the stone and air and everywhere. He burns like the sun. He doesn’t know if it’s his screams or the cacophony of the ones who will perish in this ritual, in this ascension. 

Everything grows quiet. No words. No sounds. None save for the beat of your heart, the gasp that emits from your lungs as air is forced back into your lungs. You were within darkness, floating in the abyss without any sense of self one moment and the next you are here, wherever here is. Metal clatters on stone and you shoot into a sitting position. Before you have the chance to look for its origins you are engulfed into an embrace. You’re held close against a bare chest. The touch is familiar and so you relax. 

“Astarion?” You mumble no longer used to the sound of your own voice. He pulls back enough to look you in the eye. His fingers graze your cheek as if he’s not quite sure you’re real. There’s something off about him. Shivers trickle down your spine. You can see it in his eyes, hidden under that relief and acceptance there is pain and some regret but no remorse. 

“Hey.” Your voice still laced with sleep sparks in his chest. 

“Hey.” He doesn’t know what else to say. For a fae of many words he is at a loss; completely and utterly captivated. 

“It’s rude to stare.” You mutter raising yourself onto an elbow and looming at his side as you study his features. You even deign to grace him with your gentle touch, brushing your fingers along his collarbone back and forth. Sparks combust below the surface of his skin. Goosebumps form, awaiting the presence for more. 

“Yet it is perfectly acceptable to admire the captivating.” Lucien retorts. Amusement graces your features as your fingers dance up the column of his neck, tracing the fading marks you’d left there the eve before. Tenderness still present is but an obvious reminder and he does not doubt should he take a glance in the mirror his neck and shoulders would be covered in such bruised markings. Your lips had explored his skin plenty and when he had made such lovely sounds when you paid careful attention, who were you to deny him these pleasures? It’s not like you didn’t have a great time. If anything he’s repaid you manifold. You made it clear you would seek to balance the scales. 

“As quick-witted as always, my dearest Lucien.” You muse as your fingers brush aside some stray strands of copper. The praise and approval spreads warmth throughout his veins, not because of your words but the feelings that traverse that invisible string between you two. You press your lips to his. Your kiss is but a ghost and leaves him all too soon. You laugh at his disappointment even though he can very clearly feel your desire to deepen that kiss, to return to his lips, the rest of his body while at it and have yet another of those blissful moments you lose yourselves in. 

“Your self-restraint is infuriating, my love.” Lucien breathes when your fingers brush through his hair and he sits up enough to finally be face to face with you. Inches apart seems too much still. 

“I fear if I do not show self-restraint we might never leave this room again.” You chuckle when you feel his touch wander along the curve of your waist sending goosebumps across your skin even beneath the thin sheet that barely covers you. 

“You say that as if it is a bad thing.” The fact he can feel your consideration, weighing his words leaves him wanton and such he acts. Lucien takes you by the hips and shifts you onto his lap, your legs on either side of his as your arms come to rest around his shoulders. He makes a point of tracing shapes on your now exposed flesh, dipping just a little closer to where you want him to touch you. Despite your presented attitude he can feel your arousal through body and bond. What a gift the mother bestowed him. 

“While I intend to spend the rest of my life with you, I intend to extend that to outside the confines of this bedroom too. I would love a stroll down the river. A swim even perhaps.” He pretends to entertain the thought in disagreement but understands. While the thought to stay here forever is certainly entertaining, venturing beyond that threshold would not be the end of the world and going places with you, spending more time in your company will please him either way. The wicked look you give him however is mildly concerning. 

“And perhaps…” You lean in, your lips trailing along his neck pressing light kisses to his skin like a fuse lit. “We can take however long we need to explore beyond the bedroom door.” Your teeth graze his neck somewhere between pain and pleasure.

“If it is up to me I will fuck you in every corner in this house before we make it outside.” Lucien moans and the sound only eggs you on to continue your ministrations until you are satisfied with his body’s response to you and let a hand wander down the planes of his chest, down his abdomen, grazing ever so lightly where you need him most. 

“Why stop there? Plenty of places outside too.” With that you finally stroke him releasing a mewling sound from him and that satisfied grin on your face, he wants to wipe it off so badly. Lucien decides he will. In but one swift motion he has flipped the two of you. He takes your hand away from him, clasping it and bringing it to rest besides your head. His lips dart for that spot that he knows has you melt instantly. Just as predicted you do. Your little gasps are all the encouragement he needs. Nevermind the way you rock your hips into his touch when he lets his fingers slide down between your legs. 

Lucien kisses down your chest, sucking and biting and licking, paying careful attention to all the things that make you tick. Your gasps and moans, the gentle cry of his name, the way when he finally lets go of your arm, your fingers lace into his hair and hold on, are encouragement enough for him to keep going. Then his lips trail down, replacing his fingers previously stroking and brushing. Your sounds of pleasure only increase until he has you panting, until you can’t take it anymore and pull his hair. He goes for another few seconds until he pulls away. You’re out of breath and given your gaze, pupils wide, he waits for your next move. You take a few deep breaths. Your gaze turns wicked and your hold on his hair loosens. 

Admittedly Astarion got a little peckish and without much opportunities to feed himself proper he’d taken to your neck. An attempt was made but you caught him. Your eyes opened and stared right at him in surprise. He was equally surprised, his stealth having failed him. In that moment you managed to flip him onto his back and held your palm to his chest as you crouched over him. You’re much stronger than he gave you credit for. Maybe you just got lucky.

“What the hell Astarion?!” You whisper trying not to wake the others. He can all but heart the beat of your heart, how quickly your blood rushes through your veins. When he doesn’t move you give him a little more space. You don’t move for a weapon or attack him as he might have expected given what it must have looked like. You simply sit down next to him and he watches the tension disappear from your shoulders, the adrenaline rush coming down with. He goes over the excuses, the ways to explain to you but you simply hold up your hand to silence him. He finds it in his best interest to do so. 

“You know you could have just asked.” He freezes like a deer in the torch light. You knew? How? How long had you known? Why hadn’t you said anything, done anything. He’s not blind to the prejudices against the creatures of his sort. Especially the ones that feed on the innocent.  yet here you are in front of him absentmindedly brushing your fingers along the side of your delicious neck. 

“Yes. Yes of course. ‘Hello my dear, I’m a blood sucking vampire spawn would you mind lending me your lovely neck for a few gulps? I’m incredibly peckish and could use a snack.’ Exactly how long do you think it would take for me to end with a stake in my chest or my handsome head removed from my ravishing body?” He ridicules and for a brief moment that pang in his chest, that tightening string reappears when you cast your eyes down and frown. It only lasts for a second before you go back to your neutral welcoming expression of understanding and compassion. 

“I just hoped you’d be able to trust us, trust me. If you’d asked I’d have said yes. Would still say yes. All you need is ask, Astarion.” He tries to decipher any means of deceit or strings attached but finds none which leads him exactly to wonder…

“Why?” You catch on to the hint of suspiciousness and guardedness but you’ve not seen anything else from the elf. You’ve witnessed him for a little bit now and you know he must have his reasons to be mistrusting and always assuming everyone’s selfishness to be the root of any actions. You made him question that entire way of thinking. Whether he deemed you an exception to his usual views, allowed you to prove him differently or he’s simply chalked you up as a very good liar, you don’t know and perhaps neither does he. 

He needed you to trust him. You do trust him. You’ve proven as much yet here he is still questioning your motives. You have your answer ready for him and by the looks of it it would be a genuine one but he doesn’t think he has the heart to actually hear it. He shakes his head. Something within him once again sparks that guilt. He feels bad for his motives of befriending you, of pursuing the path to something more, of charming you perhaps even into his bed if he kept playing his cards right but with every step he takes in that direction he can’t help but feel that guilt, and having to force himself to push down his own feelings. 

“Nevermind.” Once again Astarion flashes you a charming smile. “Now since we have this little secret out of the way, I will ask. Not a drop more than I need?” It feels so incredibly strange to blatantly ask. He knows about certain individuals who have a thing for the sharp teethed and sanguine hungers but that is not you. What you offer is not for you. It’s for him. You want to help him, truly help him and that is why you offer. He’s been feeling so weak. The animals aren’t enough. The humanoid is so much more sustaining. He’ll be strong. He has to be strong if he wants to see this all through, to finally become master of his own fate. An intrusive thought pops through his head; maybe there’s a place for you in that plan as well. 

“Only as much as you need. I’d like to keep my wits about.” The first part is a true statement. The second a half-joke. As much as he needs his strength, so do you. 

“Well then, let’s make ourselves comfortable then, shall we?” He gestures to your bedroll. You simply scoot over.

Astarion, ever so gently as if you might fade into the dawn itself, lays you down. Never once does he break eye contact. You can see the brief hesitation, then reassurance of himself, and then something akin to pain. It crosses his features in but an instant but you catch on to it either way. It seems he’s noticed you catch on but he does not read into you further. Instead he softens, brushes aside your hair as he supports your neck and back. You place one of your hands on his bicep and give a reassuring squeeze and nod. He closes his eyes and sucks in a breath before making for your neck. 

It starts as a sharp and quick pain but is overtaken by a the awareness of the sheer rush of your own blood flowing through your veins. He drinks and drinks. You gasp his name, once more squeezing his arm but no response. He’s caught up in whatever runs through him, whatever keeps him latched onto your neck. You start to feel cold, then warm and lightheaded. You can feel your heartbeat speed up as well as your breathing calms and slows. 

He doesn’t know what overcame him. This isn’t anything he’s experienced before. This is pure euphoria. You are pure euphoria. Your heart, your mind, your very soul. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the tadpole. It has to be. He feels it all. He feels it as if those feelings are his own. He feels the warmth you radiate as it warms him from within like the rays of the sun he thought he’d never be able to feel again, not without them being his end. Your compassion and affections for him, the way you allow him to cradle you, how you fit so perfectly within his embrace. You hold him dearly and think highly of him even if sometimes you disapprove of his choices, words and actions there’s not but understanding to him. Whatever this is, it is unconditional. No one has ever held an unconditional affection for him. He won’t go as far to call it love, but in a way it is. You truly do care about him. Even the whisper of his name upon your breath is like charm bells to his ears. The way you hold on to him, it means everything. And in turn it makes him regret every step he’s taken, every step he knows will lead to your heartbreak and destruction. But all this he feels through you, all this that opens within himself it is addicting and he can’t pull himself away.