#aseren

Cold and empty was his bed even a week after receiving the letter.  The words had become etched into the priest’s mind at this point. He could recite all forty-two, forty-four if you counted what had been etched out, by heart. Two legs kicked out of the bed as he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. 

“My Light of Lights,” so began his brief morning ritual. 

Ra’hsen wandered to the dresser where his untouched note remained. A faint reminder of his own affections. He withdrew a fine loose robe for the day to wear. Today happened to be one of his partner’s favorites. A deep browning black accented by crimson and gold alike. Crafted by the warmest of cindercloth it used to be something he wore frequently in the colder months. 

“I must go back go away for a while.”

Darien greeted the somber priest with a bright caw and open wings as if that would be enough to warm his heart. Rye’s gaze softened as he greeted his dear avian with a scratch and kiss. The shimmering white feathers glistened beneath the radiant light of the apartment. It was odd not having the occasional intrusive chatter of another pair of ravens. One of black pigment the other shared white like much of the priest’s flock. 

“I do not know when I'll be able to return. Soon, I hope.”

Darien remained inside of his silver cage as the priest wandered into the kitchen. He glanced towards the oven he was so frequently obsessed with. A few chocolate cupcakes, decorated with raspberries and blueberries alike, sat waiting. Rye merely paid them a glance before cutting himself a slice of bread and cheese before finding himself sitting alone at their table. 

“In the meantime, aim to take the life you're worth, make the world yours…” 

Brushing off the bit of dry crumbs from his lips the priest pushed himself out of bed and wandered towards the door. Make the world yours. The words rambled in his head a thousand times but it was truly a difficult task. With a breath and staff in hand, the priest ventured out into the world, careful to lock their shared sanctuary behind him. It was theirs, and theirs, alone after all. 

“I love you.”

Rye stepped through the curtains of the clinic with his usual fatherly smile before delving down into her depths to his office. He withdrew the small crumpled note from the locked drawer and peeled it open to reveal what laid beneath. Silver eyes scanned it over once more before it was folded and placed inside the pocket that rested just above his breast. 

Actions and silence were always their preferred way of communicating how they felt. Why speak when there was no one else to hear?

The first thing that caught the priest’s attention that morning was the surprising coldness of their usually shared bed. Heavy blankets fell over his frail and weakened body in a vain attempt to trap his own lacking heat. He had come to so rely upon the warmth of his partner so much it felt him feeling the noticeable change. The cool autumn breeze from Quel’thalas’ eternal fall brushed the window’s curtains open. Faint trails of sunlight struck the cool marble flooring of their bedroom. Rye was never fond of it but he hardly complained. He’d be glad once they moved to a hut of their own creation. Much of the freezing touch upon his poor feet were midgated by the crimson carpet, or his love carrying him. 

The sleepy half-elf pushed himself up to relax against his throne of pillows. His ever sterling gaze rested upon the empty side of the bed. The more he woke the less warmth he felt in their loving house. His tender hand ran over the bedside. There were still traces of some sort of movement, no doubt left behind by his partner. 

“Aseren…”

The fond hand wove itself around the ruffled blankets as if it would be possible to find some spark of life within it. Alas, much like the rest of the house, he felt the noticeable lack of devotion to either the resting elf or the life they had built together. Only he, and his sharp exhale, stood as any reflection of life in their gilded little house.

He eventually found the strength to leave their bed and plant both feet on the not-so-cold carpet. The white figure, dressed in the chosen garb of his mate, wandered close to the dresser in search of clothes. His saddened eyes fell upon the note that laid against his most treasured possessions. A wooden pipe hand carved from ebony and laid with silver that depicted a jackrabbit, the only survivor of a set of two. Surrounding it was a handwoven crown of rye and flowers from his sweetest Westfall. Between the two, resting against the small stand where the pipe laid, was a scrap of paper waiting to be found. It kissed with golden lips and accompanied by the sweet smell of gilded roses. It, more so than the empty bed, left the priest with a heavy dread. Had his written words gone unfound?

 With a breath the priest stood back and fled to the closet. No, it’ll be fine. 

“He probably just went to the market, he’ll be back.” Reassured the priest as he moved to get changed for the day. 

Or so the priest had thought. 

When he arrived at the clinic that morning, Darien perched upon his shoulder, the small missive was found upon his desk. One that thwarted his already wavering confidence in his partner’s return. One that, when opened, left the weakened man to his knees. One that followed with an air of finality the quivering priest refused to give credence. Yet, in his mind like always, the bitter note held more weight than he wished. 

Crumpled close to his heart the note was held. The worried raven nudged the priest’s head in a small attempt to be comforting. No matter the song, the faint whispers that sought to comfort, he held the note close to his chest. The only solace he took from the moment was the faint promise his black-haired counterpart would return. 

“Be safe, my Dearest.”

Reaction to Fate-Weavers

    Winter’s winds blew across the snowy moors. Leaving the lone house lit by a dim fire to fend for itself. Wooden boards creaked against the weight of the waves of lifted frost. Inside housed two elves huddled by the single lit fireplace. They should have stayed home. Stayed in Quel’thalas’ eternal autumn. Instead, here they sat trapped inside his old leaking home.     This wasn’t the first storm the two of then had ridden out before. The only thing different is that now they weren't alone. Wrapped in a woolen blanket stolen from the closet as they leaned against one another. The smallest two, a white-haired priest, fit in his partner’s lap. Leaving his dark-haired counterpart’s arms to coil around him like a secondary blanket. Ra’hsen had no reason to fear the cold, not when Aseren held him like this.     That didn’t keep the young elf from watching the fogged windows shiver from the cold. —     “What ‘cha watchin’ boyo?” A gruff voice called out from the common room’s constant chatter.     “The window’s cold.” The white-haired child answered peering back at the group. Brilliant yellow light flooded the room from the fireplace and various lanterns hung across the room. Surrounding the sturdy wooden table in the center were humans and fellow half-elves alike, all ranging from adulthood to a child no more than five. Rye never did enjoy how loud one house could get. “It’s shivering.”     At the head of them, all sat a scruffed up, old man. Donning a full scratchy beard that matched his messed brown hair. Sleeves of ink-covered what parts of his arms his loose linen shirt did not. Dark chocolate eyes shone bright with both the joy of holidays and the look of a man who knew life to its fullest. Robust where even he could compete with the good Saint Nic for the title. Rye could remember the Church warning him of these ‘no good ruffians’ and that he should have made his way back to the chapel as soon as possible. It was a warning he ignored months ago. “     Shiverin’, huh?” The matted bear stood from his seat and wandered over to the lone child. “Let me see here.” Two hands wrapped around Rye’s shoulder as the man leaned over. He smelt of booze, sweat, and oil. Not all in that order. Rye felt himself be pulled back into the man’s chest as one hairy arm extended. Silver elven eyes stared down at what he could only call fur on his father figure’s arm. How could he grow so much? Could he grow hair like that someday? 

    “Ah- here we go.” Rye was drawn out of his thoughts by the gruff man’s words. The boy blinked up at the man, his beard brushed against his forehead. “Just a loose lock. I’ll fix it in the morning.”

“It’s going to be okay?”     The man let out a roaring laugh and patted the boy’s head. “I’ll be fine, boyo.” 

    “Yo, Boss!” A loud, and obnoxious, voice came from the table a short distance away. Rye had been so fascinated by the Bossman and his ability to cure even walls that he had tuned out the feast behind him. Not that he had any difficulty doing so before. He hated it when the house got so loud. “You gotta see what Jonny can do with his fingers!”     Rye watched from his perch close to the window with two hands draped over his body as the Boss turned to face the group. Yellowing teeth speckled with black spots peered through his grimy lips. “A moment, Tish.” Deep brown eyes stared back down at Rye. “You plan on sittin’ over here all night?”     The kid shrugged as he tried to squirm out of the man’s loose but heavy hold. “I’m not hungry.” His response was only greeted by a laugh and twinkling eyes. “I’m not-”     “And I’m sure you’re not hungry when you crawl out of bed at night to raid the pantry too.”     Rye flushed at the commentary. “Sh-Shut up!” A small hand pressed against the man’s shoulder as he tried to push away. The Boss did not attempt to hold a child against his will as the small boy curled up against the window.     “Alrighty then.” A bear-sized hand grasped a knee as the Boss stood up. “I’ll leave a plate out for you.” He wandered back over to the table to enjoy the rest of the festivities, but not before messing with Rye’s snowy hair.     The stubborn and usually quiet boy returned to huddling next to the window watching it shake occasionally with the wind. Knees pulled close to his stomach and chest in an attempt to conserve heat and to mute a rumbling tummy. It was moments like these where the noise made him forget. — And it was moments like these that made him remember.