#armen

Ich liebe dich, weil ich in deinen Armen am schönsten einschlafen kann

Aman and my greyskin Archer ^_^

[Inspired by Dark Elves from Lineage II]

Lost Ark Main Story Spoiler

feel free to hop in anytime! :)

The celebration had gone on far longer than anyone planned.

Music filled the hall, loud and bright, punctuated by laughter and the clink of mugs. Someone had pushed the tables aside to make room for dancing, and the bard had been pulled into it almost immediately, her own songs echoing back at her from other voices.

Kadan stayed where he always did—at the edge of the room, half in shadow, watching.

He didn’t drink. Didn’t dance. Didn’t speak unless spoken to. But he stayed.

Mostly, he watched her.

She was glowing tonight, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, hair slipping loose as she spun with strangers and friends alike. Someone kept handing her refills, and she kept accepting them with a laugh.

He noticed the change before anyone else did.

The way her steps got a little uneven. The way she laughed a little too loudly. The way she leaned into people when she spoke, not quite steady on her feet.

Drunk, he realized.

He had just started forward when she slipped from the dance floor and made her way toward the far end of the hall, where a few others were gathered.

Armen was there, smiling patiently as she spoke to him, hands wrapped around a cup of his own. Thirain stood nearby, mid-conversation with someone else, but he turned when he heard her voice.

Kadan stopped a few paces away.

He wasn’t close enough to hear every word, but he could see her expression. Soft. Warm. A little unfocused.

“You’re very kind,” she was saying to Armen, her words slightly slurred but sincere. “You always listen. Even when I ramble.”

Armen chuckled gently. “I don’t think you ramble.”

She stepped closer to him, swaying just a little.

Kadan’s jaw tightened.

“And you’re very handsome,” she added, as if this were an important discovery she’d just made. “Has anyone told you that recently?”

Armen blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I—thank you, but—”

The bard reached up, fingers brushing his sleeve, and leaned in.

That was enough.

Kadan closed the distance in two strides. His hand caught her wrist before she could finish the motion, firm but not rough, and he gently pulled her back.

She turned, startled. “Kadan?”

His expression was calm. Controlled. But there was something sharp beneath it.

“You’ve had too much,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she protested, though she nearly stumbled trying to turn toward him. He steadied her automatically, his hand shifting to her waist.

Behind them, Armen politely excused himself, already retreating with a knowing smile.

“You’re not fine,” Kadan said quietly.

She looked up at him, eyes unfocused but warm. “You’re always so serious.”

He didn’t answer.

“Thirain!” she called suddenly, spotting the king a few steps away. “You’re handsome too, you know.”

Thirain laughed, clearly amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She tried to step toward him.

Kadan’s arm tightened around her before she could.

“Come on,” he said, already guiding her away from the crowd.

She frowned, confused, glancing back. “I was talking—”

“You were about to do something you’d regret tomorrow.”

“I don’t regret things,” she said stubbornly, though she leaned heavily into him as they stepped into the quieter hallway beyond the hall.

The music faded behind them, replaced by the soft hush of distant voices.

Kadan stopped once they were alone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she looked up at him, really looked this time, and her expression softened. “You’re warm,” she murmured, her hands coming to rest against his chest as she tried to steady herself.

He went very still.

“You pulled me away,” she added, tilting her head. “You didn’t want me to kiss them.”

It wasn’t a question.

Kadan’s gaze dropped to her face. Her lips. The faint flush across her cheeks.

“No,” he said.

“Why?”

The word came out small. Curious. Almost vulnerable.

His hand was still at her waist. He hadn’t let go.

“Because,” he said, his voice lower now, “you don’t look at them the way you look at me.”

Her breath caught, just slightly.

Even drunk, she seemed to understand.

“Then…” she started, swaying closer. “What if I wanted to kiss you instead?”

That was the last fragile thread of his restraint.

Kadan’s hand came up to cradle the side of her face, steadying her before she could lose her balance again. For a split second, he hesitated—like he was giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t careful this time. It wasn’t hesitant or restrained. It was warm and deep and full of something he’d been holding back for far too long. His other arm tightened around her, pulling her closer as she clutched at the front of his coat.

She melted into it, returning the kiss without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders.

When he finally pulled back, their foreheads nearly touched, her breath uneven.

“You’re jealous,” she mumbled, sounding oddly pleased.

Kadan exhaled slowly, his composure already knitting itself back together. “You’re drunk.”

She smiled up at him, eyes half-lidded. “Maybe.”

Her head tipped forward, resting against his chest.

The first time the bard saw Kadan, she thought he looked like a man carved out of winter.

He stood apart from the others, half-turned from the campfire, his presence quiet but impossible to ignore. Everyone else talked easily—Armen’s gentle voice carrying over the crackle of flames, Thirain’s laughter rising now and then—but Kadan remained still, watchful, his sword within reach even while at rest.

He looked like someone who never truly stopped fighting.

She had heard the name before, of course. Everyone had. Sidereal. Legend. Survivor of things she could barely imagine. She had expected someone larger, louder, someone who filled space with authority.

Instead, he barely spoke.

And yet, somehow, he commanded the entire clearing without saying a word.

She found herself staring longer than she meant to.

There was something about him that pulled at her attention. Not just the way he carried himself, but the loneliness of it. Like he stood a little outside the world everyone else lived in.

She didn’t realize he’d noticed until his eyes shifted toward her.

The moment their gazes met, she felt like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. She looked away quickly, pretending to adjust the tuning pegs of her lute, her cheeks warming.

First impressions, she thought, trying to collect herself.

He’s intimidating.

That was the word she settled on.

Not unkind. Not cruel. Just… distant. Hard to approach. The kind of person who seemed like he wouldn’t know what to do with a joke, or a song, or anything soft.

So she decided, almost immediately, that she would make him smile.

—

Kadan’s first thought when he saw her was that she was too loud.

Not in an unpleasant way. Just bright. Alive. Her voice carried easily across the camp as she spoke to Armen, then to Thirain, then to someone else passing by. She laughed often, and when she did, people turned toward the sound without meaning to.

It was distracting.

He had spent years in silence and battlefields and lonely roads. He was used to quiet.

She brought noise with her. Music. Conversation. Light.

He watched her without intending to, noticing how easily she moved among the others, how quickly people warmed to her. She didn’t seem to fear anything—not the long journey ahead, not the danger that shadowed them, not even the Sidereals themselves.

When their eyes met for the first time, she startled and looked away.

He looked away too, but not before noticing the faint color rise in her face.

Strange, he thought.

She didn’t look like someone who frightened easily.

He told himself she was simply another traveler. Another ally. Someone he would fight beside and then part from, like countless others before her.

But later that night, when the camp had gone quiet and she picked up her lute and played something soft and slow, he found himself listening.

And staying awake longer than he meant to.

—

Their first real conversation was awkward.

She approached him the next morning while he was checking the edge of his blade, the steady rhythm of the whetstone familiar and grounding.

“You don’t talk much,” she said.

He didn’t look up. “I talk when necessary.”

“That sounds exhausting,” she replied cheerfully.

That made him pause. He glanced up at her.

She was smiling, not mockingly, just… warmly. Like she wasn’t bothered by his short answers at all.

“Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?” he asked.

“Mostly,” she admitted. “It saves time.”

He returned his attention to the blade. “Then you’ll have to forgive me. I prefer silence.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fine. I can talk enough for both of us.”

Before he could think of a response, she wandered off again, already greeting someone else.

He found, to his surprise, that the corner of his mouth had nearly curved upward.

—

Attraction, for her, came quickly.

Not all at once. Not like lightning.

But in small moments.

The way he stepped slightly in front of her when they walked along narrow paths. The way his attention sharpened whenever danger was near, his body shifting just enough to shield the others. The way he listened when she played, even when he pretended he wasn’t.

He was kind, in quiet ways.

Once, she tripped on uneven ground, and his hand caught her elbow before she hit the dirt. He let go immediately, like the contact meant nothing, but she felt the warmth of his grip long after.

Another time, he wordlessly handed her his cloak when the night grew too cold. He didn’t mention it again. Didn’t ask for it back until morning.

He wasn’t easy to read. But he cared.

And she found herself watching him more and more, trying to understand the man behind the legend.

—

For Kadan, it came slower.

At first, she was simply… there. Always moving, always humming, always asking questions he didn’t know how to answer.

She didn’t treat him like a Sidereal. Didn’t look at him with awe or fear. Just curiosity.

And patience.

She would sit near him sometimes, playing quietly, not asking for conversation. Not demanding anything. Just sharing the space.

He began to notice the way her music changed depending on the mood of the group. Brighter when spirits were low. Softer when people were tired. He noticed how she checked on Armen when he seemed troubled, how she spoke to Thirain like an old friend.

She made people feel safe.

That was new to him.

One evening, after a difficult battle, she sat beside him without saying a word and began to play something gentle. The sound settled into the silence like a balm.

He hadn’t realized how tense he was until then.

When she finished, she looked at him, hesitant. “Was that too much?”

He shook his head. “No.”

A pause.

“It helped,” he added.

Her smile then was small but genuine, like she hadn’t expected that answer at all.

That was the moment he realized something had shifted.

He was no longer just noticing her.

He was looking for her.

—

It wasn’t quite love. Not yet.

But when she laughed, he found himself listening.

And when he wasn’t nearby, she found herself wondering where he’d gone.

Neither of them would have called it attraction at first sight.